Here we are—my fourth full-length erotica title! I want to thank the readers first, for reading my works, sticking with me, and for spreading the word about Pynk. Your support is the reason I continue writing in this genre. Writing erotica is not easy and sometimes society has a hard time accepting it because of the taboo topic of sex, but in spite of those who claim not to read it and who judge those who do, readers seem to be asking for more and more erotica nowadays, for both the entertaining story content and the turn-on factor. I do think that readers are embracing the genre more and more, and for that I say, “Thank you!”
To Hachette Book Group for believing in me and for publishing my titles, I am thankful. To Latoya Smith, my editor, your revision letter on this story made a huge difference. Your editing skills and knowledge are what brought this title together. To the rest of my GCP family, Jamie Raab, Linda Duggins, Anna Balasi, Miriam Parker, Renee Supriano, Nick Small, Brianne Beers, Jihan Antoine, the art department, publicity team, sales team, production staff and copy editors, and others; thank you very much for putting out such quality Pynk books.
To my loving family and amazing friends, for your support and patience, especially when I need to escape into writer’s heaven—thanks so very much! To my fellow authors who offer tons of camaraderie and love, I cherish your support.
Thank you, Karen Thomas—you acknowledged my work twelve years ago, and then I was finally able to sign with you, in 2004, 2007, and 2009. Without you taking me by the hand and guiding me with your expert critiques, I would not be writing at the level I am today.
My agent, Andrew Stuart, I appreciate you for keeping it real, being optimistic, being patient, and for adding me to your list of amazing authors. There’s more to come.
KP, for being my sounding board, enduring countless hours listening to me read my rough-draft scenes out loud, for being patient and caring and loving, and for offering sound advice. Thanks for taking the time to show you care with actions, not just words, proving that love really is a verb. Love you!
My bestie, Mary HoneyB Morrison—S. B. Redd—Yolanda Gore—Antoinette Gates—Deborah DivaDee Walker and the Divine Friendship Bookclub—Carol Mackey with Black Expressions—the Fort Benning staff—Cindy at Urban Knowledge in Columbia, SC—Jessica Reese at the Pynk Butterfly in Columbia, SC—Jeanette Sapphire Best-Charrette—Patricia Crowe—Vonda Howard—my webmaster, Bryan Cleveland—Carol Taylor—my fellow GA Peach Authors, Jean Holloway, D. L. Sparks, Gail McFarland, and Electa Rome Parks—Michelle Gipson—Cydney Rax—Mocha Ocha and the NAACP Author’s Pavilion—Radiah and Charles Hubert with Urban Reviews for their support and for their Fall Fiction Fest—the amazing Ella Curry and BAN Radio/EDC Creations—Brian W. Smith and Trice Hickman for their On the Air with Trice and Brian show—Cyrus Webb for his Conversations LIVE! With Cyrus Webb show—Linda Jordan and the Central Library in Atlanta—the Southwest Regional, Washington Park, East Atlanta, and South Fulton libraries in Atlanta—Renee at Zahra’s Books in Inglewood, CA—TaNisha Webb and Fall Into Books—the Bukh Law Firm in New York—Sadia and the Escort Times—Antoinette Gates—Stacy Smith Baron for the interview about New York City—Sonya Ward—Nellie George—The Heat of the Night authors, Lorraine Elzia, LaLaina Knowles, Niyah Moore, Elissa Gabrielle, and Ebonee Monique—Diamond Black—Curtis Bunn at the NBCC (National Book Club Conference)—Naleighna Kai and the Cavalcade of Authors—the African American Literary Awards Show for the nominations of Erotic City and Sixty-Nine—the Decatur Book Festival—all of the book clubs who are indeed the heart of the book-buying industry—my devoted Facebook and Twitter followers—THANK YOU.
My next title, Sin in the City, is about two best friends, Mercy and April, who find themselves so desperate for money that they head to Las Vegas for one night only, but end up staying for thirty days of gaming and sex, documented in thirty different scenes, day by day. I hope you keep an eye out for it.
Also, if you enjoyed Erotic City, the swinging drama continues and you’ll want to check out my novella, Erotic City II: Miami, which is part of a four-part anthology series called Insignificant Others, with bestselling author Carol Taylor, and which debuts in May 2013. The many shades of Pynk just keep on coming!
Remember to live your sexy dreams responsibly—without guilt!
Smooches,
[email protected]/authorpynkwww.twitter.com/authorpynkwww.sex-see.blogspot.com
Escorts
My first Pynk title, Erotic City, focused on swinging; the second, Sexaholics, was about the oversexed and sex addiction; the third, Sixty-Nine, was about the undersexed and sexual repression; and now I’ve tackled the subject of escorts, bringing you Politics. Escorts. Blackmail.
Prostitution, escorting, and sex trafficking are all very serious problems in our society. Opinions vary on whether or not prostitution should be legalized. In this story, which is set in New York City, it is illegal. Prostitution was once considered a vagrancy crime, comparable to sleeping on the street or begging, but it is now a public-order crime, and mainly an issue of morality.
There are three categories that define the types of prostitution in the United States: (1) street, or streetwalkers, like hookers, (2) brothels or massage parlors, and (3) escorts or out-calls. Here are some facts: Most escort agencies have their own websites. Some advertised on Craigslist, but the Craigslist adult section was shut down in 2010 after pressure from law enforcement and anti-prostitution groups. Nevada is the only U.S. state to allow some legal prostitution (mainly brothels, and only in certain counties but not in the city of Las Vegas). In Louisiana, convicted prostitutes are required to register as sex offenders. One poll suggests that 30 percent of single men over thirty have paid for sex. A large percentage of prostitutes are said to have been abused as children. Some view buying sex as a form of addiction. There are John schools to examine and rehabilitate solicitors of prostitution. Brazil, Canada, Germany, France, Italy, Mexico, Portugal, and Switzerland, among others, have legalized it and believe sex for sale to be a legitimate and necessary service (for the complete list of countries go to www.prostitution.procon.org). Some call it a bartered service, even within a marriage, and that in the U.S., if we have freedom of speech, religion, and trade, why violate the premise of the Constitution by prohibiting sexual relations between consenting adults? Courtrooms are overburdened, and customers and prostitutes pay fines but are then back on the streets with no impact on the problem.
There are groups who would prefer that the act be managed as opposed to ignored, that legalizing it would prevent underground rings that recruit and abduct young girls, and that legalized and controlled environments will improve health and curtail underage prostitution. Legalizing it would involve government. But wait—our governments are supposed to solve the problems our county faces, not contribute to them. But, as is apparent in the news on a regular basis, government officials often pay for sex, and even if they get around the charges, there’s still the morality issue again because most of them are married, so the fact is that they committed adultery.
Adultery is a big part of this novel. Whether we legalize prostitution or not, there is still the issue of morality. If a candidate for president of the United States pays for sex, legally or illegally—even though some say this is a private matter and no one else’s business—his moral compass would still be questioned because he is running for president, hoping to lead our government and our country. But is what politicians do between the sheets really our business?
As you read Politics. Escorts. Blackmail., you’ll notice it’s not written from the point of view of the politicians who are running for president. I did that on purpose, though you will see political news headlines at the beginning of each chapter to keep you abreast of the ongoing presidential race. I wanted to explore the lives of those who sell their bodies for a living. It’s about the lives of one madam in particular, named Money, and her three escorts, Leilani, Midori, and Kemba. I wanted to see what their worlds were like, what it looked like for them to live knowing they sexed up men and women of privilege, public figures, lawmakers, actors, athletes, and politicians. The time period of this book runs right along the timeline of the Republican presidential primary, beginning in the spring of 2011 and running right up until the final candidates are decided and the winner is voted upon during the fifty-seventh United States presidential election on November 6, 2012.
You’ll get to see what escorts are paid to do, how much an agency charges, what the escorts must endure, what their private lives are like, where they’ve come from, what the benefits are, and what the downsides are. You’ll see each escort’s issues and missions as they all take you on a journey into their world of sex for money.
I enjoyed writing this book, and I learned a lot as I researched what prostitutes go through, what the laws are, what the risks are, etc. I interviewed two escorts, talked to criminal attorneys, a city councilman’s assistant, and several individuals who live in New York City. I did not want to glamorize the business itself, but I made certain to focus on creating flawed characters with specific journeys, letting them get as raw as they needed to. It wasn’t about what I would do or not do because it wasn’t about me. I didn’t judge. I tried to make it all about the escorts and the people they encounter over the year and a half in which this novel takes place, no matter how intense it got.
It is my desire that you enjoy the rawness of it all, and understand that rawness, as well as the softness, from an emotional and a heartfelt standpoint. The erotica factor is here, being that a lot of people read erotica for the sex scenes—but more important, I want people to keep coming back to my books because of the story. While my books are character driven, they also show a side of life we may never get to know or see, or that might make us feel uncomfortable. But at the end of the day, when we turn the last page we’re fortunate enough to close the book and go back to our everyday lives. My goal is to make you think back to at least one of the characters in this book and wonder just how they dealt with it, why they did what they did, and how they’re doing. I want you to remember them—I hope Money, Leilani, Midori, and/or Kemba are unforgettable. Then I’ll know my mission was accomplished.
Get ready to be eroticized Pynk-style.
I give you Politics. Escorts. Blackmail.
Dear Mr. Big,
I’ll bet you think this book is about you, now that it’s all said and done, right? Well, you’re wrong. It’s not. It’s about me, Money “Queens” Watts, pimptress-slash-madam, and how the world of politics, escorts, and blackmail came to a head, all in one day in 2012. It’s about my side of the escort coin. The side of running a business, Lip Service, that provided sex for money. Hooking. The oldest profession ever.
This is my own version of sex and the city. Sex in the Big Apple. Sex with big names. Sex for big money. Sex that made big news. You were Mr. Big. But now…well, like I said, this story is not about you.
As you know, I was the provider, or organizer, of this money ship. And they, the clients, were also called hobbyists. Some called them Johns. I think the word John is too generic when you’re dealing with greedy men of power who seek uncomplicated lust, oh excuse me, uncomplicated dates, at all costs. Especially when you’re talking about political figures. What you don’t know is that I knew the mind of politicians, and their need for sex, like I knew the back of my hand. Politicians might be in an arena of lawmaking and legislation, but they still fuck, oh sorry again, date. And as long as someone is willing to “date” them undercover to feed their entitlement hunger, there will always be sneaky, unfaithful men or even women who get some on the side, simply because they’re in a position of power to do so. Most are the guys who didn’t get laid in school but now that they have fame and fortune, they feel entitled, married or not.
I did it over the Internet on my own exclusive escort website, but most times, for the regulars and VIPs, it was over the phone to my booker, who took information and processed calls. We had two hundred different 888 numbers, routed to one main number. You couldn’t join my website and post a profile page like you were on some dating or adult site, hoping for the hookup. My site was informational only. You’d go there and look it over, and pick who you wanted for a date based on their photo and description, and then call us. Hazel eyes, five foot nine, one hundred thirty pounds, with a body shot from the neck down, or five foot six, one hundred forty-three pounds, chocolate brown eyes, dressed like a businesswoman, leaving much to the imagination, and so on. No slutty shots. Classy all the way. And those pictures were nothing more than stock photos.
My shit was no street corner operation. These were not harlots, or escorts of ill repute. This was not a brothel or some prostitute strolling the streets. This was about arranging for a sophisticated man or woman to escort you to dinner, and then possibly going somewhere after for an intimate evening. If the two of you skipped the dinner, that was fine, your call. It always comes down to what two consenting adults choose to do. That’s it. No different than a first date with someone who doesn’t call the next day. Only there’s a nameless booker who gets ten percent off the top. I’d split the rest fifty-fifty with my escorts. And at anywhere from one to three thousand dollars per hour or more, sometimes even thirty thousand per weekend, we did very, very well.
I provided a necessary service, and my escorts were excellent at what they did. Even better at separating the thin line that stretched from the legal end to the illegal end. The loophole in the system gave us a tiny bit of wiggle room, and that wiggle room was our friend. I could smell a rat, or a raid, a mile way. That’s why I dealt with high-profile hobbyists and not just your average Johns. Attract the politicians or celebrities, or the most elite businessmen. They have a lot to lose. They’ll stick to their story of innocence while being strapped down for a lie detector test. If you have a video of them caught dead in the act, they’ll swear on their momma’s grave it wasn’t them.
Funny how the very people who make the laws are sometimes the ones who patronize the offense. Laws? Please. I made my own.
I guess you think you got me, huh? You think this is a damn game? This is my world. I came from a place of espionage and government cover-ups. I’m made from my father’s stock. I worked hard to charm and seduce and gain the trust of wealthy political figures to build my impressive clientele list, and you think you’re gonna come up and do this? Yeah, you must think this a joke.
Everyone who turned their backs on me is going to get theirs. And you, you better watch out because you might end up with the same fate.
Strap on your strap-on, I mean seat belt, and listen up.
Because you don’t know the real story…
Ciao
Republican presidential candidate Philadelphia mayor Kalin Graves took an early lead in the polls with New York senator Darrell Ellington on his heels. However, the entry of several new candidates this month has drawn an interesting mix of contenders.
One
Tuesday—May 10, 2011
The skies were dark on a cold morning in late spring, though the sun was sure to show its face by seven and warm things up about twenty degrees, into the fifties. The cold chill of the below-zero weather of winter had ended months earlier.
It was very early, 5:01 on a Tuesday, after Money—her actual birth name—exited her large, brick, six-bedroom, red roof Tudor home in the exclusive Forest Hills Gardens area, a neighborhood in Queens only fourteen blocks long. She held a NY travel mug with her last few sips of black coffee and hopped her frame into the back of a yellow cab, sat back against the faded leather seat, and told the dark-skinned driver simply, “Belvedere Hotel.” As she crossed her long legs, she felt the strain in her defined calves, brought on by her regular, forty-five-minute elliptical workout.
The driver nodded, pulled the flag to start the meter, and took off down the sloping, curved street. He was the one whom the taxi company would send whenever Money needed to go into the city. She was claustrophobic and hated the subway, so she didn’t mind the fifty-dollar one-way ride, and she knew he wouldn’t try to stiff her by taking the long way. What he knew was that she’d tip him 50 percent of the fare. His only question was, basically, which hotel?
She was on her way to play the part of Queens, the name her hobbyists knew her by.
The cab driver turned down the radio just as the story ended about the Republican Party presidential primaries and the candidates who had declared thus far. To her surprise, two out of the six were on Money’s client list, disguised as Mr. 11 and Mr. 51 in her little pink book—Philadelphia mayor Kalin Graves and New York senator Darrell Ellington, respectively. She wondered how that would play out. Just one more reason to keep things in line.
She had expected her company’s bookings to slow down with the elections about to gear up, but experience told her that pressure breeds needs, and that could prove beneficial to an agency known for guaranteeing privacy and discretion. Which was why she wasn’t worried. She sipped her brew and made the backseat her temporary office.
Money glanced at her gold Movado watch. It normally took her half an hour to get to midtown Manhattan to meet her very regular client for their 6:00 pre-work sex appointment. He was so regular, in fact, that sometimes he’d come to her home for an in-call. But being that her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Jamie Bitters, was back on again, Money decided it would be best to have an out-call for now.
Jamie was a client who, after their first time together, couldn’t wait to come back again. By the second and third times, he paid to extend the dates. He’d share pictures of his kids and talk about his childhood. By their fourth time together, he asked her out. He was a former chief deputy sheriff for New York who had been fired for using a county credit card for personal use. One week after he lost his job he filed for bankruptcy, and due to his questionable reputation he found himself unemployable.
Money knew the deal. She was his cash cow. She admitted it to herself and to him. But Jamie’s affections were at times a much-needed escape from the realities of her world. It still amounted to sex for money, only he was escorting her in her life.
In the meantime, he also stood in as the bodyguard and driver for Lip Service. He was always on standby, but was rarely called. Yet she still kept him on the payroll just in case.
Money was the eldest daughter of her half-French father, Arthur Watts, who worked as a French diplomat in London. He was accustomed to the world of politics and keeping things undercover. He spoke three languages and had also moonlighted as a spy for the Russians.
She and her family had lived in London for years and then moved to Atlanta after her father got caught red-handed with Russian hookers in a hotel room in Moscow. Funny thing was, he never got caught giving away government secrets to the Russians. But his greedy penis and the world of hookers brought him to a fast halt. He was caught on tape receiving oral sex, and was blackmailed for money. He gave up every red cent the family had to keep the tape from being leaked. But a copy was sent to government officials anyway, and he was soon fired. It was also sent to the Mrs. Life was funny that way. The same act that brought him down years ago now made his daughter, Money, a multimillionaire.
Through the fallout of the scandal, he and Money’s mother, Beverly Watts, stayed together. She was a retired high-fashion model from Sudan who traveled across the world before Money and her baby sister were born. He’d stayed with her in spite of her indiscretions as well. She’d slept with a possessive married designer who caught her and two other models in the act of a threesome. In a fit of jealousy, he fired her from fashion week in Milan, but let the other two stay on. After that, her modeling career was pretty much over.
Her mom and dad claimed not to know what she did for a living, but she knew her father’s greed and love of money wouldn’t allow him to object. Cash was what he claimed made the world go round, which was why he named his oldest daughter Money. It’s what he hungered for. He was distant when it came to anyone but his wife, which also included his daughters.
Money glanced out the window of the cab to check on their location. She looked down and pressed her middle finger along the touch screen of her phone, thinking back to her tough conversation with Midori, her independent contractor, or IC.
Four days earlier, they had talked in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel on Club Row. During that conversation, Money had a look on her face like she was pissed off, upset, and disgusted. Midori, also known by her escort name of Brooklyn, looked both sweet and worried.
As they sat on the sofa in the lobby, Money turned to Midori and said, “So tell me what happened and don’t give me some lame-ass, cockamamie story, either.”
Midori replied, “Bailey’s just jealous. He’s making up stories.”
“Oh really? What’s he jealous of?”
“He knows about Virgil.”
“And how does he know anything about your private life, Midori?”
“I guess he followed me. Maybe he’s been watching me.” Midori acted stumped.
“You guess? Midori, listen to me. This is a problem. Are you laying up with him, talking about you instead of listening? Are you breaking the rules?”
She said, “No.”
“No rule breaking, huh? Then answer me this: How is it . . .
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