She’s Not My Type, but She’s Totally My Type
She probably has a twenty-something daughter. Her daughter is stupid hot. A spitting image of mom twenty years ago. She was a teen mom. Divorced. Never remarried. Has had the same boyfriend for fifteen years. He’s a UPS driver or a dock worker. She can change a tire but can’t tie a tie. She definitely snuck backstage and blew the Puddle of Mud frontman. She got a butterfly tattoo a week after her dad died because, “life’s transitions.” She loves Adam Sandler films and the poetry of Mary Oliver.
Being an escort for me was like being a scrapbooker on Etsy for most other single moms trying to pick up some extra money. The only difference was that I could make a few thousand bucks for one hour of potential discomfort versus making a few hundred for several hours of suffering through handmade clip art. I’m a pretty open-minded person, but I cannot for one second believe that there is any joy in being hunched over a desk, cutting and pasting other people’s memories together. It seems so lonely and juvenile.