I remember my first escorting experience like it was yesterday. The driver parked directly in front of the Roosevelt Hotel on West Hollywood Boulevard. It was the first time I’d been to LA during Golden Globe weekend, so I was smitten by the various celebrities jumping in and out of cars. They were dressed in the best designer clothes to mix and mingle at all the major parties. Various magazines and production companies were hosting parties for LA’s A-listers. No parties for me. I had other business to handle.

My heart pounded loud enough for the driver to hear. The concept of selling my body had been proposed to me just hours earlier, packaged in a bunch of encouraging words, travel opportunities, and networking possibilities. I should have taken more time to decide but not many entry-level jobs were offering those perks, so I agreed. I felt somewhat cheap for being so easily enticed into the forbidden profession. I had arrived at the place where I would first sell my soul.

When I stepped out of the limo, the warm February night breeze blew through my fresh weave and I tossed my hair over my shoulder. My large sunglasses were propped neatly on my slim nose, mainly for me to remain incognito because it was close to midnight and the sun had long gone. My hands ironed over my slinky black spaghetti-strap cotton dress. The black-and-cream snakeskin-print stilettos I wore made my legs look long and lean.

My initial steps were reluctant and nervous, but the perfectionist side of me warned me that if I was going to do it, I should do it with confidence. My stride became more determined and assured, as if I’d been doing this for a while. I had to hype myself ...