The Las Vegas Madam

part one

CHAPTER 1

The Big Secret

We locked eyes and I strolled toward him like a cat on a fence.

I pulled into valet at the Paris casino, opened the car door, and slid a lean, polished leg to the ground. The lights glinted off the gold in my stiletto and into the corners of my eyes. It was nearly midnight and the city had just woken up. I loved that time of night in Vegas. The city pulsed with excitement, with all the beautiful people all in one place, all for the same thing—to lose themselves, or find themselves, in the City of Sin.

Careful with the heels, I reminded myself. I sometimes felt guilty for spending a thousand dollars on a pair of shoes— that could have covered three months of cheap Vegas rent, or car payments. But the more often I made a thousand (or more) a night, the more I forgot it used to take me a month to make that money back home. Now, it was a business expense, and I would make it back tonight. Plus, those sleek black leather Louboutin’s with the iconic red soles made me feel like I was on top of the world. They made me feel sexy. And that was exactly why I was in demand.

Often a trace of uncertainty flickered through my mind before a date. Dating for a living was like blind dating all the time, and even after I’d been doing it successfully every day for a few years, it only got easier because I adapted. It never felt completely natural.

I caught the peppery whiff of a cigar and watched the smoke swirl into the canopy of lights above. Bronzed bodies edged their way through the crowd and a drone of chatter rose above the music. I took a deep breath and sucked it all in. This was what I liked—the vibrations, the hum, the lullaby of Las Vegas. I dismissed the anxiety. I forgot about everything but the night ahead. Yesterday didn’t matter and neither did tomorrow.

I paused to text Sam—See you in 15!—then swiped on an extra coat of gold-flecked lip gloss, tugged my dress down, and psyched myself up.

Sam had hired me to be his date for the evening. We would have drinks, maybe dinner, then gamble. If I was lucky at the tables, I might make a few thousand extra. As I thought about it all, I felt that telltale tingle down there. I wasn’t sure if it was the money, the thrill, or the thought of getting laid, but I was finally getting pumped.

I wove my way through the busy casino, past the slot machines, over the slippery cobblestones, and up the steps of Bally’s toward Sam’s favorite bar. I spotted him before I even got close. He was wearing a dark suit, round sunglasses, and a long checkered silk scarf—a tad overdressed for Bally’s, but it was Vegas, after all. I glanced at my watch. Three minutes to go.

Just then Sam’s gaze landed on me. I felt that rush, an odd mix of apprehension and excitement that happened immediately before I became Haley. We locked eyes and I strolled toward him like a cat on a fence. In heels, the body naturally assumes this position. My ass was perched high in the air. The muscles of my legs were engaged, longer, leaner. I felt his eyes bore right through my skintight dress.

Sam! It’s so great to see you again. I leaned in to peck his cheek.

Wow, you look divine. Great shoes.

Nice shoes yourself, I said, noticing his black pointytoed slip-ons.

He grinned. They’re the only ones I own that aren’t made from alligator, they’re anaconda. Drinks in hand, he led me to a table in the back of the room.

I brought a special gift for you today, I said once we were seated. I casually uncrossed my legs and reached between them.

Sam’s eyes flashed as he leaned forward.

I opened my palm and plunked two silver marbles into his drink.

My vagina had been bored the past few weeks. I’d heard about geisha balls, or BenWa balls, and decided to give them a try. These weighted marbles come in various sizes and are slipped inside the vagina. In order to keep them from falling out, the walls of the vagina contract, cinching them in tight, and strengthening the muscles. I had essentially been lifting weights and practicing aerobics with my vagina all day.

I’ve been wearing them since this morning, I said with a wink. I’m dying to try out a new trick.

He grinned and rested a hand on my knee. That’s why I love seeing you—I never know what to expect.

There was an art to first-class dating and I had mastered it. Sam paid well because he expected excellence. The basics weren’t difficult: a few Kegels, a full wax, and weekly rounds on the adduction machine for that three finger between-the-leg gap. But it takes a bit more to go beyond, to be an A+.

Sam wanted to feel like he was with a real girlfriend. It’s like splurging on your favorite pie for dessert. You might be able to find that pie on any corner, but homemade apple pie from Grandma’s kitchen, spruced up with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream, tastes a whole lot different than what they pull out of the fryer at McDonald’s. All pie is not created equal.

God, it’s been such a stressful month, Sam sighed as we entered his room. I knew you could make me forget about it.

This part was easy. I’d done it hundreds of times before. I draped my arms around Sam’s neck and drew him close.

We stumbled our way toward the bed, bodies entwined. I’ve been thinking about this all day, I whispered in his ear. Sam wouldn’t take long. An easy-peasy five minutes of missionary would have done him in, but I put in a bigger effort because I wanted to keep him coming back. Sam was a high roller, both in the casino and in the bedroom. And I never forgot the number one rule in courtesan dating: the ones who pay are the ones who stay.

The straps to my dress slid off my shoulders and I let it fall to the ground. Sam was out of his shirt lightning fast and reached out to cup my breast with one hand and pull my face to him with the other. I jumped on top and pulled him inside with my newly toned muscles. I arched, flexed, and slid all the way down, then rhythmically squeezed and pulled up, relaxed again on the way down, paused, and started all over again.

Ohh-hhh-h, God, yes-s-sss, you do that so-o-o well-ll, Sam moaned.

I smiled. This part gave me pleasure. Not because my job was almost done, but because it was satisfying to bond with Sam. I was always looking for something to make me feel connected with the rest of the world; to fill the emptiness that I sometimes felt consumed me. I’d been searching for it, something to fill the void, my whole life and hadn’t been sure how to find it. I searched for it through masturbating, cutting myself, and praying—first to God, then to the devil. I thought it was love I needed, and I got married. Then I thought it was a degree or a job, until I got those too. It was when I became Haley that I found a way to feel satisfied. I wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but I thought I had found something behind those hotel room doors. The power I felt when I walked into a stranger’s room as an escort made me feel like I had a place in this world. And finding my place made me feel less empty.

I wish I had a girlfriend to fall asleep with, Sam mumbled sleepily. Five minutes later he was passed out.

We were the same, Sam and I. We found ourselves involved in the sex world for similar reasons, searching for similar things. Most of us saw prostitution as a solution to what ailed us. For Sam, spending time with me made him a little less lonely that day.

Sam had left an envelope of money sitting on the counter with Haley scribbled across the top. I picked it up and tucked it into my purse. I felt guilty for charging him so much money just to hang out. People labored for hours just to keep food on the table, and after one night I walked away with thousands. It didn’t feel right at all, especially when Sam wanted nothing more from me than a good time.

My heels echoed off the walls of the lavish suite as I walked across the room. Sam had left the safe open and stacks of money spilled out. Not a good habit to get into, Sammy, ol’ pal, I thought. Then again, another reason Sam paid so well was because I offered safety and privacy. He knew I wasn’t going to slip a drug in his glass then call a pimp to come up and rob him blind. When Sam went home, he wouldn’t worry about blackmail or a broken condom. He was paying for a great memory and nothing else.

I rummaged around the desk for a notepad, kissed the sheet of paper, signed xoxo, and left it on the table under his gold Patek Philippe watch. Then I quietly closed the door behind me.

As I walked back through the hotel, I took a breath and tried to rein in the myriad of emotions that coursed through me—excitement, pleasure, boredom, loneliness, guilt—when one went away, another took its place. I wondered if this was the way everyone felt, not just prostitutes like me. At least that crushing emptiness was gone for the moment.

Kept your car up front this time, the valet guy said. Heard you lost it the other night and it took a week before you found it—he paused and snickered—parked in our garage.

I cringed. I hated it when valet guys knew why I was there. I felt like I had a scarlet letter stamped across my chest. But it was better for me to valet. Parking was hard to keep track of—which day, which casino, which garage, which floor. I had lost my car too many times.

Guess that just means I had a fun night. I laughed and fished out a twenty-dollar bill.

While he circled my car around, I pulled out my phone to review my schedule. My calendar days were blocked off for the next six months. I was fully booked. There would be several more appointments squeezed in. I had become one of the most sought-after escorts in the city, according to the underground review boards where clients searched for a companion. The following days blended into months and then years.

CHAPTER 2

Who is Haley Heston?

When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

This is the story of my life as a professional prostitute named Haley Heston. I liked to think of myself as a woman who has a master’s degree in dating men (and women) and uses it with the sole purpose of improving her financial situation and achieving her goals. It takes 10,000 hours of practice to become a master, according to Malcolm Gladwell, author of The Tipping Point. Over the course of eight years, I calculated having easily spent more than 10,000 plus hours becoming a master in courtesan dating.

Even though that date with Sam had happened six years before, I remembered it like it was yesterday. Since then I had met many guys like Sam, as well as madams, pimps, and other escorts. With a small group of escort friends and clients from my early days as Haley Heston, I had started an elite screening firm—or in more loose terms, a modeling agency— called Haley Heston’s Private Collection (HHPC). It started out as a weekend project, a hobby, something to fill my time while my other business was catching up during an economic downturn. Three years later, my private collection of friends had turned into something bigger than I ever thought it would. It had become a thriving enterprise and the city’s premier boutique agency.

I was running one of the sexiest businesses in the world— or at least it appeared that way. Glamorous women, rich men, and decadent nights consumed my life. My agency days were just like my call girl days, only amplified. I had more clients, more drama, more dilemmas, and more work. Although I rarely had a free moment, I didn’t mind. Chasing success made me feel alive. I didn’t have time to feel anything else. But at some point, the chaos took on a life of its own.

xoxo

HHPC’s next party, the Peepshow, was just a few weeks away. Several stories above the dazzling lights of the Las Vegas Strip, we’d be hosting a private meet and greet between clients from around the world and the most sought escorts in the industry. We were already known for finding some of the top girls in Vegas. This would be a defining moment in our recognition as a leading agency. No one wanted to miss it.

When the phone rang, I glanced down at my checklist, wondering who it might be. Several names at the bottom of the page jumped out at me. These people were coming to the party because they were interested in purchasing the agency. After hearing the first few sentences coming through the line, it was clear it was not one of the potential buyers, or the chef, or the DJ. It wasn’t the hotel personnel, or the bartender, or the entertainment coordinator. It wasn’t a client, or a model.

A small-town Christian girl from Oregon goes on to establish one of the most popular escort agencies in Las Vegas, a man’s voice said. I’m a reporter. I think your story is interesting and I’m going to tell it.

I knew exactly which reporter it was. It was the same one who had exposed my friend’s secret life to the world a few weeks earlier. I was torn, about shutting down the agency, or moving on with our party plans, despite the press.

At first, I saw him as a nuisance more than anything. I had responsibilities, a life to tend to, a party to plan, and a business to run: sixty models to keep track of, hundreds of emails to answer, clients to screen, appointments to fill, marketing to finalize, a photo shoot to organize, meetings to attend, and assignments to turn in for class.

I’m not sure who you’re talking about, I said—and honestly, I didn’t. Oregon? Christian girl? It had been about eight years since I had left Oregon and it felt like a lifetime ago. I couldn’t even remember who that Oregon girl was.

But he was persistent. I’m going to find out the details of who you are. I’m going to call your friends back home, the people you’ve done business with in your art company, your former employees. How do you think they’re going to react when I tell them about your other life? How is everyone going to feel about this secret life you’ve been living?

My secret life was the one I was living now and had been living for the past eight years. It had happened fast, the transition from some girl in Oregon to Vegas waitress, strip club dancer, prostitute, sugar baby, courtesan, and eventually madam. I tried to find that defining moment, the shift when all that had become normal.

I’m going to give you until after Christmas to think about it, he said. Then we can talk.

I didn’t have time for games. So many people’s lives could be affected. Women depended on us for their safety. Men relied on us for privacy. They had careers. They had families. I picked up my phone to call one of the people I hated most in the world—my ex-boyfriend, Martin. If anyone knew what to do in a situation like this, he would. And it affected him, too, because the agency had been his idea in the first place.

Law offices, his receptionist answered.

We have a problem that affects all of us at HHPC, I said once I got Martin on the phone.

That guy is the most hated guy in American media, he said when I described what was going on. If he’s on your tail, he’s not going to stop.

Well, that explained it. No wonder this guy had flown halfway across the country to corner my friend and harass her into confessing. She was the epitome of small town America, a spokesmodel for Nike and Disney, and a former Olympic athlete, now moonlighting as a Vegas escort with HHPC. It was a juicy story and he couldn’t resist telling the whole world. Now he was after me as well.

Scenes from my life flashed through my mind like a home movie.

I saw a young girl in the middle of a sex club on her first trip to Vegas. I almost didn’t recognize her. She had an energy around her, curiosity that was itching to escape.

Then I saw flashes of her saying goodbye to her family, her friends, and her job in Oregon and driving to Vegas. There, she met new friends and roommates, among them a dominatrix and strippers. One night, the girl left a bachelor party with a tall blonde who warned her, Be careful, it gets addicting. The woman was talking about escorting, but she could just as well have been talking about everything else— the drugs, the parties, the money, the freedom, the feeling of power when all those things come together.

I saw that girl drift from posh hotel rooms to penthouse suites while the champagne flowed and bachelors cheered her on. It was like something had been released inside her. There were no rules, no watchful eyes of a small community, and no boyfriends or bedtimes.

You are like a kid in a candy store, her roommate had remarked. If you’re going to have one night stands all the time, you might as well get paid for it. It was the thing to do, dating for a living. Monogamy wasn’t trendy anymore; open relationships and polyamory were. Escorting didn’t feel that far away. The more sex you have, the more you want, a friend told the girl over coffee. It’s like there’s a sea of sexuality. Those with average sex lives stay safely on shore. My friend from high school is like that. He married his prom date and they’re still together, thirty years later. He wouldn’t even think of cheating. Sometimes I wonder if that may be the way to go. Some of us are tempted to go farther. We might dip a toe in the water and try something kinky, like a threesome. Then, we wade deeper. Maybe we start going to swinger’s parties. We’re pulled in by the current, and suddenly we realize we’ve gone father out than we ever thought we would. Sometimes we look back at those close to shore and wonder what it would have been like if we’d never even stepped into the surf.

I watched scenes of that girl becoming popular, just like she had always dreamed of. She was the centerpiece of the party. Her infectious energy and small town charm were hard to resist. She emerged, like a butterfly, into a confident woman who played to her strengths. Who cared if they were paying for her time? She was making money, having fun, and living the life. How could she not enjoy it for what it was?

It’s like there’s a sea of sexuality.

In the next few scenes, one glamorous party rolled into another. The fame, the drugs, the sex, the money—all those vices she’d embraced from the beginning had taken center stage. It didn’t stop at bachelor parties or escort dates; she visited brothels, sex clubs and more.

Another scene of that girl flashed in front of my eyes. This time, she was with her best friend. She was not an escort, but she’d introduced her to all her firsts: first Vegas night with the club kids, first time stripping, first client. They were sitting in the parking lot a few hours before a concert, and her friend pulled a nasal spray bottle from her purse. Have you ever tried this? It’s liquid coke—cocaine and water! Now I can get high anytime, she raved. A short while later, they got into a fight in the middle of the Palms casino. You’re just another hooker. You’ve changed so much, the friend screamed. You need to quit spending your money and save it. Look at me, I have nothing. I made hundreds of thousands of dollars and it’s all gone. You don’t have to let that happen to you. Her friend stormed away.

The girl stood there, waiting, hoping her friend would return. When her phone beeped, it wasn’t the friend who was texting. The text read, Just got to town, I saw your ad and I’m staying at MGM. Can you come over now? Always eager to please a new client, she replied, Sure, sexy! Give me 20. She went to that appointment with renewed vigor. She seemed like a different person in that room, confident.

Maybe that was when the shift happened, when her friends were replaced with call girls, strippers and clients.

Then another scene came into focus. This time, she stumbled out of a hotel room early in the morning, then stopped by the casino bar and ordered a martini. A guy at the bar said, So you’re the person to call next time I’m in town. She was puzzled by his comment until she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror above the bar. Her napkin-sized miniskirt, smudged eyeliner, and tangled hair told her (and him) more than she cared to remember. Most likely it had been a few days since she had been home. It wasn’t uncommon for her to lose an entire week. She didn’t want to go home, though. It was almost as if she was afraid to be alone with her thoughts, with herself, with that feeling of emptiness that never quite went away.

Hollywood, New York, Chicago, Miami, LA, Aspen, Boston—in the next scene, one week blended into another as she jetted around the country. She certainly didn’t have to go home alone now. Her demand had shot through the roof. One day she was in a cab on the way to a swanky hotel, and the next she was lounging poolside with an oil tycoon. The glow on her face was infectious as she settled in for yet another flight.

Happy holidays, the flight attendant smiled and handed her a drink.

Surprise washed across the girl’s face as she realized she had almost missed Christmas. She seemed to have trouble keeping her two lives separate—the world she had carved out in Vegas as Haley, and the one she had left back in Oregon as Jami.

The film flashed forward three more years, and she was lying in bed in a penthouse apartment overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. She stirred and sat straight up, her body restless in the night. Her previous boyfriend had died that day, diving, and that chunk of her life came crashing back to her. She had been so in love with him that she had almost escaped Las Vegas when they met. She had started a business and tried to break away from her past life. I could almost see the struggle between her mind and her heart. Part of her wanted nothing more than to move away, settle into a new life, and see her relationship succeed. But a big part of her was still addicted to Vegas. She had become lost in that city, and was still trying to find herself.

The next year flew by and she flung herself back into escorting. In the next scene, she sighed a deep sigh, lingered in the car, retouched her makeup, checked her phone, and at the last minute headed to a room. That appointment seemed as uneasy as the first. But her apprehension faded and she ended up dating that client for the next few years.

Then the scene took a sharp turn. Let’s start an escort agency, he said, and the next couple years went by in a blur. Your friends can work. We’ll do it together. It will fill your time while your business gets on its feet.

Suddenly, I had one more flashback. This time I saw that girl much younger, still a teenager. She was dragging the serrated edge of a knife up and down her arms. She did it over and over, deepening the lines with stony precision. I saw her alone, excluded by her peers, during lunch, and before and after school. She stashed baggy jeans and heavy combat boots in her backpack so she could change out of the long dresses she was forced to wear at home. Perhaps that’s why it was so easy for me to become an escort, I thought. Living a secret life was nothing new.

I still had my cell phone in my hand—the reporter was on the other end. I pulled it from my ear and looked at it; saw the film wind down to the end as my life flashed before me.

I watched that teenage girl make friends with a crowd who wasn’t turned off by her thick black eyeliner and quiet demeanor. I saw her bringing home demonic paraphernalia and satanic scriptures. I watched her pray, not to God but to the devil.

And the backslider will become seven times worse. Suddenly the girl was back in church, the same one she had gone to until she got married and moved out of her parents home. The handwriting is on the wall, the voice from the pulpit declared.

I still had my cell phone in my hand—the reporter was on the other end. I pulled it from my ear and looked at it; saw the film wind down to the end as my life flashed before me. I saw all the men I had dated. I saw my family. I saw that young girl whose life had slipped into Haley’s. I truly didn’t know her anymore, that girl from Oregon the reporter was talking about. It was hard to put the two people together. There was the small-town college graduate, married at seventeen, raised in a Christian home, sheltered from the world. And then there was the person I was now—a famous Las Vegas madam who, with a team of escorts, had built an enterprise servicing A-listers from around the world. I didn’t think those two people had anything in common.

When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. The blue of my eyes had turned to midnight black. I had felt empty for as long as I could remember, and despite trying to fill the void—with drugs, parties, alcohol, love, sex, money— nothing worked for long; it just covered up for a short time what I was feeling. Now I felt emptier than ever.

My mom’s whispers and her pastor’s voice snaked their way through my mind. I had become a whore, and the whole world would know. My mother would say it was because I was a backslider, and the bible says those who know God and choose to turn their back on him will become seven times worse than before. Professionals would say it was because I had stuffed the angry memory of someone stroking that little girl ‘up here’ and ‘down there’ every time he had a chance. The liberal egalitarian inside me would say it was because I’d seized the day, and transformed from a mousy and cloistered teenager into a gorgeous woman, like the ones I’d seen in those magazines and websites

Once my head cleared, I saw that Haley and Jami weren’t two separate people. We were the same person. I was that girl whose life flashed through my mind, and I could only run from her past, and from her emptiness, for so long. Now, I had to find a way to understand, to make peace, to put those two people back together, and to fill that void I had been covering up all this time.

CHAPTER 3

It All Started in Kindergarten

Their rules didn’t stop the burgeoning hormones of a curious child.

I don’t remember exactly when I started touching myself, but by age five I had made up my mind that I was going to be an expert in the game. I was wildly uneducated about the mechanics of it all. I didn’t even know what masturbation was; I just knew I liked the way it made me feel.

My vagina was insatiable. I masturbated for two to three hours every day. I masturbated as soon as I woke up, before school, before lunch, after school, before dinner, before I went to sleep, in the middle of the night. Sometimes I went at it for forty-five minutes straight. I did it when I was bored. When I was sad. When I was excited. Rubbing one out was my cure-all.

At first, I stuck to my patented blanket technique. I pressed a blanket into my crotch and prepared to work up