To be fair, we did not call it a whore house, even though escorts lived and worked here. It was simply the House. I had been there a week. Apparently, [Name Withheld] wished to retire and the House needed a madam. All the escorts had fake names.
Escort Rich would not call me Madam Mike. The details of my job ranged from the eye-rollingly menial changing sheets in the downstairs rooms between calls to the much more interesting answering the phone and matching the client with the escort. Most clients were direct and boring. Maybe a little shy, seldom rich, they were sometimes middle class, sometimes below. If the client was shy, it was usually because his fetish involved either feet or water sports.
Bad move. Regina called me in a huff. I get it. And I agree. In-calls were less frequent; that was more for the regulars, the old guard, or people referred by the old guard. People who were likely to sit on the porch for an hour or so afterward and chat with everyone. But the real money came in changing a one-hour visit to an overnight visit.
Some boys were better at this than others. One, named Jeremy, was pure magic: He would always try to meet the client at a restaurant first and memorize the locations of ATMs on the way. Because the connection was strong, unusually strong. He would love to stay overnight. While the client hemmed and hawed, Jeremy would tell him where all the nearby ATMs were.
A few years after the time I am describing, during Passover, Jeremy would lose his shit and draw a big X on all the doors in the House and have to be hospitalized. Fifteen hundred dollars was a baseline for us, for overnights. Some people went higher. You know, it? He asked me to stand up, take my shirt off, turn around a couple times. But this business is all about repeat clients.
