tagCelebritiesChristine's Call Girl Confession

Christine's Call Girl Confession

byandtheend©

I'm a call girl. Different from a prostitute, I don't stand out on the street corner and just pickup anyone. My men are prescreened and rich. Most times, I don't even have sex with them. Sometimes, they just want to be seen with someone like me. As a family doctor is a general practitioner, you could say that I'm a specialist. Oh, yeah, definitely, I'm special.

I got the call that Bob, his real name, needed an eye candy escort to a swanky private party. Because Bob is a wealthy venture capitalist, I was given the call. My name is Christine. Tall, blonde, buxom, and beautiful, I was once a Texas beauty queen.

After a failed marriage with a supposed New York talent agent and a failed attempt at an acting career in Hollywood, you could say that I do a different form of acting for an audience of only one at a time. Now, instead of pretending to have sex on screen, I have sex for real for money, a lot of money.

I earn more in a weekend aboard a private yacht than a typical prostitute earns in a year. Why would someone pay me five thousand, twenty-five thousand, fifty-thousand, a hundred thousand and more to be with me for an hour, a day, a weekend, or a week? First of all, they can afford it. The money is of no consequence to them. Many of my clients are rich, super rich. They pay more to take their friends to a wine and champagne dinner than they do for an hour with me.

Secondly, I'm hot. Lastly, I'm good at what I do. I give them whatever sexual pleasure they want. I give them whatever erotic and exotic fix they need. I give them a lasting memory that makes them call me back for an encore.

You can think of me as dessert, if you'd like. Yeah, I like that. Think of me as white chocolate, only diary, sugar, and glucose free. I'm a zero calorie, high maintenance kind of woman. I'm sweet, non fattening, and delicious enough to eat. Better than an ice cream sundae after a meal, I'm the real deal happy ending. If I can't put a smile on your face, then you're either gay or dead.

He had already paid my fee upfront, twenty-five thousand dollars for four hours, from 8pm to midnight. No sex. He just needed someone to be clinging on to him, hanging on his arm and to be all over him and acting as if we were lovers. I needed to pretend that he was my stud of a man.

He wanted to have someone to have cocktails with, while having them make witty and intelligent conversation. It was important that he'd have someone sitting with him at dinner and have a nightcap with him later on the veranda that overlooks the city. Eager to show me off, he wanted us to be noticed together. He wanted a certain someone to see him with me and for her to know that he could get someone like me.

Some men hire me to make their ex-wives or ex-girlfriends jealous. Bob hired me to get the attention of a woman he had wanted, desired, and lusted over, actually. He pointed out his target, an attractive albeit forgettable woman in her late thirties. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe I had met her somewhere before. I meet a lot of people in my line of business. Only, unless they are paying customers, I don't generally pay as much attention to the women as I do to the men.

She looked like a dolled up housewife or someone's mother to me. Yeah, definitely, she could have been someone's soccer mom. Upon a closer look, she looked so ordinary, plain even. There was nothing special about her. She had not one feature that stood out, really. I mean, you can put anyone in an expensive gown and do their hair and makeup, and they'd look halfway decent.

For whatever reason, he was apparently enamored with her. Why, I don't know. He confided that they'd be a good match, since she was available and just as wealthy as he was.

"What does she do?" I asked wondering how someone like her had accumulated that much money. I figured she married into it or inherited it. I figured she was a Daddy's little girl in the way that homely Paris Hilton was or had inherited a huge fortune in the way that the even homelier Tori Spelling had.

"What does she do?" He looked at me disbelievingly.

"Yeah, where'd she get all her money?"

"She's an actress," he said trying to read me to see if I was kidding him that I didn't know who she was.

"Oh," I said looking at her again.

Now it made sense, the reason she looked familiar to me. I must have seen her in a movie. Only I couldn't place her. Maybe she was a child actress.

"There's just something about her that drives me wild," he said, while staring over at her and looking the other way, every time she looked over at us.

"Now that I look at her again, she looks a little like Jennifer Aniston," I said finally, pleased that she noticed me with him and happy that I fulfilled my end of the bargain. "Only, Jennifer is prettier."

"It's funny you should say that," said Bob with a little laugh. He was a man about three inches shorter than my 5'9" height without wearing my heels and with me in my 3" heels, I dwarfed him. "A lot of people think she looks a little like Jennifer Aniston," he said taking a sip of his double olive martini. "Probably because she is," he said with a chuckle.

"She is? You're kidding. That's Jennifer Aniston?" I looked at him. "You're not kidding. That is her," I said looking over at her again.

She didn't look anything how I envisioned a movie star should look. Not that she was a huge movie star, but she certainly had her successes, along with her flops, and she had enough of a fan base, mostly men, that Hollywood still paid her in the high seven figures to star in a movie.

Just nudging 5'7" tall with her 2" heels, she was shorter than how I imagined her to be and thinner. She was once Brad Pitt's wife. Wow. Now that I see her in person, is it any wonder why he left her for Angelina Jolie.

I wondered how she got him in the first place. Maybe she sucks a good cock. Jennifer looked too plain and not as glamorous as Angelina can look. She looked too much like the girl next door and I wondered if they had married just to boost one another's careers.

An agent's dream, sometimes prearranged marriages of stars can launch them both to superstardom, as it did with Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, and, perhaps, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. Now with the skyrocket successes of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, maybe Jennifer Aniston needs to find another famous man to marry to reignite her career and take her to the next level. Come to think of it, I can see her with George Clooney. Only, George likes the younger women.

Still, looking very slinky in the midnight blue chiffon gown she wore, she was super skinny. Only, compared to me, she looked ordinary, almost. She was dull in contrast when I was shiny. She disappeared in a room, when I lit it up. Why would someone like Brad and Bob and all the other celebrity boyfriends and lovers she's had want someone who looked like her? To each his own, I guess.

"That's her in the flesh," he said breathing out the words breathlessly, as if he was having sex with her already.

"You brought me here for her?" I gave him a look of disappointed resignation, as if he had taken me to the circus instead of a Broadway play.

When he could have someone like me, when he could have lobster instead of Kentucky Fried Chicken, he's got to be kidding. Yet, this man paid my $25,000 fee for me not to be rude, degrading, and/or insulting but to be flashy, witty, sophisticated, and intelligent. I don't know, maybe I was feeling a little jealous that he showed her more attention by his stare than he had shown me. It's only natural. I am a woman, after all.

"Unfortunately," he said with a heavy hearted sigh, "we don't pick who we fall in love with and I love her. I really do. I'd marry her in a second, if she'd have me. Only, I need to get her away from all of this," he said with a wave of his hand, "and to endear me to her before popping the question. I already bought the ring," he said, "and it's spectacular."

I could only imagine the diamond he must have bought her, knowing the rock this guy could afford. Whatever he bought her would surely look good on my finger. Married to him, I'd never have to work again. Unfortunately, guys like him only want women like me for show and not for keeps.

"Why do you need me, then? Why not just go over to her and introduce yourself? You're a good looking guy and rich. You're every women's dream," I said with a little laugh.

"She knows who I am. We've met already," he said with a confident boast. "Normally, I would go to her and engage her in conversation, but the timing isn't right," he said giving a furtive glance in the opposite direction. "I can't go to her because of him."

"Who?" I looked to where he was looking.

"Do you see that man over there?" He used his body as an arrow and turned in the direction of a man who was surrounded by women.

"Yeah, the one who looks a little like John Mayer," I said looking to where he was looking.

"That is John Mayer and she loves him," not disguising his impatience with me.

"Oh," I said surprised that he was here with her. "I thought they weren't dating anymore."

"On and off, they aren't, really, at least, not publically because of the tabloids and the Paparazzi. He's still on the prowl, but she's not. She wants him and would marry him, if only he'd ask," he said perfunctorily. "They attend these functions, showing up alone and leaving alone, meeting up, no doubt, somewhere prearranged to be together and to have sex," he said with a sigh. "I'd love to have sex with her."

"I don't understand," I said feeling jealous that he wanted her over me. "What is my role in all of this?"

"Simple. I need for you to take your beautiful face and your oh so Heavenly body over to Mr. Meyer and get his attention, an understatement, if you know what I mean. I need for you to keep him busy. I want you to make him preoccupied with you. I need for you to make Jennifer jealous and mad, so that maybe, she'll give me mad breakup and rebound sex all rolled into one passionate love affair. Do you think you can do that?"

"You're seriously asking me if I can get the attention of a man? Are you kidding me? Look at me. I'm blonde, beautiful, buxom, tall, and from Texas. There's not a man alive that I can't lasso, hogtie, and roundup for my personal corral," I said with a sexy smile.

"Good," he said with a sly smile. "Because this is what I want you to do," he said standing on his tippy toes, while I leaned my head to the side for him to whisper what he wanted me to do in my ear.

"Oh, this ought to be good," I said with a laugh. "That's so bad. You're so bad. Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said finishing the last of his martini and reaching for another from the tray of a passing waiter.

"Will the Paparazzi be there to capture what you have planned?"

"Will there be Paparazzi? Have you looked around the room at who is here? It's a virtual celebrity who's who, which is why I need you. I need you divert the attention away from Jennifer and put it on you and John Meyer, while I slip out the back door with her. My car is waiting for us there."

More focused on my client, as well as I should be, since he paid me and exorbitant amount of money to have me there with him, I looked around the room and noticed the celebrities in attendance, Jay Z and his wife Beyonce were there. Oprah and Gayle King were flanked by Arnold Schwarzenegger and his wife, Maria Shriver, Simon Cowell and girlfriend, and Sandra Bullock and her husband Jesse James. The room was filled with celebrities.

"What if I'm arrested?"

"Oh, no doubt, with the security that's here, you will be arrested. Only, I already have my attorney on speed dial ready to spring you from county jail. You won't spend more than an hour in custody and there won't be any charges filed against you. I can assure you of that."

"Twenty-five thousand dollars seems a little light for what you what me to do, Bob," I said wondering if my agent knew all that I was getting into with this little charade.

"I've already spoken to your handler," he said with a smug smile.

He was so smugly smart. He had all the answers. I really hate men like him, powerful and so confidently self-assured that they can have anyone, any time. Yet, I'm so attracted to men like him. He's the type of man who keeps me in business.

"And what did you say...to my handler?"

"I told him that I would pay another twenty-five thousand dollars for your impromptu acting job and a bonus of fifty thousand dollars more, if I leave here with Jennifer in the backseat of my Maybach."

"Well, one hundred thousand dollars for four hours work without ever having to remove my clothes is something that I can do," I said.

"Only, you must make it look good. You must make it look believable and you must make her notice me with you, before any of these shenanigans begin. I don't want her thinking that any of this was prearranged. It needs to appear serendipitous. She's not as dumb as she looks," he said with a little laugh. "Actually, she's quite intelligent."

"I can do all of that," I said with my own smugly smart smile.

While standing there with Bob, I aligned myself, so that, as Jennifer made her way around the room, she'd...oops.

"Pardon me," she said to me. "I'm so sorry," she said looking down at my dress, before looking up at me.

"Sorry? My dress. Look at my dress. Look at what you've done to my dress. It's ruined," I said looking down at the wet stain that darkened the bottom of my red dress.

"It's not that bad," she said. "It will dry out," she said looking down at it again. "Give your name and address to the man at the door and I'll replace your dress. I'm so sorry," she said again. "Oh, hello, Robert," she said to my date.

"Jennifer, this is Christine Bradley, my escort for the evening."

"I'm delighted to meet you," she said without acknowledging me and barely giving me a glance.

"Are you here alone?" In the way that Bob looked at her, he made me feel invisible.

"Alone? Yes," she said Jennifer giving a subtle glance to John Meyer. "I guess you can say that. I've been a bit lost since Brad and I ended our marriage," she said returning her attention to Bob and flashing him a sexy smile that told me she was interested in him. "Call me," she said. "Maybe we can have lunch some time."

"It would be my pleasure," he said.

Oh, my God, look at him. It's so obvious that he's in love with her. Instead of being so smugly smooth, he was so nerdy nervous. He never took his eyes off her. It was as if I didn't exist. Other than some of the perverts and fruitcakes I've been with, I never had a man look at me like that and in the way he looked at her. I wish someone would fall in love with me, instead of only wanting me for one thing, sex.

With the stage set, I waited until the end of the evening to complete my plan. I had already left Bob in the lurches and made my way over to John Meyer. It was obvious that he was immediately quite taken with me. He spent the evening touching me and talking to my chest. And why not? Compared to the other dragons at the party, I was the shining star. Besides, I paid enough for my boobs to stick out, no pun intended.

Jennifer was nursing her drink, her third or maybe even her fourth drink, while watching me with John and chatting with the select few people she was with. Obviously, she was steaming with jealousy, in the way that John Meyer was all over me. He was already hammered and his hand rested around the back of me, his fingers flirting with my ass. I purposely turned my body in her direction, so that she could see his hand fondling my firm, round ass, an ass she wished she had, no doubt.

Actually, the warmth of his hand felt good. Except for this sheer, red dress I was modeling and a thong underneath, I wasn't wearing much of anything else and I was a little bit cold. The touch of his hand made me a little horny. He wasn't a bad looking man, this John Meyer, certainly, taller and much better looking than Bob over there, my prearranged date, a man more interested in Jennifer than me, I might add.

Watching her out of the corner of my eye, I knew Jennifer would be over here any second. I could just feel it. After you've been to enough of these cocktail parties, you learn to pick up on the bad vibes. I knew she couldn't help herself from making a scene. She's such an insecure little bitch. She had already done that before with Angelina Jolie, when she cold cocked her, but I was ready for her.

"John, how nice to see you, again," said Jennifer, suddenly appearing beside me, just as I leaned to the left and purposely allowed her to bump into me, again, and spill my drink, yet, again.

"You bitch," I said. "That's the second time you spilled my drink on me. You did that on purpose. What is your problem?"

"I did no such thing. Please calm yourself and don't make a scene," said Jennifer already setting her eyes on me. She had been taking karate lessons with her friend Courtney Cox, but I beat her to the punch.

With a quick but forceful tug, I pulled at the collar of her Christian Dior gown and it ripped nearly in two. I watched it fall to the floor and there was Jennifer wearing nothing more than her shocked expression and her very sheer bikini panties. Compared to my big boobs, her tits were smallish. Nonetheless, she had nice tits for an old broad and I remember wondering if she had work done. Exposing more of her bouncing boobs by flailing her skinny arm, she took a swing at me, but I ducked and hit her with a straight arm to her upper chest knocking her on her flat ass. She's not the only one who has had lessons in the martial arts.

That was when two big, burly security men grabbed me beneath each arm and carried me to the door. I turned in time to see, Robert helping Jennifer to her feet, covering her nakedness with her torn gown, and quickly escorting her out of the private party by the back way. With Bob leaving with Jennifer, obviously, I had not only doubled my money and earned my fifty thousand dollar bonus but also my manager would be happy.

Running out, as if his ass was on fire, John Meyer was nowhere to be seen. Looking much like fireworks lighting up the evening sky, there was a swarm of Paparazzi firing off their cameras to record me being arrested and taken into police custody. I smiled and waved, knowing my photo would be everywhere with everyone wondering who was the beautiful blonde mystery woman and why was she escorted out and taken in police custody.

The story of Jennifer Aniston getting in a fight with me over John Mayer and being stripped nearly naked was the biggest news since Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, and Lindsay Lohan went around town without panties. A private person, Bob knew that Jennifer Aniston, no doubt, was eager for a place to hide, until all of this unwanted publicity and scandal was replaced by someone else. Yet, what was an embarrassment for her was a huge windfall for me and a coup for him.

Everyone wanted me on their talk shows. I had to hire an agent and a press secretary for all the offers for commercials and endorsements I was receiving. Someone wanted to write a book and someone else wanted to make a movie. Where I couldn't make it as an actress before, my feigned fight with Jennifer Aniston over John Meyer had catapulted me to sudden stardom. Never wanting it to disappear, I planned on making the most of my fifteen minutes of fame. Finally, I had the opportunity to make it to Hollywood as an actress, instead of as a call girl.

True to his word, I was out of jail before the arresting officers could even write their report. Last I heard Bob and Jennifer had a brief, but torrid romance. He had rescued her and she showed him her gratitude by spending a week with him at his private island retreat in Capri. By the time Jennifer made another public appearance, the tabloid press was already writing endlessly about Martin Sheen's arrest for domestic assault.

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