Call Girl Confidential Read online

  Kristin used to do a bait-and-switch where she’d lure clients with photos of super-hot girls on her website. I don’t know how many of them actually worked for her. Anna wanted nude pictures, but not raunchy Hustler magazine–type shots. She wanted sensual, tasteful photography. She liked it if you could pull the Playboy look. She wanted you to be enticing and playful but not show everything. You were supposed to be a gift-wrapped present that someone would want to open up. That all sounded good. But posing for her photographer, Robert, was excruciating. Because of my Baptist past, I was never comfortable getting naked for a camera. But Robert told me to think about one man I cared about. That actually worked, and I relaxed.

  I had the most fun at the shoots that were the theme concepts. Anna would splurge for the best costumes to be custom-made, and for the best hair and makeup stylists to prep us. We’d do holiday shoots for Christmas, Hanukkah, Valentine’s Day, and St. Patrick’s Day. The Christmas and Hanukkah hooker photographs could become collectors’ items, if Anna or Robert would ever release them.

  Anna also had us shoot fantasy scenes. She’d appeal to guys who were coming in for Super Bowl weekend by having a few of us girls dress up in tiny football jerseys and helmets and little else. We did one girl-on-girl shoot dressed as schoolgirls. Nothing hard-core. It just let customers know that they could have two girls at once if they wished.

  Anna Gristina will probably come to be known as the last great New York madam before prostitution is legalized. She presented the sexiest, most sophisticated young women in the business—women you would never suspect of being escorts—to the wealthiest, most powerful men. And she used the most discreet, high-tech methods available to keep it all completely under the radar of law enforcement for nearly fifteen years.

  Anna kept a small apartment on East Seventy-Eighth Street for occasional encounters in the afternoon, and for the girls to drop off and pick up payments. Only a few knew where she hid the bulk of the money inside. There was a safe bolted to the floor inside one of the closets in the very back. It was well hidden; unless you were looking for it, you would totally miss it. I still have a set of keys. But I mostly met men on their own chosen turf, wherever in the world that might be.

  Anna served clients from all over the world: London. Tokyo. Paris. Barcelona. Several cities in Italy. The former Soviet Union. Switzerland. The Middle East. In the States, LA, Vegas, Washington, D.C., Miami, Philadelphia, Boston, and of course, New York. And she got the most beautiful girls in the country to fly in.

  I could make $25,000, plus expenses, for a weekend date abroad. Even though I’d only work for maybe two hours. I’d spend more time just getting there.

  Anna’s clients were people who had real money. It was a network that operated by word of mouth, for the most part. The clients tended to be in their forties and fifties, and they were at the top of their game, with plenty of money to spare. Some of them were responsible for the 2008 Wall Street crisis. They were bankers, luxury-brand CEOs, celebrity restaurateurs, club owners, hedge fund managers, producers, musicians—men with significant wealth. Some had private jets; some had yachts. They might have a house in Aspen or Telluride; many had major homes in the Hamptons and ran in the same set. They didn’t care if your picture was taken with them. They would always have an explanation for anybody who had a question. Society photographer Patrick McMullan took my photo with a married client who sits on several prestigious boards.

  Anna’s clients used their real names. Their executive assistants often made my travel arrangements on their credit cards. I hated that, because then the line was crossed. I never wanted anyone to know my real name. But with serious travel like first-class tickets to Asia or suites at the Conrad Tokyo, yes, you bet my name had to be on the bill; but so did theirs, so we both had insurance as far as I was concerned. I didn’t want them to screw with my personal life, but then, they didn’t want me to screw with theirs, either. We had an understanding.

  Anna’s clients didn’t want girls whose appearance screamed, “Hooker!” They don’t want a quick fix from a Barbie who can’t handle a conversation with their friends. Anna’s girls were totally different from anybody else’s.

  She flew a lot of women in from other states. There was always a rotation. It wasn’t the same girls all the time. These were the sexiest, most beautiful girls in the business, and that was the reputation Anna had. As for the girls who lived in New York, the only way she took you on was if someone told her you’d be a great fit. If she was interested, she might call you.

  Unlike Kristin, Anna was extremely discreet. She rarely let anyone meet her. Most of the clients, and many of the girls, never saw her face until the trial. She didn’t advertise, and she sent pictures of the girls only to clients who requested them. Her website was password protected, and you had to be a member who had been thoroughly researched and checked out. A lot of clients came to her by word of mouth from trusted longtime regulars.

  She didn’t keep an office in the United States. She claims to have had one in Montreal. All her mobile phones had Montreal area codes, since prostitution is legal in Canada. Anna had so many different phone numbers. Once I counted ten different numbers stored in my phone for her. No one person had all of them. The computers at her farm in upstate New York had software that could scrub her hard drive in an instant if she were to be arrested.

  The only person Anna trusted as a booker was her own sister, whom she referred to as Elizabeth. Elizabeth was much older, and because Anna had told us that her mother had had her when she was sixteen years old, we wondered if Elizabeth was really her mother. Anna said she had been adopted as the seventh child of a poor gardener and his wife in Scotland. It seemed unusual for such a poor couple to take on that added responsibility. I believe she started out in the business very young, and Elizabeth came along for the ride. In any case, Elizabeth was the one who knew all Anna’s secrets. Like where her money went.

  Law enforcement had no idea who she was or where she was, and they had had no photo of her for at least ten years. Compared to Anna’s operation, Kristin’s was like clown school, according to the Manhattan DA’s office.

  When I finally met Anna Gristina, she was all decked out in a fur coat, with expensive highlights in her hair, and wearing good jewelry. She was married to a younger man named Kelvin Gorr. He is the one who got reprimanded by the judge for bringing their children to her trial. She once told me, “I make all the money.”

  Her older children, one of whom is in college, are by other fathers. She still had some sort of relationship with her sugar daddy, who had been her client for years and even after she was married gifted her with two Range Rovers: one silver, one green. You could say the escort business was very, very good to Anna Gristina. Until it got bad.

  Unlike many of the girls, I was slowly allowed into Anna’s world. She would let me know when she was coming into the city, even if it was with her kids, and we would hang out. I met her at Paragon Sports once and just chilled as the boys picked out hockey equipment. Yes, she really was a hockey mom.

  Anna used to say to me that I wasn’t like the other girls. She would tell me that she was proud of me and I was going to make something of my life. Whenever she said that, it was a strange feeling, because I felt she actually meant it. I was going to school. I wasn’t the typical drugged-out drunk hooker; I was reliable and consistent, and she valued that.

  I don’t know if it was because of our increasing closeness, but Anna began to hook me up with bigger and bigger clients.

  Here is one of the reviews of me that a client—a very successful artist who would fly in from California for our trysts—posted on The Erotic Review, the Yelp of the sex business:

  It had been a long time since I had seen any provider, because I’d been so disappointed by the last couple of experiences, so I wanted to choose very carefully this time. Ashley seemed to be just what I was looking for, at least physically, but I usually stay away from agencies. But a fellow TER member assured me that th
is agency was different than all the others. Not only was he right about the agency (they were so helpful in accommodating my crazy schedule) but Ashley was just what I expected and something more.

  I didn’t expect to meet a woman who was so engaging and intelligent. This wasn’t like going to see a professional in the sex business. It was more like going over to hang with a woman that I might have met in class. Ashley looked like the quintessential blonde California college girl; barefoot and in comfortably worn jeans and a tank top that showed just enough of her smooth flat stomach to whet my sexual appetite. Eventually, we got into a discussion of existential issues and the very nature of the human experience. This may sound like a turnoff to many, but smarts and looks in one woman always does this to me.

  I wanted the evening to last forever, so I could take my time getting to know Ashley and build up the expectation of being physically intimate with this gem. This wasn’t so much sex as it was pure and sensual eroticism. Words just can’t describe what my date with Ashley was like. So, rather than go into more detail and describe every act, I will simply say, if you want a real, down-to-earth, smart, sensual, naturally beautiful woman, then go see Ashley. I’m going to be seeing her again and again because I have a feeling she’s the type of woman who seems sexier and sexier the more you get to know her.

  My high-paying clients kept coming back for more, which pleased Anna to no end. And with the money I was raking in, I couldn’t complain, either.

  ELEVEN

  high-flying clients

  The men whom Anna supplied with young women operated at a much higher level—often a global level. They wanted someone whom they could bring to dinner with friends, with whom they’d feel comfortable being photographed or escorting to social gatherings. A woman who was beautifully dressed and conversant in current events. Someone who would seem like a date, a girlfriend, with no one having a clue that a monetary transaction had taken place.

  One of my first clients was a highly successful owner of the kind of nightclubs where celebrities and athletes were willing to pay $350 bottle-service fees for Stoli or $2,500 for Louis XIII de Rémy Martin. His business had thrived in New York, and he was now expanding to other cities and thinking about venturing into the boutique hotel business.

  My client—let’s call him Steve—mingled with celebrities all the time, as it was his business, but they also seemed to be his pals. I chatted with them, and we all posed together for the tabloid photographers. Once, in a box at a Knicks game, I said I wanted a ball autographed by one of the players and I wanted it by halftime. I was just pretending to be a spoiled little princess—I didn’t even have a clue who was playing for the Knicks at the time. But just as the third quarter began, in walked a team rep and handed me an autographed ball. Steve was sending me the message that I could have whatever I wanted. Next time I would be more ambitious!

  After a night out in the city, Steve would often suggest to some of his friends and his friends’ girlfriends—or “dates,” like me—that we continue the party at his house in the Hamptons. We’d all head out to Steve’s spacious estate, complete with pool, tennis court, and basketball court. No one used either of the courts that I saw, but every night when the boys were fast asleep, the girls would sit in the pool or Jacuzzi, drinking champagne.

  One night, we all gathered in the living room, with its extra-wide custom couches done in neutral colors like “dune” and “seagrass.” As the sun settled into the horizon, Steve headed to his Hawaiian bamboo bar and began making cocktails. He had started out as a bartender and was still proud of his mixology skills.

  Someone started teasing Max—a guy with a Ferrari and a dozen other “important” sports cars—about how his cars were housed under better conditions than most of the people working for him. He was a member of an exclusive car club, where collectors kept their elite rides in an immaculate, guarded, and temperature- and humidity-controlled space. Each car had its own video camera pointed at it so the owner could look at it longingly online any time of the day or night. “Max just wants to be alone so he can drool over his Alfa Romeo Spider,” said one coarse fellow with a Brooklyn accent. All the men laughed.

  Steve brought a Balinese hammered-silver box over to the glass coffee table and gingerly opened it to reveal that it was filled nearly to the top with a white powder. “Me first!” said the Brooklyn guy as he took the razor blade and expertly portioned out three lines. He picked up one of several little glass tubes and snorted up the powder through it. “Go Knicks!” he cried, passing another tube to his date and shoveling out more lines. Everyone took their turn snorting up a line in each nostril, and then Steve turned to me and asked, “Ashley? Colombian marching powder?”

  I did not believe in doing any kind of drug with clients, but they were more than welcome to do what they wanted. Unless it was hard-core, like crystal meth, or if it made them get out of control and put me in danger.

  This wasn’t really a request. I’d already learned that, for Steve, coke was foreplay. But I was ready for him.

  “Absolutely,” I said, smiling, and dangled a jeweled silver snorting tube I wore as a pendant. I snorted two lines into it, but it never went up my nose. I’d lined it with Vaseline that morning—a trick Kristin Davis had taught me early in the business because she knew I didn’t do drugs. She didn’t either, so she knew all the tricks to teach me. I was feeling grateful to her at that moment. Actually, each time I used that trick, I thought of her. Acting appropriately amorous, I sat back down next to Steve, lightly rubbing my breasts over his arm as I cuddled closer. We soon said good night to the group, and he took me by the hand to his bedroom. It was in another entire wing of his house.

  He put on some music as I slipped into the shower to freshen up and put on some really special lingerie. An incredible guitar soloist came on. “Who is that?!” I called out. “Al Di Meola,” he exulted. “That’s ‘Mediterranean Sundance.’ ”

  “Wow,” I said as I strutted into the room in a feathery black thong, black-lace push-up bra, and killer six-inch Christian Louboutin stilettos with patent-leather spikes. “He’s the best.”

  “No, baby,” said Steve as he ran his hand over my bottom. “You are.”

  The next morning, after a swim in Steve’s pool, it was mimosas and omelets made to order by Steve’s personal chef. Some weekends we’d linger, but this time Steve had a meeting in the city, and his driver pulled up in an Escalade to take us to East Hampton Airport in Wainscott for the chopper ride back to Manhattan.

  “Some of us have to work for a living!” Steve yelled out the window to his buddies as they all guffawed.

  Yes, some of us do. After a weekend of partying, I was $10,000 richer.

  The next day I had my court-supervised visitation with my daughter. A woman whom I apparently paid to sit there and give me stern looks sat off to the side as Isabella and I drew with pastels. Isabella made a drawing of a rainbow with us holding hands beneath it, smiling, and little hearts all around us. Then, on a smaller piece of paper, she wrote in tiny letters Take me home, Mama and secretly passed it to me. It was all I could do not to burst into tears. Trying to keep my two lives separate was so difficult mentally. The character names I went by helped remarkably, but I didn’t know how much longer I could keep it up.

  Anna was extremely happy with me. I was “bringing it.” She started a joint operation with a madam in London, and I was one of the girls she sent over. It was a simple matter of going overseas and staying in an apartment for a week at a time and being the “fresh new face.” Being foreign was great. The British men are just like any others; they want and need good sex, and the all-American look was my selling point.

  The escorts in London came in from all over the world. They all were doing what I was: meeting the most eligible men in Britain, or at least the men who were in town that week. Keeping their identity a secret is one of the biggest priorities in the United Kingdom, and men pay top dollar—or should I say pound—to ensure it stays that way. The
entire purpose was to work. Making money was the goal, not making friends.

  The same held true for London as it did for anywhere else. I’d accompany the client to dinner, the theater, or even overnight to Paris for a business dinner. Thank goodness at that point I had the wardrobe to pull it off.

  In exchange for sending one of her American girls to London, Anna would get a European or British girl from the madam in the U.K. It was good business for them both, and kept clients on either side of the pond happy with lots of fresh new faces. That’s what they loved and paid the most for.

  A few of my clients were very eccentric. There was an Orthodox Jewish man who was always paranoid that there was someone in the East Seventy-Eighth Street apartment where I did the occasional incall for Anna. He’d check every single room, again and again. I would show up, sit down, and watch him run around and freak out, asking, “Are you sure there is no one here? How do you know, have you checked? Did you check the closets? Underneath the bed?” This would happen over and over. Once, he checked the place for the entire hour, never had sex, paid, and left. Best client ever to have.

  Then there was the famous classical pianist who would call whenever he was in town to play Carnegie Hall. One time he asked the booker to send as many girls as possible, and we were all to bring our bikinis to wear in his hotel suite. At his request, we set up blankets on the floor and pretended to sunbathe. He started off swatting our bottoms with a towel, and then he would tickle us and chase us around the suite, still swatting us with the towel, and would watch us jump up and down on the bed with our tops off. Then he wanted us to chase him around and finally pull off the towel he was wearing, to reveal that he was aroused beneath. And then the game was over. I suppose everyone has their own fantasy.