“She’s 38, a former escort, and she was arrested for art theft,” my father said—then waited for me to flinch.

Part 1:
As I absent-mindedly prepared for dinner in my luxurious hotel room, I reflected on how my life was going.

I thought I had gotten over my ex-wife’s infidelity, but I realized I still had some sort of PTSD-like condition.

I was dejected when my therapist first brought it up.

I mean, how is it, after all, that experiencing a spouse’s betrayal is in any way similar to what soldiers go through in combat?

I wasn’t just upset.

I was embarrassed.

My therapist eventually convinced me that everyone is different and that I had nothing to be ashamed of, at least not very much.

And since I gave away a cool million dollars to programs for ex-military people with PTSD, I eased my conscience.

The important thing was that I continued to go to therapy.

His advice about what would be helpful if I was looking for another relationship, or just having a few one-night stands, went in one ear and out the other.

I decided that my hand would never betray me or cause me suffering, so I decided that for sexual release, at least for the moment, this was enough for me.

While I was making my tea, my thoughts thankfully turned from the anxiety associated with memories of my ex’s cheating to something more pleasant.
“You have a lot ahead of you,” I tried to cheer myself up. “I mean, you’re still young at 34, good-looking if the attention from women in the office is legit, and you’re rich.”
At least the last part was true.

The story is just getting started.

Part 2:
I was definitely rich.

Affording the best room in the upscale hotel I was staying at was no problem for someone of my means.

Although I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I became successful myself and grew the company my grandfather founded 100-fold and added other successful companies to it.

Then why can’t I turn my business acumen into a successful relationship with a woman? flashed through my head, and I began to feel bad again.

Why do I get nervous around all women when I’m in society?

Has cheating on my ex made me fearful?

Luckily, just at that moment, the doorbell rang.

Yes, my hotel room was so luxurious that it had a doorbell.

This brought me out of the state of reemerging malaise.

I looked at my watch.
“Chris is just in time,” I said to myself as I walked from my bedroom through the large ornate hallway to my door.

One of the few things that brought me joy after my divorce from my cheating ex was giving money to worthwhile charities, such as the ones run at ABI that treat PTSD in ex-military people.

My staff set up a meeting in Seattle with the outreach director for a charity called Escort to Success.

This is a local charity that has actually had success in moving homeless women out of poverty and into the workforce.

Unfortunately, due to my phone being out of order for some unknown reason the previous day, I did not receive an email from my staff with information about Chris and the charity.

But this was not a big problem, as I could easily get everything necessary at dinner and at the charity office the next day.

When I opened the door, I was surprised to see a striking woman standing there.

I had assumed that Chris was a man, not Christina.

She appeared to be about 30 years old, probably 5’8″ tall, clearly over 6 feet tall in her heels, and was stylishly dressed with a very nice figure, including large breasts.
“Hello, are you Brad?” she asked in a hoarse voice.
“Brett,” I corrected her with a smile. “Brett Connor,” I continued, shaking her hand.

She seemed a little taken aback by my offer of a hand to shake, but accepted it.

She had a strong but soft grip.
“I believe you are from Escort to Success?” I smiled.

Although she was a little taken aback, she answered, “Yes.”
“Come in,” I said, opening the door all the way and moving out of the way.

Chris seemed impressed by how richly furnished my room was.

She made a number of pleasant comments, some of them indicating that she understood art and maybe even loved it.

I brought her a drink.

She wanted a vodka martini while we talked about the environment.

I even asked her if she wanted to take a little tour and check out the view from the bedroom, which had a truly breathtaking view of the city.

She oohed and aahed accordingly, and standing in the bedroom, began to remove her shawl made of cashmere fabric.
“Don’t take off your pashmina,” I smiled. “We will discuss business in the restaurant, not here.

Let’s finish our drinks and go.”
I saw a puzzled expression on her face, but she accepted the program.

We finished our drinks in the waiting room, then walked out, got into the elevator, and went down to the lobby.
“I hope you don’t mind a farm-to-table restaurant,” I said as we drove down. “I’m tired of both steakhouses and new cuisine.”
“Whatever,” she replied as we walked toward the front door together.

She almost seemed to expect me to take her hand, which surprised me a little.

In Chicago, business partners usually have no skin-to-skin contact.

I thought to myself, maybe things are different in Seattle.

As we approached the front door, I asked the doorman if our limousine had arrived.

He smiled and waved his hand toward a limousine parked a few cars away in the driveway, and it pulled up.

He opened the door for Chris and me, and I handed him a $20, for which he thanked me profusely.

After my divorce, I began to tip very generously.

As we drove to the restaurant, Chris and I talked about the weather, Seattle politics, local sports teams, and just about everything.

Chris seemed very impressed with the limo and even accepted the offer of a drink from the small bar in the car.

When we arrived at the restaurant, the driver opened the door for us.

His eyes seemed to widen when he saw Chris’s slender legs stepping out of the car.

I asked him to pick us up in two hours, to which he bowed his cap.

As I asked, we got the best table in the room, which made me smile as I gave the head waiter $50, which Chris noticed and made her eyes widen.

After we chatted about general things, including art, which Chris seemed particularly knowledgeable about given her current comments about the paintings in the restaurant and her previous comments about the paintings in my hotel room, we ordered appetizers and wine.

And when they brought snacks, we ordered dinner.

The dish I chose turned out to be the most expensive on the menu.

I had no intention of ordering it.

I just thought it was the most pleasant.

When Chris asked what I would have and I told her, she asked if she could order the same, and I replied, “Certainly.”
She smiled, and I ordered for both of us.

While we were eating snacks and drinking wine, I asked her, “How long have you been working at Escort to Success?”
Chris cheered up a little and then replied, “Four years.”
“Was it a pleasant four years?” I asked.

She looked surprised by the question, but after a pause, she answered, “Everything is fine.

Not as desirable as the art job I had before, but after all sorts of layoffs, I couldn’t find another job in the arts, and I had bills to pay and two small daughters to support.”
She went on to talk about what kind of work she had in the art world before and that she was a single mother with no man in the girls’ lives.
“Do you earn more at Escort to Success than at your previous job in the arts?” I asked, a little surprised at what she seemed to be implying.

She looked puzzled again.
“Yes, I, uh, earn more,” she answered, stuttering.
“What are your current sources of fundraising for Escort to Success?” I asked.

This time she was truly puzzled.

After a long pause, she said, “I don’t think we have a connection, Brett.

I’m not sure we’re on the same page.”
She was about to say something else, but then her cell phone buzzed.

It didn’t ring, but I heard the vibration.

She took it out of her small purse, looked at the screen, and said, “I have to answer.”
She made a few comments into her phone, and then her eyes widened.

At one point, she said, “Holy crap!”
Then she pressed the mute button on her phone, looked me in the eyes, and said, “You didn’t order a girl named Tammy today, did you?”
“What are you talking about, Chris?” I replied.

I realized that this was the first time I had actually called her Chris.
“My name is Tammy, not Chris,” she said, first seriously and then with a grin.
“Look, Brett, I don’t work for a charity.

I work in an escort service.

I was supposed to meet a guy named Brad at your hotel room, 2901.”
“What?” I replied.

Now I, too, was completely puzzled.
“I’m the only one in 2901, and I didn’t ask Tammy.

I was scheduled to meet Chris, the development director for the charity Escort to Success.”
Tammy picked up the phone again.

Having said a few words to him, she laughed.
“1901, not 2901!

Damn it, my handwriting is terrible!”
Then she looked at me.
“Despite the confusion, do you mind if I stay for dinner?”
After a pause, I smiled.
“No problem.

I just need to use your phone when you’re done, since I need to make a call myself.”
She nodded her head yes, returned to her phone, and said, “I’ll call you tomorrow, B,” and interrupted the conversation.

Laughing, she handed the phone to me.

I laughed to myself.

I called my philanthropy coordinator at home.

The first two times she didn’t answer, perhaps because she didn’t recognize the name on the caller ID.

But when I called the third time, she said cautiously, “Hello?”
“Dawn, this is Brett.

My phone doesn’t work, and I’m using a good Samaritan’s phone.

Have you heard anything from Escort to Success?”
“Yes, Christopher Thompson called about 20 minutes ago and said that he was late and that you were not in the room when he arrived,” Dawn answered.

Suppressing my laughter, I replied, “Please call and tell him that I will be at the Escort to Success office tomorrow at 11 a.m., not 10, and we will have to skip lunch.

Something else has appeared.

Call me on this number to confirm.”
“Okay, Brett,” she replied, clearly embarrassed.

I handed the phone back to Tammy.
“When Dawn calls back, please answer the phone, tell her I’m unwell, and take the message.

This will really liven up tomorrow in my office.”
“Okay, joker,” she laughed.

She did as she was asked when her phone buzzed a few minutes later, making sure to answer in her most seductive voice.

After she ended the call, we were both laughing so hard that we barely finished our appetizers by the time the main course arrived.

Now that everything was cleared up, we had a very fun and interesting conversation.

It was truly the first non-work-related extended time I’d spent with a woman since my divorce, and the first social situation since my divorce in which I wasn’t nervous.

As the evening went on, I noticed more and more, because I now knew this was not a business meeting, how attractive Tammy was.

Not her real name.

Her name was Susan.

She was also charming.

I was charming, too.

The circumstances were so unique that the anxiety I had felt earlier that evening disappeared, at least for that night.

When we had been in the restaurant for two hours, since I was without a phone and did not know the number of the limousine driver, I went outside and told him to park within sight of the restaurant and wait for us to get out.

The two crisp $100 bills I gave him elicited a broad smile and an answer, “Yes, sir.”
Susan and I essentially closed the restaurant.

The staff wasn’t upset, given the tip I left.

As we were leaving, she grabbed my hand, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “It was the best time I’ve had in a long, long time.”
There were tears in her eyes.
“It was also my best time in a long time, Susan.

But why the tears?”
“Even though I’m a call girl, you treated me like an equal, like a date you wanted to impress,” she sighed.
“Why would I treat you as anything other than an equal?

I’m sure I’m better than you at some things, and you’re better than me at others, which makes us equal,” I replied.

Susan smiled widely, kissed my cheek again, and then said, “I would offer you a free service, but the nanny requires me to be back by midnight.”
As I looked into Susan’s captivating eyes, saw the devilish smile on her lips, and then continued my gaze down to her impressive breasts, I confirmed that for the first time since my divorce, I felt sexually attracted to someone.

This inspired my answer.
“If the nanny gets another $200, can she stay the night?”
Susan smiled, took out her phone, and called.
“Cheryl, something has come up.

If I pay you another $200, can you stay the night?

Yes, I’m serious.

Great.

Call your mom.

If you don’t call back, I’ll assume you can.

I’ll be home…”
And then she looked at me.
“What time tomorrow will I be home?”
“At 10,” I answered.

Susan smiled.
“10,” she said. “About tomorrow morning, tell Mrs.

Johnson, who lives next door, to come early so you can get home and get to school.

Tell her there’s extra money for her, too.”
Susan continued, then looked into my eyes.

I raised two fingers.
“Another $200 for her, too,” she continued.

And then, after chatting a little more, she broke off the conversation.
“Let’s go,” she grinned, putting the phone in her purse. “I haven’t provided free services for many years, but I can’t wait to please you.”
“My rules,” I smiled devilishly. “I’m taking my time with you, and I intend to do everything possible so that you never forget this night.”
On the way back to the hotel, we took off in the limousine.

The driver was happy with another $100 bill I gave him.

When we got to my room, we undressed in the hallway in record time, and I carried her to the four-poster bed in the bedroom.

The three rounds I had from midnight to eight the next morning left me more serene than any other sexual experience I’ve ever had in my life, including my ex-wife, who I actually once loved.

Not only was Susan a goddess when it came to her looks, but she did things to me that I never thought were possible.

Despite the fatigue, because we slept very little, the next morning we were both cheerful.

We ordered breakfast to our room and showered together before it arrived.

The wide-eyed waitress was delighted by the $20 in cash I gave her.

In the morning light, Susan, wet-haired and without makeup, looked even better than the night before.

We laughed and kissed and touched each other between bites of breakfast.

As soon as we got dressed to get her to the apartment by 10:00 a.m., I saw the light.
“Susan, is there any hope for a real relationship with you?” I asked seriously.

At first, I think Susan thought I was pulling her chain, but as we rode in the limousine to her house, she realized that I was serious.
“Why would you ask this question to a call girl who is four years older than you and who has six- and seven-year-old daughters?

I mean, I know I’m great in bed, but be serious, dude.”
“Listen,” I replied. “In the 14 hours we were together, I learned more about you than most people do in months, and I really like what I learned.

I only care about the future, not the past, and you made me feel more alive than I ever have in my life, even after making billions of dollars in business deals.”
She looked at me strangely.
“I have a plan.

I haven’t thought about it for long, but enough to complete the first part.

How much are your expenses per month?”
Susan was stunned, but not so stunned that she couldn’t respond.
“About $6,500.”
“Okay, how about we take a month’s sabbatical?

I’ll write you a check for $113,000 right now, which is double your expenses.

During this month, I will meet your children, we will date, you can visit me in Chicago, and we will see if we are right for each other.

This can be with or without sex. $113,000 is not for sex, but so that you can take a sabbatical without harm.

What do you say?”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked.
“As serious as a heart attack,” I replied. “Come on, a month.

What do you have to lose?”
She thought for a few more minutes, took her phone out of her purse, and pressed the speed dial button.
“Hey, Bea, this is Tammy.

Can you ask someone to relieve me this week and not assign me for 31 days?

I need to take a sabbatical.

I don’t care what Simone says.

I have other job opportunities.

She knows that very well.

Okay, just call me back and confirm before noon.

Bye.”
As soon as she ended the call, I took my checkbook out of my jacket pocket.
“You know, I don’t even know your last name,” I chuckled, running my pen over it.
“Susan Collins,” she smiled.

I wrote out a check and handed it to her.

She stared at it as if she wasn’t sure it was real.

At that moment, we arrived at the address she gave to the driver.

I pulled out $400 in cash from my money clip and handed it to her as well.
“This is for Nanny and Mrs.

Johnson,” I smiled.

She quickly kissed me on the lips and, about to leave