If you practice dentistry or orthodontics in the Greater Toronto Area, you want to become friends with Dr. Andrew.
I actually love seeing Dr. Andrew because his parties are a genuine departure from the typical call: a lonely businessman who hasn’t fucked his wife since before Harper was Prime Minister and is absolutely silent during all sex acts, who will return to working on his lame PowerPoint presentation about how to sell 7% more tractors this quarter the moment after he asks you to leave. Let no one accuse me of glamourizing prostitution; it’s 3% champagne and caviar and 97% screwing bored farm equipment salesmen who never went to college, but will always make at least $50,000 more than you ever will.
As one of the drivers said to me recently, it’s important to get out in the real world, and prostitution is about “as real as it gets.” Services and money are exchanged as frankly as possible. There were a lot of elements about this I adopted almost alarmingly easily. The pseudo-monogamy, the sex with repulsive people, the long hours. Something that became all the more difficult to accept, likely in light of how I took everything else in stride, was the absolute absence of pleasure some men display when it comes to sex. They fuck like I get a pedicure. It’s just maintenance. They are not there to enjoy themselves or to meet a skilled courtesan like myself. They are there to masturbate and are too lazy to wash their hands, so to speak. Men screw out of boredom or desperation more than craving or amorousness.
In retrospect, I’m not really sure why this fact upset and surprised me so much. Maybe because I didn’t have sex with men in college. Maybe I didn’t know as much about men as I thought I did. Maybe because I’m the kind of person who has to specifically want sex in order to have it. Or I used to be anyway.
So I liked seeing Dr. Andrew. He was different. Dr. Andrew likes to have sex with me because he genuinely likes it. Honestly, if you had told me a year ago that I would be relived to finally have a client who had sex with me only because he liked it, I would have been shocked. Mostly shocked that I’d ended up a hooker, but shocked nonetheless.
The agency got in touch with me earlier in the day. They told me it was one of Dr. Andrew’s parties. “He has these crazy parties for him and his clients. They get some booze, some pot and some girls.” I was into the job only a few months and I was surprised I hadn’t seen more of the orgy variety of clients. I assumed it would be something out of Ancient Rome by the way Adele made it out to be. My driver was picking me up to go the Royal York at 6 pm. Speaking of the Royal York, let’s take some time for our Toronto Sex Tourism Minute.
I’m here to discuss the glamorous world of sex tourism in Hogtown. We know you have a choice of hookers, thanks for choosing Bianca.
If you’re travelling to Toronto and you have any say in your hotel arrangements, go downtown. Lester B. Pearson was a Canadian hero who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1957. In Toronto, we have honoured his memory by building one of the most depressing airports in the world and naming it after him.
The airport area is a desolate wasteland of crissing and crossing Dr. Seuss-esque freeways. There are quite a few convention centres out there, and if you’re there for one night, cheap out and watch porn. Most escorts are more concerned with your discretion than their own. Indeed, the two are inextricably linked. Would you put on your best stilettos and tight, short dress, only to walk into the Holiday Inn Express in a parking lot behind the terminal at 1 am? Truly, nothing screams “PROSTITUTE!!!” louder.
Toronto’s a great city. There’s a ton to do and the hotels are pretty good in terms of cost. And, wonder of wonders, prostitution is legal here! I can walk right up to a Toronto cop and say I’m a prostitute and will knowingly have sex for money, and he can’t bother me (as long as I’m not protesting at the G20). It’s all but Amsterdam up in here, just a few short hours north of the border! Think how many American politicians might still have their jobs if they’d be born in the socialist utopia some parallels of latitude northward?
If you’re travelling and seeing an escort is high on your list of Toronto tourist to-dos, try to go budget on the hotel side. The Radisson on Yonge has never given me any trouble or the Hotel at 1 King West. The Sheraton Centre on Richmond is ideal for escorts as the elevators are in front of the reception desk, no brisk whiz past the receptionists! The Grand on Jarvis, looks nice, but it’s not. The Royal York is way too big to give escorts any hassle as with the Weston by the lake, but it doesn’t have mini bars in the room.
The Hazelton. Oh the Hazelton. Toronto’s only five star. In service, in décor and discretion.
The trendier hotels on Queen West, like the Drake and the Gladstone are pretty good and on the cheaper side. The only problem with the Gladstone is that it retains its 100+ year old elevator which needs an attendant, so if you’re on the fourth floor, save your escapades for the next time you’re in town.
My favourite hotel is a two-way tie between The Thompson on Wellington St. and Le Germain on Mercer St. Both are fun ad funky and hip with great lobby bars. The Thompson has a key-operated elevator though, so be prepared to come get your lady if you’re staying there.
The only places that give you hassle? The King Edward on King St. They’re very judgemental and unnecessarily snooty. And my boyfriend Conor and I had the worst salmon steak there once when we couldn’t find a restaurant on Saturday night. Any budget hotel near the airport or Yorkdale mall, or really anywhere outside of downtown will hassle your escort, they’re usually in dodgy areas and trying to prevent theft. Here’s a tip in general, though: don’t stay in a hotel in a dodgy area.
Anyway, back to Dr. Andrew at the Royal York.
When I stepped out of the old elevator in the former railway hotel, I walked through the somewhat labyrinthine upper floors of the place. I found the room with little error, but when I got there, Andrea, another girl from the agency was standing outside. I had never met Andrea. I usually only met other girls when the drivers had to take more than one of us to our calls. Usually, I would only meet one other girl in the car, but sometimes, on busy Thursday and Saturday nights there would be three of us there.
“Are you here for Dr. Andrew’s party?” Andrea asked.
“Yes, are you’re here, too? I’m Bianca, by the way.”
“I’m Andrea. Yeah, do you know how these usually go?”
“Not really, this is my first, um, Dr. Andrew party.”
“Okay, well, it’s him and his business partner, Dr. Richard. They’ll probably have two clients. One of the clients will pick you and the other one will pick me.”
Something about the way she turned us into commodities made me a little queasy. I have few remaining illusions, but the implicit nature of being “chosen” didn’t quite sit right.
Two tall men came running down the corridor smiling at us.
“Are you guys Andrea and Bianca?” The one with glasses asked. Andrea confirmed that it was. They led us into the suite.
Two men, the clients, I assumed, were there. The men who had let us in introduced themselves as Dr. Andrew and Dr. Richard. I instantly noticed how attractive Dr. Richard was, but also noticed that Dr. Andrew was more interested in me. Richard reached for the bottle chilling in a bucket on the credenza in the suite. Dr. Andrew took a seat on the sofa, close to me and took the Ziploc full of pot out his jacket pocket.
“I’m Bianca,” I offered after a few moments of silence. The two clients looked nervously at each other, “I’m… Paul” said one, and “I’m… Matthew.” Said the other, both lying
“Sorry we were late,” Andrew said, “We were grabbing massages in the spa. Actually, these guys were just going to head down and get some yourselves, weren’t you?” Andrew said, expertly rolling a joint while looking at the clients.
The two men hurriedly got up and said their goodbyes to us before leaving the room. Dr. Andrew offered the joint to both of us first.
Some clients love to get girls in trouble. They’ll offer the escort drugs and report the agency that she got high whether she took them or not. I usually hedge my bets and don’t partake, even though I would like to most of the time. Having sex with strangers is a lot easier when you’re high. Both Andrea and myself declined. The only drug we did imbibe was of course the alcohol. Having sex with strangers is slightly easier with booze.
It was clear that the two men had made their choices. They explained that we were the second set of girls to arrive that night, and Matthew and Paul had had their party while they were getting the massages. Richard took Andrea by the hand and led her to adjoining suite and left me alone with Dr. Andrew.
He was gentle and sweet. He genuinely enjoyed himself, and it was one of the few calls that I enjoyed during those early days on the job.
I got into this for a lot of reasons. The $400 Dr. Andrew gave me on the way out was not the least of those. I excelled at the job and enjoyed it more when I realized I was making people happy. I loved making men happy. I loved making myself happy even more. I was doing both and in the many justifications I had to make to myself every time I would kiss Conor goodbye and head out for the night, I clung to that one the most tightly.
When we were finished, Dr. Andrew explained that he owned several dental suites across Toronto and the area. He would bring other dentists on and impress them with these parties. I said he must be a good partner to work with. He talked about his wife and his kids and I held up my end of the conversation enthusiastically. I like to hear about wives and kids. Most men love to talk about their kids (or grandkids). I’ve always been a better listener than talker.
Andrea and I met in the marble lobby of the Royal York an hour later. She led me outside for a cigarette while we waited for our drivers. I told her how great Dr. Andrew was and how much he enjoyed himself. I was thankful that my faith in men had been temporarily restored.
Andrea’s face took on a pained expression. “Dr. Richard is, uh, endowed.” She said, somewhat apropos of nothing.
“Oooh, lucky girl!”
“Mmm, kind of. Not really actually.”
“Wait, this guy’s name is Richard, and he’s packing a monster in those trousers?” I asked as her driver pulled up, “well, he needs a new name then.”
“What?” Andrea asked, sliding into the car.
“Doctor Dick!” I yelled as she closed the door and sped away, laughing hysterically.