When I lived in Los Angeles, one of my best friends was a 30ish-year-old woman named Diana. Diana was a lesbian (of the Portia DeRossi variety, not the Rosie O-Donnell or Indigo Girls varieties), but she owned a gay male escort agency.
We didn’t talk about her job often. Sometimes when we were in a bar, she would occasionally poke me on the cheek and tell me that she could make a lot of money from me, if I would let her (you can’t tell now, but I was young and thin and cute back then). And I was always telling her that I was going to steal one of her boys — I had a huge crush on one of her escorts; a tall, dark floppy haired boy named Travis. But that was it usually. Diana and I saw movies and had dinner together, we went on hikes and out dancing together. We didn’t talk about her “job.”
One day, Diana and I were leaving The Abbey. We were in my car and I had just turned the motor on when an exceptionally hot older man with two exceptionally hot guys my age walked in front of the car. They looked in and all stopped walking, then walked really slowly past my windshield, staring at us the whole time. Diana burst into laughter.
“That’s Dominic,” she said. “He owns Rent Boys. He’s trying to figure out if you’re working for me, he’s scoping out his competition.”
I was flattered but thought that was ridiculous. I may have been young and thin and cute back then, but certainly not so much so to be a West Hollywood escort (unless you’re talking about the Santa Monica Boulevard homeless escorts — I suppose I could have given them a run for the money).
Another day, Diana and I were in The Beverly Center. I mentioned that I needed a new pair of jeans. “Follow me,” she said. Diana walked me into a department store called The Broadway and into the women’s section.
“Here’s a secret tip,” she said. “Buy women’s jeans and your legs will look thinner, your butt will stick out, and your basket will look huge. I make all of my boys buy women’s jeans.”
Reluctantly, I tried them on. Diana was right.