My name is Scarlet Angel. I am a whore.

You won’t find me on a street corner after dark in a miniskirt and stiletto-heeled boots—I’m not that kind of whore. You won’t find my phone number scrawled on the wall of some nightclub. I’m not even listed in the directory or on the Internet.

I’m not that kind of whore either.

You’ll have to know somebody who knows somebody to hear of me and even then it’s doubtful you’ll get an appointment to meet me.

I’m in demand, you see. I’m at the top of my game. There aren’t many women who can say that and know that it’s true. I’m one of them.

I was born Angel Jones. Now I’m Scarlet Angel. And I am a whore.

I speak two languages fluently and can converse comfortably in a third. I read the newspapers every day, visit my exclusive spa twice a week and have a standing appointment with a top hairdresser whenever I need it.

My shoes are designed for me by a Fifth Avenue artist specializing in leather, my clothes—well, let’s just say they aren’t off the rack at Macy’s. I have a personal trainer, a car and driver available to me when I need them and a life that includes fine wines, excellent meals and plenty of financial security.

And sex. Lots of sex.

Because, as I mentioned earlier, I am a whore. And I like being who I am.

I’ve always liked sex. The first fumbling attempts when I was a teenager didn’t do much for me, but a couple of years, a couple of better lovers and I was well on my way to appreciating the pleasures and nuances of humankind’s most basic activity—fucking.

From that point on, becoming a whore was a combination of chances and choices. There were no traumatic childhood events driving me down the path to sin, no shattered dreams or tragic love affairs. I fucked when I felt like it and said no when I didn’t.

College simply fed my interest in learning along with offering me an additional glimpse into the expanding world of sex—experimentation with a variety of new ways to fuck, a brief dabble with chemical stimulants, the intricacies of bondage and domination—I was building a portfolio of erotic techniques along with my GPA, even though I didn’t realize it at the time.

My family assumed I would walk the path of tradition. A nice job, marriage and a family. Sometime not long after graduation, the truth finally dawned on me. I did not want tradition.

I did not want a family, children, a mortgage, a house or a husband. In that or any order.

I wanted sex and I wanted to make plenty of money. I wanted to live a life that would fulfill my potential and utilize my talents. I wanted to see new places, explore worlds that I’d only read about up to that point.

No, I definitely wasn’t planning on taking the traditional path to anywhere. I realized that I wanted to be a whore.

And I am.

One of the best, the most exclusive, the most highly sought after whores you’ll find anywhere. An escort, if you prefer, a courtesan or a call-girl—it’s only semantics. Only words. A companion for the evening or the whole night. A woman who will arrive at the theater on your arm, converse with your associates, chat with your clients and then fuck you in any way you desire, in whatever way that brings you the pleasure you seek.

I choose to call myself whore. It is, after all, what I am. A member of the world’s oldest profession. A profession I enjoy.

And now the phone is ringing. That special scarlet cell phone that only rings when a client is ready to make an appointment. The call is routed from elsewhere, a complicated technological process that’s beyond me and, frankly, of little interest. It’s enough that it secures my privacy and guarantees me the freedom to maintain my apartment without interference from my business affairs.

To the other residents of this quiet condo in an exclusive area of town, I’m a businesswoman who travels a lot. We nod in passing on the rare occasions I see any of my neighbors in the elevator.

Hank, the doorman, accepts my mail and keeps it for me until I collect it. Trudy, my maid, looks after my apartment with tender, thorough discretion for which she is extremely well recompensed.

Everything, including silence, has a price.

I have a price. It’s high. I doubt you could meet it.

But whoever is calling on my scarlet phone can cover the cost. He’s already been vetted, checked and had his financial situation closely scrutinized. Government agencies would probably wish they could be as thorough as the people I work for.

I must go. He’ll be getting anxious, although I like to let the phone ring a few times before answering it. It excites me, knowing there’s a man out there holding a telephone, maybe sweating a little—perhaps with an erection pushing against his fly—waiting like that simply to hear my voice.

He’ll get his wish. He will pay for his pleasures. The bill will be high, but in return he gets me.

My name is Scarlet Angel. And I am a whore.