I meet my madam for the first time at a vegan restaurant in New York's East Village. Heather, a friend who has worked for her for more than a year, is the connection. She has told the madam that I am researching a story about the history of prostitution in New York City. And that is true--but my involvement in the subject matter seems to be getting more complicated by the day. I can feel myself getting drawn deeper and deeper into Heather's world.
Is that a bad thing? I look at Heather, a 28-year-old who has a coveted job in fashion media, in her slinky black dress and silver Cartier bracelet. She looks happy, confident, prosperous. The madam does too. She is in her mid-thirties, tall and lanky. She's wearing black leggings and motorcycle boots and has a vintage Gucci purse looped over her arm. If we met at a party I would peg her as an affluent Ivy League-educated scenester with a media job--and I'd be right. When she isn't hooking up hot young professional women with lonely (or just horny) rich guys, she works as a consultant for a major news organization. And that MBA from a university whose very name makes peoples' hearts beat a little bit faster no doubt comes in handy when trying to determine the maximum hourly market value of a romp in the sack.
-Or-
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