My Oldest Friend Is Gone…

Brandon has been in car accidents since he was, like, 8, so of course he was just in the hospital. Maybe he was hurt really bad and in intensive care. Maybe he had broken some bones. Of course he was alright. But the very last words I expected to hear were the words my cousin said:

They couldn’t save him.

My mind reeled. What was she saying? White hot anger flares my nostrils. I was royally pissed that she had the nerve to tell me this. That my baby brother, my oldest friend, my longest confidant… 

my brother is dead.

A five-year old little girl fell in love on July 17, 1986. I held that ten pound baby in my tiny arms, and I knew my life had changed. My mom was OUR mom; our house now OUR house, and I would never be an only child again. I regret to say that my five-year old self was mistaken in that regard. Brandon was always the cautious one, whereas I laughed in danger’s face and taunted Death at every turn. Extroverted and social, the opposite of ny intervert shyness. But ever cautious and ever making the right move with regards to his future. College-educated and a black belt instuctor of tae-kwon-do, the kid was fucking tenacious. Whatever he set his mind to do got done.

He was also my biggest fan.

We would sneak Mom’s cigarettes and camp out in the basement, him on the edge of the washer, me perched on the dryer, and I would dramtically lament about my one-true-love-of-the-week, with Brandon glued to every word and dispensing 10-year-old brothely advice. He was my cheering section at chess tournaments, my dance partner during Paula Abdul’s “Opposites Attract,” and the only one to tell me that as a sixteen year old gangly teenager, I was pretty. 

During my teenage depression, I put a sign on the door that served to protect him, because I designed it that way. One side had my childhood nickname written in brightly-colored bubble letters, surrounded by rainbows and stars. The other displayed my true first name, heavily etched with black marker, with looming thunderclouds. I did this because I needed him to always know what mood I was in, so that I wouldn’t accidently hurt him emotionally if he came through the door at the wrong time. I would not have been able to live with myself, because he was the truest friend a girl could have.

He was my brother.

He was the kid sneakily fed dishsoap to; the kid who would punch me in the back of the knees to get me out of my double-jointed “horse” stance. My tiny protector with his tiny fists standing up to my molesters, and my nightmare of tiny fists when I would tell him he couldn’t watch tv while doing his homework. 

He would spend an hour playng with his toys in the bathroom, then rub soap on his arm for Mom to sniff to prove he bathed.

He guided my seventeen year-old self through a suicide attempt and guided me to my friend’s house.

My baby brother, the other half of soul, is gone.

And I will never, ever, be the same.

Tha Crossroads

QOTD: What’s One Skeleton In Your Closet?

Ugh, this is a scary question:

What am I willing to divulge about myself that could possibly cause me to be ridiculed or ostracized? How much power do I give my naughty nerds and potential clients over my emotional state? A secret that only my closest friends know and could affect my career aspirations of international companionship: do I trust that to my readers?

Here goes. I want to tell you about my gender:

I am not female.

Well, not fully female, and were speaking only of my gender, not biological sex.

“What’s the difference!?”

(Yes, I can hear your mind somersaulting all the way here in Boise.)

So biological sex is made up of chromosomes, certain body parts we were born with, and the hormones secreted by our brains in reaction to the existence of those body parts. So a biological male generally has XY chromosomes, a penis and scrotum, and produces testosterone.

I am biologically a female, just in case any transphobes were considering booking my serv… wait, if you are transphobic, you need to delete my number now! Hate and I do not mingle at all.

Anyway, so yes, I was born with (as far as I know), XX chomosomes, (definitely) a vagina, and estrogen has caused the development of my gorgeous DD breasts. (Shameless self promotion.)

But gender? Now that is a purely social construct that dictates certain roles, rights, rules, and responsibilites based on those body parts we randomly were assigned in utero. So based on that definition and what has generally be considered “male” thought patterns, behaviors, and emotional reactions, I have the brain of a dude.

Girl body + Boy brain =


I’ve known since I was 8 that there was something different about me: that I didn’t fit in or “get” the other girls. I have even explored the option of not being female at all, and transitioned to living as a man for several years. Yeah, I even rocked a beard.

However, I never had surgery, and the more I really considered it, the less I wanted it.

You see, I am a sensual, touch-based person, and a surgery such as a double mastectomy would decrease the sensation I receive through my then non-existent gorgeous DD breasts. I would lose one aspect of my ability to explore the world through touch, one of the first ways babies learn.

I wasn’t ready to give that up. I’m not now. I don’t know if I ever will be.

So how do I live with dysphoria? (That’s the name of the uneasiness that transgender persons feel about living in “the wrong body.”)

Easy. I channel all of that discomfort into my gorgeous DD breasts and by becoming one of the world’s greatest courtesans.

Seems legit.

Hello World, I’m Home

After two years in absence, I have decided to dust off my powder-box and don the proverbial kimono of the geisha once more.  What drew me back to the shadowy grey space within a world of black-and-white rules?


Oh, Jaime, what does a whore know about love?

A lot, in fact. I am a Libra and a relationship anarchist (RA). Contrary to how it may sound, RAs care very much about love, to the point where we do not (cannot?) place one type of relationship above any others. For instance, my roommate (and best friend) is on the same level of importance to me as my lovers, who are also just as equally important as clients. Just because we might happen to sleep together doesn’t put them above him.  

When asked which lover was my favorite, I replied “All three of them. Each one brings something fresh and exciting to my life.” And so it goes with my friendships and and my clients.  I fall a little bit in love with every single person I deem important enough to allow into my life, and sex is not a determining factor of hierarchy.

I also came back because I love myself.  I realized that I missed the interaction between myself and clients: the initial meeting; the getting to know a little about you; the building of a relationship, even if it is temporary.  That’s the sociologist in me, I guess. 

Oh yeah, while I was away, I went to college and discovered the name of my passion (this deep-seated interest in how humans interact with one another) is sociology.  I can see becoming a social worker or social scientist but right now I’m in my prime: mid-thirties, confident in my skills, and feeling sexy. 

So I’m going to live it. And love.

She Sleeps With Terror

Why is escorting easier than putting together a program that makes people’s lives easier and more fulfilling,?

Fear of expectations.


When I’m entertaining gentlemen, I’m in my element: I’m a natural-born hostess. I love making people feel welcome and comfortable and like my day only began the moment I entered in their presence. That’s why I got into escorting in the first place, and why becoming a geisha seems like such a perfect fit.  But now I’m branching out into healthcare as a stress wellness consultant and relaxation therapist, and building an entire brand around holistic wellbeing, and suddenly a hospitality degree from Cornell doesn’t look quite so impressive . I trained and worked as a medical assistant, nursing assistant, and home health aid, but those pale in comparison to the letters MD or PHD behind your name.   Hell, I don’t even have a holistic diploma from Eat Your Veggies U! How am I supposed to get funding and, more importantly, clients, if I look like I don’t know what I’m doing? Because I personally wouldn’t take advice from some hooker wanna-be health care provider.

The other thing that scares me about starting a “legit” business:  I’m not ready to retire. I actually love being a gentleman’s entertainer: it’s something I’ve wanted to for a good portion my life. Meeting new people and  helping them  to unwind from their stress is a passion, and I don’t want to give that up. I’m also an advocate and activist for sex work: to promote personal choice when it comes to one’s intimate’s life, and I’d feel like, I don’t know, kind of a hypocrite if I ran from intimate work (and my own bliss) at the first chance. Besides, how then would I continue my geisha training?

So how do I ease my own personal stress regarding starting a healthcare business, and also keep being an escort? I’m going to take Azeem Azhar of Brandwatch: Think big, start small, act fast. So i have this huge idea that I’m going to hold onto while I market and continue my geisha dates, and use them to fund my training as a therapist.

Seems legit.

Hello World – Where Am I Going?

So I’ve just spent the last three days locking in a hotel room with barely any sleep brainstorming the re-branding of my business.  I’m exhausted, my body aches, I forgot to eat several times, and I’m pretty sure I hallucinated at some point, but I think I’ve figured it out. I think I where my business and I are going:

From escort to geisha.

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