The sun warms my forehead as Julia and I sit outside on the terrace of an exclusive restaurant. A glass of chardonnay sits beside her as she leans back in her chair, lifting her inviting face to the sun. Squinting, I glance at the menu—slow-roasted pork belly with carrots, colcannon puree, and cranberry honey glaze. I smile, content. This is a far cry from the kinds of meals I was served when I lived with my biological rolls stained with white mold, the prayer; I was given tomato soup and crackers. The meat was considered “extravagant,” every night, I slept with my stomach Escorts girls under the covers. As soon as I entered the opulent and luxurious Chelsea, I was struck by the food, its divine presentation, and the care with which it was prepared. I quickly learned which restaurants were considered classy and which dishes made me look instantly chic. This came in handy when customers took me to restaurants; I could order quickly without dealing with foreign languages and strange combinations of dishes. I could almost pass for a lady with these tools at my disposal.
Escorts Girls, I look up from the menu
And bite my lip. Still undecided. The duck accompaniment is served with pomegranate and red cabbage salad. The Escorts girls. What are you ordering?” Julia slowly turned disdainfully to look at me as if I were a child clinging to her mother’s arm. Escorts girls live on wine, olives, and cereal bars. No wonder her figure is so slim. It’s cool to be so thin. It seems unnatural to me. I look at my generous breasts and decide to order a beef jerky. “I always tell you, Jules. You need to eat real food.” The Escorts girls look at me and take a long time to sip their wine. “And why do you have to keep saying, you said my mother was an Escorts on the catwalk, it was unacceptable to be fat, curvy, or even be at home. “I just don’t have the appetite of a big woman,” she says, then sees me call the waiter over and order steak and fries.
