COPS AND ROBBERS

Prostitution gives her a chance to meet people. It provides fresh air and wholesome exercise and it keeps her out of trouble.
- Joseph Heller
Catch-22, 1961

No one could understand how I kept working without being arrested. My picture had been in the paper often enough - in connection with the task force, in connection with the AIDS study - that everyone in town knew who I was. Certainly, the fellows on the vice squad knew me on sight; I, in turn, had seen vice cops testify at prostitutes' trials and knew most of them on sight.
One vice cop, a guy named Ernie Hughie, called me so often that I began to recognize his voice. Ernie's quest was to get me to testify against one of my agents. This had been going on all the way back to Sarah.
"Agents are just pimps," he said. "She's ripping you off, taking your money. She's just using you."
Ernie was the kind of guy who just couldn't take no for an answer. Every six months or so I would get a call from him, and the calls didn't stop when I was on the Mayor's Task Force on Prostitution.
Jimmy Webb, the Fulton County solicitor, and Daryl Adams, special agent in charge of Metro Drug and Vice, came to a meeting of the task force one day in early March. I didn't want to aggravate any hostilities, so I didn't ask any questions. But the others asked plenty. The task force wanted to know how they decided to concentrate on vice in Atlanta. Did they respond to citizen complaints? No, they said, they had never received a complaint. Why, then, someone wanted to know, did they arrest prostitutes?
Web and Adams said: "Because prostitution is against the law." Adams seemed a little resentful that citizens were asking questions about how Drug and Vice did their job.
Before they left I thanked them for taking the time to come.

On March 27, 1985, I was called to go to the Piedmont Inn to see a dentist from Florida. I was late starting out for the appointment because I had been talking on the phone with an old friend, Rosemary Daniell, the author of Fatal Flowers. She called to check on me, because she had seen me on the news lately. The first words out of her mouth were, "Have you been arrested yet?"
"Not yet, but I think soon." I had reserved a rental car that day - the first time I had taken that precaution - because I had a hunch that I was going to be busted soon, and I wanted to be driving a rental car when it happened. I didn't want to go through the bother of having my own car impounded. I can't say that I knew for sure the police were closing in that night, but I felt they were going to pretty soon.
But with the call from Rosemary, I was way behind schedule. The dentist from Florida sounded ordinary enough for me not to worry about him, and I went to the appointment in my own car. I figured I'd have plenty of time to pick up the rental car after I finished with the dentist.
I got to his hotel room and everything looked OK. I said, "I understand you're a dentist," and with that I launched into a description of a concept I had, a sort of frontiers-of-dentistry idea. "You know it used to be that women only got their nails done twice in their lives, when they went to the senior prom and when they got married, but now middle-class women think nothing of getting their nails done once a week, and I see no reason why dentistry can't go the same direction.," I said, and then continued, "So I think dentists need to polarize dentistry the same way nail clinics have popularized the idea of getting your nails done, by making their offices more attractive, making them easier to get into, sort of walk-in places, with soft lighting and posh decor, and people could have a standing monthly appointment to get their teeth cleaned, and while there they could get a facial and maybe a massage, and maybe even their legs waxed, make it a total-care kind of place."
I went on in this vein for about five minutes. I was really interested in this idea and had been wanting to talk to a dentist about it. I was about up to a sideline in breast implants and eyelid lifts when there was a knock at the door.
And another woman came in.
She had a fit when she saw me. She really came in swinging: "We had a deal on the phone," she said to the dentist. "A hundred and fifty-seven dollars and you never told me there was going to be someone else here."
I was pissed at him too. It was true I had been late, but I didn't like his attitude. Plus, I had been there for a while, and he had never even mentioned calling another agency.
I decided there had to be something really wrong with this guy. I said, "Just give me a cancellation fee, and I'll leave."
"I don't have any more money," he said.
"That's fine, we can put it on a credit card."
"I didn't bring any credit cards."
"You say you're in town for a dentists' convention, and now you're saying you don't have a credit card? You're lying. You haven't been honorable with either of us. I know I was late, but you could have called my agent to find out why. Besides, you didn't make a point of the time. And once you made an appointment with somebody else, don't you think you should have called my agent and canceled?"
Now the guy was playing dumb. Or at least I thought he was playing dumb. That's before I found out what he was really up to.
The other woman was still being pissy about it while I was reading him the riot act. So I picked up my bag and said to her, "Time is money, so I'm leaving. I think you ought to leave too. There's something seriously wrong with this man. Anybody who can pull what he pulled will do anything. If you decide to stay here, be careful, because this man is not honorable."
It didn't occur to me that he was a cop. I thought he was just a misogynistic asshole. One of the great things about being a prostitute is that, if I decide someone is being an asshole, or unpleasant or disrespectful, I don't have to put up with it. So I was feeling pretty pleased with myself when I walked out of the hotel and down the breezeway.
I was halfway to my car when two vice cops, walking stiff and trying to be cool, like second-rate Blues Brothers, came toward me and then pivoted, so that they had me surrounded: one was on one side, one on the other. I knew they were Bailey and Bartlett. I also figured I was safe. I hadn't done anything up stairs. I hadn't even discussed modeling with the dentist. I wasn't guilty of anything and I knew it; I figured they knew it too.
They asked me where I was going. (There was that question again.) I said, "To my car." They asked if I had seen the man in room 331.
"Well, not in the biblical sense," I said.
"OK," Bartlett said, "we'd like to see some ID."
I laughed and said, "Sure, I'd like to see yours too, Dave."
I handed my driver's license to Bartlett and said to his partner, "We've never been formally introduced, but I believe you're Jim Bailey." He acknowledged that he was.
I said, "I'm glad we're finally meeting face to face. I've heard good things about you." He leaned back just a little and got a wary look on his face, as if I was about to claim that he fixed parking tickets. I assured him, "I just heard that your testimony is usually good. You can be counted on to tell the truth in court. So what can I do for you fellows?"
They said they just wanted to ask me a few questions, and I said, "OK, fine, but I need to call my attorney first. You want to make an appointment to see him with me?"
"No," they said.
"Well then, got to go," I said. "I'm running late. If you need me, I'm sure you've got my number." "Wait," Jim said, hurrying now. He whipped out a card and read aloud, "You have the right to remain silent; anything you say will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you while you're being questioned. If you can't afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning. If you wish, you can decide at any time to exercise these rights and not answer any questions or make any statement. Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you?"
"Are you saying I'm under arrest?" I asked. They seemed to think I was under arrest, but they didn't know for what.

I had all but forgotten about the dentist until Jim Bailey and Dave Bartlett escorted me back up to room331. The other woman, Sylvia, was still there, and she had mascara running down her face. I felt sorry for her. Ray Collins, the field commander of Metro Drugs and Vice, joined us at that point. I was pretty sure he was the man who had said he was from Columbus, Ohio, the man I had walked out on a couple of years before. I had seen all these Metro Drug and Vice guys before: Collins, Bailey, Bartlett. . .and Ernie Hughie. I was kicking myself for not recognizing his voice and not recognizing him. He had shaved off his beard, it was true, but I still should have known what Ernie Hughie looked like.
Ernie, the man who had called me who knew how many times and tried to get me to turn against Sarah and other agents. Ernie was the dentist from Florida.
It was like This Is Your Life - all these people who had been intimately involved in my life for so many years. And now we were together in one room. Swell.
Ernie was already foaming at the mouth. It was "Aha, ha, ha - I got her." He had been going to law school in his spare time, but he had failed the bar exam. Ernie was a frustrated lawyer; no wonder the other cops were leaving it up to him to find something to charge me with.
I asked if I could use the phone to call Michael, and they said no. Then I asked if I could use the phone to call my lawyer, not mentioning that my lawyer and my boyfriend were one and the same. Jim said, "You'll get a chance to call your lawyer when you're taken to Fulton County Jail."
They had already told Sylvia that she was under arrest for prostitution. They had still not figured out what to charge me with. I had only been in the room for a few minutes. I had not negotiated a fee with the dentist; I had not even discussed modeling with him. I had discussed dental clinics.
From the moment they read me my Miranda rights, I did everything the way I was supposed to. I asked to call my lawyer and they said no. They asked me to answer questions and I told them I wanted my attorney present. There was nothing I could do to stop them.
"We need your car keys," Jim said.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You know I can't cooperate with you until I talk to my lawyer." (I knew that giving them my keys would be granting them permission to search and seize my car. I had no intention of doing that.)
"Dump out your bag," Ernie said.
"I can't do that either."
"Dump it out!"
Without saying a word, I leaned back in the chair and crossed my legs. What a little Nazi, I thought.
Things were just getting better and better. I knew they were violating my rights all over the place. I wasn't trying to trick them, but I was trying to protect myself - to ask for lawyers, not to volunteer anything - and they were getting themselves in deeper and deeper. They went into a huddle about what to do next. Keep in mind that I hadn't actually been charged with anything yet.
"I thought you couldn't do that," I said, as they went through the contents of my bag. I was glad there were so many witnesses in the room.
They found some car keys in the bag and threw them down to some agents below, who tried them on my car. No good.
"You must have some other car keys," Jim said.
"Could I call my attorney now?"
"No. Give us your car keys."
"Since you won't let me call my attorney, I have no one to advise me or explain the situation to me." They decided that my car keys must be in my pants pocket, but none of them wanted to take them from me. "Turn your pants pockets out," they said.
"I'm sorry," I said, "but I don't think I can do that."
That one really seemed to stump them, as though no one had ever refused to turn out his or her pants pockets before. Finally one of them worked up the nerve to touch my pants and slowly, inch by inch, to turn my pockets inside out without touching anything other than the cloth. The keys fell out onto the bed, and now these guys were really excited. The keys were thrown down to some officers below, and soon someone arrived at the door triumphantly carrying my big work bag.
Ernie seemed pretty pleased with this turn of events. Evidence! He dumped my bag out on the floor, to see if there was anything in it that he could charge me with. (Aha, I thought, cheering up. Another illegal search.) But when I saw all my clothes and equipment hit the floor, I was really upset. I had put everything into plastic bags, to keep it clean. I am fanatical about germs on my equipment, and here it was dumped on a hotel room floor. Ernie was down on his hands and knees on that filthy floor picking up my equipment with a towel, as if it was dirty, and I was thinking, I'll have to sterilize everything again.
Ernie was having a great time pawing through things, ripping open plastic bags, and holding things up like a kid who has never had a Christmas present. He announced each item - stockings! vibrator! earrings! dress! dildo! black shoes! pro-phy-lac-tics! - and Jim worte it down on a list. I turned to Jim, who seemed like a nice, decent guy, and said, "Isn't it embarrassing to work with a man like that?" indicating Ernie.
"Yes, sometimes it is," he said.
Ray Collins, who seemed to be heading things up, came back into the room and stepped over Ernie like a parent walking over a kid who is putting together a toy train. He asked the very question I had been asking: "What are you going to charge her with?"
Ernie said, "I think we can charge her with contraband," indicating the things in my bag. Ray sort of sighed and said, "You can't charge somebody with possession of contraband." Ernie looked disappointed, but not for long. He yelled to someone outside the room - there must have been eight cops involved in this whole thing -
"Go look up some laws. There must be something we can charge her with."
They must have ruffled a lot of pages in the municipal code book before they decided to charge me with "escorting without a license." They added "distribution of obscene materials" because of the dildo. And, at the last minute, someone suggested, "Go ahead and write her up for possession of marijuana and cocaine too." Those were always the popular, multifunctional state misdemeanor and felony charges. They might make a prosecutor think this was a serious offense, not something that would be thrown out of court because the charge was ridiculous ("escorting without a license").
Let me explain the bit about "distribution of obscene materials." In many places, if you are in possession of anything that has been declared obscene, from a girlie magazine to a dildo, you can be charged with distribution of obscene materials. Distribution in this sense meant "display." Display meant not only that it could be seen, but simply that it could be found. When laws like this are passed, citizens are told they will put racketeers and gangsters and child pornographers in jail. But the laws end up being used against the citizens themselves. It was apparently one of Ernie's favorite charges; he had been the cop who prosecuted Penthouse magazine in Georgia and tried to have them charged with the distribution of obscene materials for the Vanessa Williams pictures. (A case that he, incidentally, lost.)
A person is permitted under the First Amendment to possess obscene materials like books and magazines and videotapes [review], as long as they are for private use. So if I had been carrying girlie magazines, I would have been protected under First Amendment rights. But there is no First Amendment right to a dildo. Of course I had a right to privacy. It was legal to possess things like a dildo, but in Georgia a person couldn't sell a dildo or "distribute" one. I didn't think there was any chance that I could be convicted of "distributing" a dildo - which had been inside a suitcase locked in the trunk of a legally parked car - to a dentist was up in Room 331.

They took me in to the station to be "processed." There I called Michael and asked him to reach a bail bondsman. Then I called some friends and told them to strip my house. I knew what the police had done when they arrested Sarah. They had torn up the walls, the carpet, and even the floorboards of her house looking for things. It seemed to me that having the police search my house would be worse than the fire. So I asked my friends to get all my notes and journals and letters and literature, all my appointment books and address books, out of the house.
While destroying my house and everything in it would have been way out of line, considering the charges against me, the police had already conducted two illegal searches, made an illegal arrest, and illegally impounded my car. So I was convinced that neither the law nor my constitutional rights would stand in the way of their ripping my house apart.
The police knew that my arrest would make headlines. I was an official member of the Mayor's Task Force on Prostitution. My picture had been in the papers for weeks in connection with my work on the task force. So, from the moment I was arrested, I was not treated like a typical prostitute. And I found I had support in surprising places.
On arriving at the Fulton County Jail, the cops took me into one of those little conference booths, and soon police officers were filing in to talk to me: "Oh, I've seen you on TV. I sure am glad to meet you." One lieutenant confided, "I'll say one thing, you sure got guts. I admire you for that."
The matron who took my fingerprints and pictures, a nice black woman who reminded me of Conchata on Saint Thomas, said that, as far as she was concerned, I was a celebrity. She said, "I think what you're doing with these prostitutes' rights is the right thing. What you're saying is what every woman ought to know. There comes a time in every woman's life when she needs to know the things you're talking about." She loaned me some lipstick and a comb so I could look good for my mug shots, she let me see the pictures to make sure that I liked them, and she offered me a little jar of cream, so I could get the fingerprint ink off my hands. She said, "You try to get that off any other way, you'll just take the skin off your hands."
A clerk told me that an attorney and a bail bondsman had come for me. Bail was set at $6,500. I was out of jail before Ernie had finished processing the paperwork. They didn't search my house. All in all, it wasn't the worst experience of my life.

The day after I was arrested, I went to Michael's apartment. It was one of the few places in Atlanta where I could hide from everyone who wanted to interview me.
The Atlanta Constitution printed my picture with the headline "Prostitution Panel Member Arrested." Their story claimed I was charged with running an escort service as well as possessing cocaine and marijuana and distributing obscene material. My picture was on all the noon and evening news programs. I was the biggest criminal to hit Atlanta since Wayne Williams. But I was safe at Michael's apartment because almost everyone else in his building was a Vietnamese refugee. They had their own problems and didn't care about mine. The next morning Michael and I got busy choosing my attorney. While Michael is one of the best attorneys in town, he was also my boyfriend. Attorneys rarely represent their spouses or lovers, so, although Michael agreed to supervise my case, I needed another lawyer.
Everyone in town wanted to represent me, and why not? It was a case any competent lawyer was almost sure to win; it was a case guaranteed to get a lot of publicity. A number of important political people immediately came out and declared themselves on my side. Gale Mull, the chairperson of the task force, declared that he hoped I wouldn't be removed from my position. "I'd hate to see her position jeopardized," he said, and then went on to say how articulate and knowledgeable I was, and how valuable to the task force. Mayor Young had been contacted after the arrest, of course. He had been the one to appoint me to the task force. He was the mayor, a former congressman, a former ambassador to the UN, and an ordained minister. Anything he had to say about a prostitute would sell papers and raise ratings.
I watched him on the news, being pursued by reporters as he headed for his car. Was Dolores French going to be removed from the task force? someone asked. And Andy said, No, he wasn't going to remove me. "Why not?" the reporter persisted. Andy said, "What we need is some expert knowledge. Nobody else has come forward and admitted they have expert knowledge."
He stated the obvious, that I was innocent until proven guilty, and when someone pressed him for an opinion on my arrest he snapped, "She was just doing her job." It was hot copy.
Michael and I decided that Bruce Morris was the best defense lawyer in Atlanta, besides Michael, of course. Bruce made a motion to postpone my court appearance until he could familiarize himself with the case. The prosecutor agreed to the continuance and told the judge so in court. But the calendar had already been called, and a "failure to appear" warrant was issued for my arrest. At that point reporters ran out of the building to write their headline stories: "Dolores French, Fugitive."
The papers and the evening news blared the story about my being a fugitive from justice. It was a frightening experience for me to be lying in bed, thinking that I had handled everything pretty well, and then see a news bulletin flash on the screen with my picture and the word Fugitive.
I decided the only reasonable way to cope with all the journalists trying to interview me was to hold a press conference.
I looked forward to going to my own media event about as much as someone looks forward to a long and tedious dinner with a rich aunt whose hobby is cutting her in and out of her will. It wasn't as bad as being, say, electrocuted, but it wasn't they way I would have chosen to spend my time either. But it was important that I not disappear or give the appearance of retreating from my stand on prostitutes' rights. I figured that if I stood up and said, publicly, "I've been arrested, but so what? I'm still alive," some women out there wouldn't feel their lives were over because some person who'd flashed a badge had read them their Miranda rights.

Between arraignment and my hearing I saw clients. After all, I had to raise money to pay for all this. I wasn't too concerned about being arrested again because the vice squad either believed they had a solid case against me or didn't. If they realized what a bad arrest they'd made, they probably wouldn't want to stir up more publicity.
The "escorting without a license" case was heard in city court. The drug and distributing obscene materials charges were being tried separately, since they were misdemeanor and felony charges and were to be handled by the state. And, since the issue of illegal search was based on whether the city could get a conviction on their charges, the prosecutor, Christina Craddock, didn't want to proceed on the state charges until the city case was over.
Before the hearing could begin, we had to move to a larger courtroom because we had so many spectators. On April 11, 1985, Ernie Hughie, Dave Bartlett, and a guy from the city licensing bureau showed up in Municipal Court for the City of Atlanta.
Ernie originally stated that he had called an escort agency, "Adventurous Coeds"; that the agency had said they would send him an "escort"; and that I had introduced myself as his "date." After my lawyers "refreshed" Ernie's memory with the tape I had made when he called me and scheduled the appointment, Ernie admitted that my agent and I had described me as a model and not as an escort or date.
Then Bruce Morrise questioned Ernie closely on why Dave Bartlett and Jim Bailey had arrested me when I left the hotel room. I had only been there ten minutes. Was there a signal Ernie was supposed to use, to indicate that something illegal had happened in the room?
The answer was no.
Bruce asked if it had been prearranged then, that when I left the hotel I was to be detained and arrested, regardless of what was said (or done) in the room.
"She would be arrested if the circumstances warranted it," Ernie said.
"What were those circumstances?" Bruce asked.
"Just certain different things," Ernie said, displaying his usual flair.
Bruce went a few more rounds with Ernie on the business of why I was arrested. He asked Ernie on the stand, "You said if circumstances warranted it and if the crime were committed. Could you tell me what you mean by that?"
"No, sir, I can't."
"You don't know?" Bruce asked.
"Well,, there are various things that can occur that would be a crime," Ernie said. "If Miss French had propositioned me for sex or money, then, of course, she would have been arrested for prostitution." "That did not occur, is that correct?" Bruce asked.
"That's correct."
Ernie may have been dumb, but he waan't stupid. He could see that Bruce was getting around to the very interesting point that, if I had been arrested outside the hotel, the officers couldn't have known that I had committed a crime. So Ernie now amended his testimony to say that the officers had agreed to "detain" me when I left the hotel room and to bring me back to the room, where they could "go over the code section" before they actually advised me that I was under arrest.
Then Bruce led Ernie through the search and seizure part of his testimony. Did Ernie know what was in my work bag, or had I told him or offered to show him what was in it before he opened it? Did he know what was in my purse before he examined the contents? Did he have a search warrant to go through my bag or my purse? Did I give him permission to go through my bag or my purse? Did they have my permission to search my car? No, no, no, no, and no.
Bruce asked him if I had ever touched any of his private parts and explained that he was using that term as expansively as Ernie would like it to be used. Ernie said no. Bruce asked if we had ever discussed money, or exchanged money, or if I had asked Ernie to accompany me anywhere, and again Ernie answered no, no, and no. And then Bruce got Ernie to admit that he had never before, in a long career with the vice squad, arrested anyone for being an escort without a license.
When Detective W. M. Frederick took the stand, he explained that, as a license investigator for the License and Permit Section of the Bureau of Police Services, he had not issued a license for an escort in 1985, nor had there been any licenses issued in 1984, and there had been only one application for an escort's license, in 1983, which was turned down. He also answered that there had been no prosecutions for escorting without a license as far back as he could recall, at least to 1982.
In closing, Bruce argued that there had been no discussion of sex, that there had been no discussion of money except for a cancellation fee, that Ernie and I had never touched during those few minutes I was in the room nor was any form of the word escort ever used, that Detective Fredericks had testified that no escorting licenses were being issued, and that it was not illegal to "model" without a license. Michael argued that Ernie and the other officers were not city of Atlanta police officers and were therefore not allowed to arrest anyone for a violation of a city ordinance. The prosecutor made a batch of motions. My lawyers made a batch of motions, including that the judge give a directed verdict of acquittal, which she turned down.
The judge said she was not going to make any immediate rulings on the other motions, and she adjourned court.

Michael and Bruce and I walked out of the courtroom and sort of sagged against the stairway railing. So much had been at stake, so much had happened, and then again, nothing had happened. It was so obvious to me, at least, that the city couldn't win their case, but it also seemed that they were perfectly willing to pursue it for as long as Georgia was a sovereign state, and that I would have to pay huge lawyers' fees if this thing went on to a trial and a state case. We had to figure some way to keep the prosecutor from pursuing the case to the point where it would put me in the poorhouse. We knew that the city had itself in a bind, but that the prosecutor wouldn't just drop the charges, which would (a) be embarrassing in a case that had gotten so much publicity, and (b) give me a chance to sue everyone involved. The city had no intention of letting that happen.
"What do we do now?" I asked.
"Well," Michael joked, "we could always file a petition for interlocutory writ of certiorari."
"What's that?"
Bruce said, "Dolores, there's no such thing."
"Come one, guys, what is it?"
"It's an appeal, but it only applies in state and superior court cases," Michael said.
"What does it appeal for?"
Michael and Bruce gave the kind of arguments that throughout my life have been a sure sign of victory: "It won't work." "It's never been done." "You'll be laughed out of the courtroom."
"That's what they said to Columbus," I said.
"And he died in jail," Bruce answered.
"Better prison than the poorhouse," I said. "Now tell me how this write of whatever-it-is works." Michael and Bruce explained that even though there was no such thing, this was the way it would work if it existed: It would be an appeal for a non-final judgment from a lower court to a superior court. The judge on my case would have to authorize the write. A judge from the superior court would have to approve the filing of the writ. A third judge would have to rule on the merits of the writ. Anything that involved three judges and two courts was bound to take up a lot of time, create a lot of paperwork and stress, and just might ball things up enough to entangle the case forever, a sort of Bleak House maneuver.
"Let's do it," I said
One of the things I try to make clear to prostitutes is that, when they hire an attorney, the attorney works for them. People often pay their lawyers huge amounts of money and then do whatever the lawyers say. But when you're paying a lawyer, you're paying for advice and service. The lawyer isn't going to go to jail for you if you lose, or continue to represent you after your money is gone. So I said, "I really mean it. Let's do the writ. And if there's no such thing, all the better. That will really confuse them. Which one of you is going to write it up?"
Michael researched and wrote up the writ and presented it to our judge, who then authorized it. The presiding judge in Fulton County approved it for filing, and then Michael filed the petition that said that our judge and the city had thirty days to answer the writ, for which there could be no response. We think the prosecutor on my case spent those thirty days digging through law books trying to figure out what these two hotshot lawyers were pulling.
If there was no response in thirty days, the writ-which-dare-not-speak-its-name could be dismissed. Neither the city nor the judge responded. The writ came up to the presiding superior court judge, and he ordered the city and our judge to respond within thirty more days. Twenty days after that, sometime in November, Michael got a letter from the judge on our case, directing him to remand the case back to her court so she could dismiss it. (We assume that the judge reviewed my case and the law, after which she decided we were right. We also assume that our writ gave her the time to do that.)
When Michael got the message, he called our judge and said, "Is this a joke?"
"Certainly not," she answered.
Michael said, "Well, I'll have to dismiss the interlocutory writ of certiorari, so we can get the case back to your courtroom." The judge apparently sounded relieved about that. Michael called the state prosecutor's office, and they said that they weren't going to proceed on the cocaine and marijuana and distribution of obscene materials charges if the city case was dismissed. )The state had apparently decided on its own that this was a dog of a case.)
Michael dismissed the "Defendant's Petition for Interlocutory Writ of Certiorari," and the judge dismissed my case.

I was asked if I would sign an agreement stating that I wouldn't sue anybody for what had happened - the arresting officers or their subordinates or their superiors. In exchange for my signing that piece of paper, I got my bags and their contents back. The state agreed not to prosecute me for any charges arising out of these arrests.
Between the hearing and the judge's dismissing my case, I married my lawyer. Michael and I were headed for San Francisco for a hookers' convention. On the way there our plane made an unscheduled stop in Las Vegas. "Let's get married," we said. Unfortunately our plane took off again before we could schedule an appointment at one of those rented-veil wedding parlors.
As it turned out, Gloria Lockett, a COYOTE member, was also a minister. She offered to marry us, and we took her up on the offer. Michael and I made up a list of things we would try to do within the marriage. I thought Michael gave himself an impossibly long list, and I told him so. The main request I had of him was that he not take on the defense of rapists. His main request for me was that I not behave rudely with waiters. We were married at Coit Tower, which meant we could buy a lot of postcards to tell all of our friends.
The first time I said I was Michael's wife was when I was called for jury duty in Atlanta. When I was questioned by the assistant prosecutor, he glossed over the fact that I had put down "prostitute" on my juror's questionnaire, but he was worried about my being married to a defense lawyer. Carole Wall, the lead prosecutor, had it on good faith that I was inclined in a purse snatching case toward the prosecution. (As far as I was concerned the defendants had "purse-snatchers" written all over them.) But Carole's assistant was naive enough to think that the wife of a defense attorney would side with the defense. I was excused.
Michael and I often end up in social situations with prosecutors and cops. I sometimes have to be careful not to be seen fraternizing too much with the prosecutors, because their superiors think it looks improper.
Sometimes people don't know that Michael is married to me. The second month into a seven-month drug trial, Michael happened to mention to one of his co-counselors, Mark Spix, that his wife had once been arrested. "For what?" Spix asked.
Michael told him, and he said, "You've got to be kidding."
Then he told Spix my name, and Spix was surprised. (Mark Spix has since become one of Michael's closest friends.)
In general Michael hasn't had any negative reaction from the bench or the bar as a consequence of being married to me, except for the occasional expression of surprise. Otherwise, being married to a prostitute has done him more good than harm. Though I'm notorious in Atlanta, I'm respected.
Michael was elected vice-president of the Georgia Civil Liberties Union in 1987, and that organization is one of the last places anyone would act offended by what I do for a living. When he was hired as general counsel for AID Atlanta, a service agency for people with AIDS, however, some people there expressed shock that he was married to me. He lives with it, and I live with him being a defense attorney. In fact, as he says, our jobs are quite similar: We both free-lance, we both get paid in advance, we both try to get our clients off.
Michael understands my job. He understands that I am not emotionally involved with my clients.
There are things about my job, however, that trouble him. He worries every time I leave the house because I might not be coming back. He worries about lunatics more than I do.

Gina, my new agent, called me about one-thirty in the morning and asked if I minded driving all the way out to a suburb to see a client. "That depends," I said. "What have you got?"
She told me, "He's looking for someone tall, with a pretty face."
"That's me," I said.
"That's why I called you," she said. She told me his name and said that he had given his father's address in a small town outside Atlanta. "He sounds real young and nice," she said. "Call me back and let me know what happens."
I called him and said, "My agent agent told me you were looking for a tall model with a pretty face."
"Is your face pretty?"
"My face is beautiful, but I'm worried that I might not be tall enough. I'm only five five and a half, maybe five six at best. But when I wear heels I can appear much taller. So if that's OK, I can finish telling you what I look like, and then we can discuss where you're located.
"Fine," he said.
"I've got reddish-blonde hair, curly, about shoulder-length. My measurements are about thirty-eight - twenty-eight - thirty-nine. I'm very light complected, with green eyes, and I'm twenty-eight years old." (This description of myself was not completely accurate. But I had found that this was the way most clients perceived me, so it was best to fudge things. My bust, for instance, is really about 40 inches, but I have a broad back and if I say 40-28-39, they expect someone more voluptuous. And I was really thirty-five years old, but I looked twenty-eight. Besides, if I'd said I was thirty-five, people would have expected me to actually be forty-five. Once you say you're any age over thirty, a lot of clients believe you're much, much older and are trying to shave a decade or so off, so I couldn't win by being accurate about my age. Other than that, the description was true.)
"I understand you live in ---------," I said, and I named the town his parents lived in. "Yeah, but I go to college in Michigan," he said. "It's school break and they're real religious. It's important for them to have family together for Easter."
"But it's not Easter," I said.
"Well, no, but I can't be here for Easter, so I came home now."
"Why did you check into a hotel?" I asked.
"So I could do this," he said.

I didn't have any trouble finding the hotel because I had been there once before, with Tyler, my second client. It was a cheap hotel, the kind of place where I'd heard of women being robbed, so I was cautious when I pulled into the parking lot. I considered taking off all my jewelry and locking it in the glove compartment, but then I decided this was the kind of place where the car might be broken into, so I decided I was better off wearing it.
Before I got out of the car, I gave a quick look around at the outside of the building, to make sure there weren't any undesirables lurking about. An exceptionally clean-cut young blond guy was standing on the hotel balcony, wearing no jacket, just in his shirtsleeves, and it seemed likely to me that he was my client. As I got closer to him I noticed his nervous smile and his glittering eyes and I thought he had been doing cocaine. "Delilah?" he said, "I thought you weren't coming. You do have a pretty face. Just what I had in mind."
He stopped in front of an open door, which had the room number I had been given on it. He indicated that I should go in. As soon as I stood in the threshold I felt afraid. The room was completely dark, which was unusual. The bed covers were slightly messed up, but not in the way they would look if someone had slept on them or even say on them. Nothing that belonged to him was in the room. People usually lay something on the dresser or the nightstand as soon as they go into a rented room: a pack of cigarettes, a set of keys, spare change, something to mark the space as their own. There was a towel on the air conditioner and another one, refolded, on the dresser. The TV wasn't on, and the bathroom light wasn't on either. The whole thing was strange.
Since he was still standing outside, between me and the stairs, I decided to step inside and then get out of there the minute he turned his back.
"Sorry I kept you waiting," I said. "It must have been cold out there."
"Nah, it's not bad," he said, and turned toward the bathroom. I figured that was my chance. I reached for the doorknob with my right hand and turned toward the door, so I could slip out of the smallest space possible when I pulled the door open. Then glanced back to see what he was doing and stood, face to face, with the barrel of a shotgun.
In a vicious voice he said, "Get away from the door."
I jumped back, but there was a chair in the way that I almost fell over. Things cascaded through my mind: Why hadn't I left my jewelry in the car? Why did I think a blond, young kid wouldn't rob me? Why hadn't I just told the agent that I wanted to go to sleep tonight? What does this guy want? Why did I have to wear so many diamonds? Out loud I said, "Jesus Christ, I've heard about this sort of thing happening, and I never wanted to find out what it felt like." I thought, What'll he do if he can't get my ring off? Surely he's not going to kill me.
My foremost thought was, What am I going to do to get out of this alive? He was leaning against the door now, and the door was my only way out.
I inched closer to the door, which meant inching closer to him. "Get back," he said, and I backed up maybe three inches. I still had my car keys in my hand, and I could hear them jingling, my hand was shaking so hard. "What's in your hand?" he asked.
"My keys, see? I'm sorry they're making so much noise. I'm shaking. I don't know how to stop."
He was shaking too. I didn't want him to get carried away and accidentally pull the trigger, so I dropped my keys into my bag, held up my empty hands, and said, "See, they're in my purse."
I kept my hands up until he said, "OK, put them down." I immediately grabbed the doorknob and tested the door to see if it was locked. As soon as I found out he hadn't locked the door, I determined that the one thing I would not do was let go of the doorknob.
"Get across the room!" he said.
"No, I think I'd better leave now," I answered, keeping my voice as natural as I could.
"You're not going anywhere. Get across the room."
"Why should I do that?"
"Because I said so."
"No," I said, "I'm not going to do that. I've got to go." I knew he was too small to physically force me across the room. I think it stumped him that I wasn't doing what he said. "Please don't shoot me," I said, to fill a pause of several seconds. I didn't want him having any time to think.
"I don't want to hurt you," he answered. "I'm not going to hurt you if you just get across the room." Was this a Mexican standoff or what? I had no intention of letting go of that door and, since going across the room would mean letting go of the door, I had no intention of going across the room.
I tried a new tack. I didn't think he was planning to rape me, and he hadn't said anything about me giving him my cash and my jewelry. Since he didn't say what he was doing, I decided to ask: "What do you want from me?
"I want you to get across the room," he said.
The circularity of all this was scaring me. I was terrified that this kid was going to pull the trigger by accident and that I'd have a shotgun going off in my face. At best I would be maimed for life and out of work. At worst I'd be dead. I told him, "I've never been so scared in my life."
"You should be. Now get over there so I don't have to hurt you."
I thought, I'm too scared to keep this up. "Why don't you call someone else who has more experience with this?" I mean, after all, what do you say to a potential psychotic killer?
"Come on now," he said. "You're really pissing me off. I'm getting mad now, and I might have to hurt you. So do what I say."
"Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Why all of this? Why the gun? Why do you want me to go over there?"
"This is just a fantasy of mine," he whined. "I just want to have some fun with you. Please go over there so we can get on with it."
"This is fun?" I said. "I'm not having any fun." I tried to pull my voice together, and then I said, "Let me explain something. This cannot work. I will never go across the room or do anything else you tell me, is that clear? You planned this badly. So just let me get out of here and let's forget the whole thing." That sounded pretty good to me, and I half expected him to open the door and say, "OK."
"No," he said, "you'll call the police."
"I will not call the police. I just want to leave."
He said, "You're going to do what I say," but he was beginning to sound panicked. "I'll pay you your fee," he said.
"When?"
"When you get over there."
"If you're going to pay me, pay me now," I said. "Then we can talk about what you have in mind."
"If I go get my money, you'll leave," he said.
No shit, I thought. "You can't get away with this," I said. "My agent will be looking for me soon, and if she can't find me, she'll send someone to look for me." That was a lie. Because I was tired, I had not called my agent before I arrived. It would be at least half an hour before anyone missed me. I knew I couldn't hold this maniac off for that long. This guy really did seem crazy enough to kill me.
I took a deep breath and determined some goals: (1) to get out of the room; (2) not to get killed; (3) not to be seriously hurt; (4) to do all that without killing the kid; and (5) to do all that without tearing my clothes or getting them dirty.
I took a good look at his face, which I knew Michael would want me to do in case I lived long enough to get a chance to identify this guy in a police lineup, and I studied the way he was holding the gun, so that if I got the gun away from him, I would know how to hold it.
"I'll be finished long before anyone even misses you," he said, and I knew I had to act right away. I gave the door a good, hard yank, hoping that the jolt wouldn't make the gun go off. He slammed the door shut again and reached for the chain lock.
The minute his right hand left the shotgun I grabbed the barrel and pushed it up toward the ceiling and grabbed the stock with my other hand, while screaming, "Give me that gun, you little son of a bitch!" I shoved him off balance, then jerked the gun out of his hands. Now, with the gun on him, I backed up about five feet, until I was in front of the air conditioner. "Get away from the window," he said. "Someone might see you."
What a great idea. I flipped the light on and pulled the curtains back with my elbow, hoping someone in this godforsaken place might notice a woman at the window holding a shotgun. "Now get away from the door," I said. "Move over there."
"You'll call the police," he whined. Nuts are so single-minded. When he reached for the door, I figured he was going to pull it open and run out. No such luck. He finished the job of locking the door.
"Considering that I've got the gun, I think the police are the least of your problems," I said. I was so scared, I started screaming, "Get away from the door. Get away from the door or I'll kill you, you stupid little bastard." He started to move, and I braced the shotgun against my shoulder, the way I'd seen my father do when he was shooting rabbits.
The guy started backing up, and I started inching toward the door. I braced the gun with my knee, while I tried now to get the door unlocked. He came toward me, and I screamed, "Get back!"
He went to the bed and sat down, and the next thing I knew he was coming at me with a butterfly knife with a three-inch blade. "Give me the gun," he said.
"Are you nuts? I'm holding a gun on you," I said.
"It's not loaded," he answered, with a smile. "Do you think I'd let you take a loaded gun away from me?" He started sauntering around the room, in a nya-nya-nya-nya-nya way. "Now I've got a knife and you've got an unloaded shotgun. What do you think of that?"
I thought he might be telling the truth. I just wanted out of that room. I turned to the door and started struggling with the lock again. He lunged across the room and grabbed the gun out of my hands. "You're pretty interested in a gun that isn't loaded," I said.
"I'd be crazy not to have a loaded gun," he snarled. "Now get over there, where I told you." We were at square one again. But if I had gotten the gun away from him once, I was sure I could get it again.
This time I wasn't so careful or calculating. "This is ridiculous," I screamed. "I've had enough." I grabbed the barrel and then the stock. We wrestled around for a while, and I kept up a scream of "Who do you think you are, you blankety-blank so-and-so?" I think he tripped over the chair near the door. In any case, I suddenly had the gun again.
"If you pull one more stunt, I'll kill you right where you stand," I said. "Now get out of my way."
He stood up, but he was still between me and the door.
"Don't just stand there to see whether or not I pull the trigger," I said. "Because I will. It's over." He slumped his shoulders and walked away from the door. "Go on, get out of here," he said.
I went to the door and got it open even though I still felt totally out of control. I then turned around, and holding the gun on him, backed out of the room. I stumbled halfway out and dropped my lingerie bag, which I was surprised to realize was still over my shoulder. When I knelt down to pick up my things I noticed that he was standing at the dresser, doing a line of cocaine. I started backing away from the open door, then stopped and put the gun down for fear I'd be charged with stealing it. Then I ran down the balcony, down the stairs, and to my car.
My hands were shaking so hard I could barely get the key in the lock. Finally I opened the door, threw my things and myself in, slammed the door, and just sat there for a few moments. Then I started the car and backed up to where I could see his room.
In a few seconds he came running out of the open door and down the stairwell. I moved the car forward now, to see where he would go. He dashed from the stairwell to a small light blue car, opened the trunk and threw something in, then got in the car and roared off. I got the last four digits of the license number as he went by me.
He drove up and over a hill about a hundred yards away, and I decided to let him go. I sat and shook for a few minutes, then drove to the motel office to use the pay telephone.
I called Gina at the agency to let her know what had happened and to tell her that I was going to report it to the police. Then I called Michael. I knew he was asleep, so when he answered, after about the twentieth ring, I said, "Michael, wake up and be alert."
He said, "OK, what's going on?"
I told him what had happened and I said I was going to call the police. And then I called the police. I told them what happened and gave the dispatcher a description of the car. I told them where I was, who I was, what room I had been in, and she said a patrol car would come out.
Right away a "seasoned" cop arrived, and he wouldn't even get out of the car. He said, "Well, little lady, if you're going to be out at this time of the night alone, you gotta expect this sort of thing will happen to you once in a while."
Some younger cops, who had obviously been through some kind of sensitivity training, arrived then and went to the room with me. They found cocaine residue on the table. They took fingerprints, and my statement, and they found two pairs of handcuffs, one at the head of the bed and the other at the foot. Who knew what that guy had planned for me?
I did suggest that, if they thought the guy might have broken some law, they might want to radio a description of his car so that somebody might detain him. They said they'd get around to it.
The next day I went in to swear out a warrant. I felt it was important that I follow through, so the police could get used to the idea of a prostitute pressing charges. I told them that I worked with an escort service and that this guy had asked for someone with a pretty face. The police treated me like a criminal. The detective kept implying that I'd had sex with my assailant. I said, "You know who I am. You know I'm a prostitute. If I'd had sex with the guy, why do you think I would come down here?"
"Well," the cop said, "it could be for publicity."

When that guy pulled the shotgun on me, I knew I had to deal with it. It was a far cry from the way I felt six years before in the Caribbean, when Buddy offered me a pistol and I turned him down.
Six years ago I couldn't have taken that gun away from that kid. I suppose that means that in some sense I've gotten stronger as a result of being a prostitute, but it also means I've gotten smarter and more capable and less afraid of a lot of things. Nobody was going to jump out of the woodwork to save me in that motel room. I had no backup team ready to kick in the door. I had to take care of myself and I did.
After all, I was fighting for my life, and all the coke freak was fighting for was a good time.
Now that it's happened, I know what I have to do if there's a next time. And I know I can do what I have to do next time.

Most people could not cope with being a prostitute. Not because it's degrading or dirty but because it's hard work. It's a business that can be frightening and dangerous. It's especially hard on your friends and your mother and your husband, if you're open about your work.
My friends have had to come up with a lot of answers, both for themselves and for the rest of the world. Most of them, however, have stuck with me through my earliest days, through the fire, through the arrest, through writing this book and everything else.
My family supported me all along, after they recovered from their first surprise. My father is ill now, with cancer; he's not the same old Dad. And yet, and yet, he is still proud of his little girl. I suppose I will always be, in some way, Little Miss Ferncreek to him.
Michael and I are still renovating my house, trying to cope with the aftereffects of the fire. I still speak at community meetings and mental health groups and hospitals and universities. I am often asked, in these days of safer sex lectures, to demonstrate how to blow a rubber onto a banana - how's that for a party trick?
I still work with agents wherever I am, and I'm sure the cops are still trying to arrest me. They may even make a real case next time. But I want to keep working, and I want to find out about new places. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to work at one of the legal brothels in Nevada. I've never worked in Alaska. And I wonder about Hong Kong and Bangkok too. If the police started closing in on me again, I may just find out. As Mae West said, "Between two evils, I always pick the one I've never tried before."
When I don't work I miss the life. I miss the camaraderie of the women I work with. I miss the work itself. I miss the solitude of the drive in my car to a new client. I miss meeting people from all over the world and finding out what they think about things.
There are people who seek me out simply because I am a well-known prostitute, and they include other prostitutes as well as clients and fans. I have a terrible time with housekeepers, however. Once they get the hang of what I do for a living, they quit cleaning houses and begin working as prostitutes, at which occupation they can earn more money.
Sunny works with me here in Atlanta on AIDS research. [review] Elaine disappeared. Margo St. James has moved to France, which she feels is a friendlier country for prostitutes. Ernie is now a carpet salesman. I still wonder what happened to Sarah, and if that girl Amanda, who came down to the Caribbean, ever got any more sense. I look forward to meeting more women like them, even more women like Amanda - although not too many. And I expect I will meet these women at COYOTE conventions and at International World Whores' Congresses like the one held two tears ago in the European Parliament Building in Brussels.
Most people are fascinated by the idea of becoming a prostitute; even if it's only a fleeting fantasy, a lot of people have thought about doing it. But unless a person has been a prostitute, it's a choice of career that is difficult to understand.
Some people do criticize me. But then again anyone in a public position - a weather forecaster, for instance, or a professional football player - gets criticism. The key to being happy and successful in any career is having a job you are suited to. Football players are suited to playing football. Meteorologists are suited to being weather forecasters. I am suited to being a prostitute.
I am not inhibited about sex, but that's a very small part of the job. Most of the job involves dealing with people: the other women, my agents, my clients, the police.
Even when I'm bored or when I have other things on my mind, I still feel spiritually uplifted by the work. I am improving the quality of my clients; lives, and the lives of the people around them. I am good at this job. So good that even when I can't give 100 percent, I still have a positive effect on my clients. I'm not selling magazine subscriptions to people who can't read; I'm not selling miracle cures to people who are desperately ill. I'm doing more than people pay me to do.

I am often recognized on the street in Atlanta, but oddly enough people rarely recognize me when I'm working. Sometimes a client will tell me, "You know, you look familiar," and I usually just smile.
A few people, of course, try to call me up after they see my name in the paper. Sometimes clients track me down through the media, or even through city hall. I try to explain to anyone who calls me under those circumstances that I will see them, if their Ids and credit cards check out, but that I will only model. There's too much of a risk that they will turn out to be cops, you see. I make it clear, so that they will understand: There will be a $60 appointment fee, and then $200 for an hour of my time, but all I will do is model. No sexual contact.
I often get calls from retired men, who have been sitting around and watching morning talk shows on TV. Widowed, older men make lovely clients. One man who contacted me is a retired journalist. One of his hobbies is photography - capturing prize blossoms and fruit at their peak - so he always wants a photo session. During the hour I usually make several lingerie changes and strike dozens of poses while he shoots my picture and gives me gardening tips. No sex takes place, he has some company and some titillation, and I hope that, with his good advise, my bearded irises will bloom next spring. I provide an important service for him, and we both benefit. It's a fine way to make a living.
Recently I got a call from my agent, Diana, to see a client at one of the airport hotels. When I called him, he seemed like a really happy-go-lucky guy, a good old boy, the kind of guy who might do magic tricks at parties. He told me he was a traveling salesman, a parts salesman, and that he was in town from Raleigh, North Carolina.
When I told him that I would be there in twenty minutes, he acted thrilled that I'd be arriving so soon. When he opened the door, he did a double take, his eyes kind of crinkled up and flashed, and he said, "I know you! I've seen your picture. I can't believe this. Don't tell me your name. I've seen you! You're that. . .don't tell me your name. Oh, my God, I'm embarrassed. I can't believe it's you. You're beautiful, and you look just like your pictures. Oh, wow!"
I was still standing in the hall, and I said, "OK, great! Can I come in now?" He was about five foot eight and Scotch-Irish looking, with blond-brown hair, a real cute pudgy guy, about what you'd expect of a parts salesman. The kind of fellow who makes you want to reach up and squeeze his cheeks.
I set my bag down and he was still carrying on.
"This is the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me," he said. "Oh, wow! I know your name. I really do."
"While you're trying to think of who I am, I'm going to call my agent, OK?" I called Diana and told her everything seemed fine and then I turned back to this fellow, Ralph, and said, "You know I need to see some ID."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He was hopping around the room, looking for his wallet, fumbling around. "Your name's on the tip of my tongue. Just hold on. I'll think of it. It's an old-fashioned name."
"It's really nice to run into a fan," I said. "You know, I just picked up some copies of a photo of me that appeared in a magazine. Do you want to see them? I pulled out twenty prints. "You can see them if you want, but I've got to warn you, they have my name on them. Do you want to see them, or do you want to keep guessing?" "Oh, let me see. Gee, this is so exciting. Who would ever think a thing like this would happen to me? Dolores! Dolores French! I knew it! They're great pictures. They look just like you," he said. "Can I have one? Will you autograph it?"
I said, "Sure," and got my pen. "Dear Ralph," I wrote, "You were great. Thanks for the memories. Call me anytime." And I signed it, "Dolores." He took it and was looking at it like a kid who has just gotten an autographed baseball card from Mickey Mantle.
"Wow, look at this!"
I said, looking at my watch, "You know I need to get my agency fee."
"Right, right, right," he said. "I can't believe I'm really going to do this, and not with just any hooker, but with you." He said, "You know I've never called an escort service before in my life. It's like the lottery. I've hit the jackpot. I've really hit the jackpot."
"Well," I said, "hitting the jackpot is going to cost you sixty dollars for the agent's fee. The model gets no part of the agent's fee. The model's fee varies according to the type of session you have in mind. The model's fee is usually two hundred dollars, but since you're such a fan. . .how about three hundred dollars?" He said, "Fine," with no hesitation.
I said, "Well, if that's fine, and if you're so enthusiastic, how about five hundred dollars?"
"I wish I had that much, because you're worth it. I don't, but here's three hundred dollars," he said and handed me cash.
Gee, what a pleasant client, I thought. I got a washcloth and towel from the bathroom, and some soap and hot water, and all the time he was watching me like a Japanese businessman, but at least he wasn't asking me, "What's there? Why you do that?" Instead he was watching raptly, like someone watching a tightrope walker, someone who just can't believe someone could do that.
I unpacked my bag and juggled a little for him, and that seemed to impress him even more. "You can juggle!" he said. "You never mentioned that on TV." Eventually I put the juggling balls down and said, "Well, is that what you want to wear?"
I couldn't suggest that he take off his clothes, or even that he "make himself more comfortable," because that might imply that I wanted to have sex with him.
He said, "Oh, oh! I know what you mean!" He started unbuttoning his shirt. He got down to his T-shirt, and then he said, suddenly, "I can't have sex with you."
"OK," I said.
"It's not that I don't want to have sex with you," he said, "but I'm too nervous." He gestured with one pudgy hand toward his crotch.
"Why don't you sit down and take a few deep breaths? Just relax a little."
He tried to sit down, but he kept bouncing out of the chair. "Well, you're here," he said. "I might as well give it a shot. You said on TV that you charge by the time, and I know our time is running out. I guess we'd better do it."
Ralph got all undressed and he lay down on the bed. He started getting an erection, and I started undressing myself, but then he looked at me and said, "I can't go through with this," and it went down. "Wait till I tell someone that I saw Dolores French," he said. "Who can I tell? I know. I can tell the guy in Raleigh who told me to call your agency. That's who I'll tell. He'll be so impressed." He thought for a few minutes, and I did what I could to assist his erection, which wasn't much.
"Wait, wait, wait," he said. "I can't tell him, because he'll blab it all over town. What a secret!" he said. At least I've got the picture."
Then he said, "Wait a minute. I can't keep the picture." He got a real sad, puppy-dog look on his face. "I can't let anyone see this," he said. "I'm married."
I was nearly naked now, wearing nothing but stockings, garter belt, and high heels, and I started doing a little erotic show for him, and he said, "No, this is too much. And my time is running out. I just can't believe that you're here!"
I said, "Look, I've only been here for fifteen minutes. I've got a half an hour left. Maybe you'd like to just chat for the rest of the time."
"That would be swell," he said. He seemed so relieved. "Could I get dressed?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. "Do you want me to get dressed?"
"no!"
"Oh," I teased, "you want to get dressed but you don't want me to get dressed."
"I'm cold," he said. "Maybe I'll just put on my T-shirt."
"Sure," I said, and that was the session. He put on his T-shirt and I lay on the bed, nearly nude, and we talked. He wanted to know how I got started in the business.
"That's a long story," I said. "Basically, I was interested in women's rights, and in prostitutes' rights, and I met some women who were working as prostitutes and I liked them. One of the women offered to let me see one of her clients, so I tried it. I thought I'd only do it a few times, just to see what it was like, but I enjoyed it and I've been doing it ever since."
"Did you always want to be a prostitute?" he asked.
"Well, I saw this TV show when I was a little kid. . ." I said.
"And do you enjoy it?" he asked.
"I love it."
We talked until my agent called to tell me his time was up. I got dressed and all ready to leave. I told him that he should hang on to the picture, and maybe he could think of a way to keep it. "Oh, could I?" he said. "I'd like that."
"You can at least enjoy it for the rest of the evening," I said. "Maybe later, when you calm down, you could enjoy it more. You might even be able to enjoy it again in the morning. Then you can either take it with you, or you can put it in the drawer beside the bed. Look, I'll put my telephone number on it, and if you decide to leave it in the drawer, maybe somebody else will call me."