YES to Superbowl Sunday, NO to selling my goods.

I’m not going to remember this past Sunday as Superbowl Sunday 2013. I was driving to a friend’s house to snarf some homemade guac and perhaps watch a little football when I received this text from a colleague while driving west on the 10:

Tell me if this works for u or not.. But I found a guy for u. That will help u financially. He is not looking for nothing serious just sex once in a while. But will help you with whatever you meed.

My apologies to the football/high-budget commercial/Destiny’s Child fanatics out there: February 3^rd, 2013 will now be known as the day I was propositioned to become a prostitute. A lady of the night. A strumpet. As I read and reread this text while trying to avoid rear-ending the car in front of me (yeah, I’m guilty—what.), many thoughts swirled through my head: First, I had the exciting realization that I had just experienced the elusive fragment/double-negative/spell check text trifecta. Secondly, yes I’m jobless and broke and desperate but seriously?! Third of all…exactly how much money are we talking about here? I didn’t respond for many hours because it took me that long to figure out what is the proper response to a text like that:

           “lol”?

This really wasn’t what I had in mind when I made the resolution to try new opportunities I wouldn’t consider under normal circumstances. But my current circumstances are not normal: I rang in the New Year by getting laid off from my job. I will say that I’m fascinated by stories of women like this earning thousands an hour and often wondered how does one become a pricey call-girl in the first place (like do most have to start at $25 handy-J’s and work their way up)?

This could be my ticket in!

What does it say about me that I was tempted to text back “How much?” rather than “No way in hell!”? I feel like a whore for thinking that way, oh, the irony. But I am a believer that we all have a price. At some point, for a certain amount of money, we would all sell ourselves.

“Would you eat this habanero for $1?”

No, but I’d do it for $20.

“Would you shave your head for $500?”

No, but I’d do it for $5,000.

“Would you give Larry King a Rusty Trombone for $1,000?”

No, but for $10,000 and a Fendi baguette you can call me the Sexual Glenn Miller.

Unless you’re one of these sisters, you’ll financially draw the line somewhere in terms of having sex with a stranger. Whether it’s for $100,000, for $500, or for an eight-ball and lift to the Circle K, there is an amount that we’ll agree to sell our bodies and dignity. And here I was, faced with the reality of naming my price. I could really demand anything. So I texted him back:

Hmm, doesn’t sound like it’ll work for me...But thanks for keeping me in mind. 

And much like a used rubber, I flushed the reality of my future as a wealthy escort down the toilet. I didn't think it would do the fantasy in my head justice.