Tales of Johns, Freaks, Sex Addicts, & Slaves
What happens in the Manhattan sex trade, behind closed doors? In this collection written by an elite Manhattan Madam, she reveals 7 stories detailing a week in her life with Johns, freaks, sex addicts, and other assorted clients.
I once knew this guy — a smart John, very sharp — who worked on Wall Street. He was addicted to money and sex, like most of the guys downtown. He told me that by watching me move he could tell how much risk I lived with and how I handled it. Just from watching me walk across the street, he knew. You see, I walk quickly, with great energy. Purposefully is a better word, like I have to get somewhere important. You’ll never see me drifting down the street, taking it easy. Some girls look hunted, the ones that don’t really fit in this game or had too much bad luck. I’m a hunter, but a cautious one.
I am the NYC Madam that has never been caught. If you get one look at me it’s obvious I’m… different. The way I move, the way I react. The animal in you smells me across the busy avenue. Heads turn, people bump into each other, men walk into the street unwittingly trying to catch a second look. The cells phones come out for a shot of my body, especially the small of my back where it meets my ass, solid, rounded muscle shaped like two teardrops. Hands brush crotches and sometimes touch their wallets, right there on the street. People sense I am not free, expensive.
They wonder, “Can I afford her?”
For a fact, most Johns cannot, sadly enough, afford my pleasures.
“Once in a lifetime you come across something like this. Madam had to live this to write it. Hang on tight.”
—Gil Ferrera
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About Sara Colewell
If you want to try to sum me up, I am the NYC Madam that has never been caught. Look at me once and it’s obvious that I’m…different. It’s there in the way I move, the way I react. It doesn’t matter how crowded the street gets. People bump into each other, men walk into the street unwittingly, trying to catch a second look. Heads turn like something just caught fire, and then the cells phones come out for a shot of my body, especially the small of my back where it meets my ass: solid, rounded muscle shaped like two teardrops. Hands brush crotches and then wallets, right in the street. People sense I am not free. Expensive. You see the question arrive on their faces: “Can I afford her?” For a fact, sadly, most Johns cannot afford me.