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On Being Discovered

January 17, 2012

I was discovered! Really! You know when models or actresses get discovered? Great talents of one kind or another? Yeah. It was nothing like that.

I was standing in Starbucks when all of a sudden I was approached. By a woman. She was rather attractive.

“Hi.” She says, grabbing my shoulder gently and whipping me around so we were now having some type of private conversation.
“Hi.” I say, quickly scanning my brain wondering if I have ever met her before. I never forget a face, but apparently had forgotten hers.
“I notice you aren’t wearing a wedding ring.” She said in a low tone whisper, glancing down at my hand.
“No. No, I’m not.” Hi, my name is Darcy. And I’m divorced. I want to say, but realize that would probably be too much information for this stranger.
“Are you single?” She asked.
I thought for a second. I wondered if she was hitting on me and suddenly realized, I was not ready for my foray into lesbianism, even though I often tell my mother that I am.
“Yes.” Scared for what was coming next.
“Well, I think you are gorgeous. And you are perfect.”
“Setting up. I have a lot of great men.”
I half smiled, not sure of what was going on. I quickly wondered if my mother had slipped her a hundred bucks and a bottle of tequila. I stood cautiously.
“I deal with only the best.” She continued.
I let out a nervous laugh, unsure what to say.
“You see, I am a matchmaker. A very very high-end matchmaker.”
“Oh? Wow. Well-”
“I have men pay a lot for my services. Well, our company’s services. But for the women, it’s free.” Somehow through small talk, she discloses these men can pay anywhere up to 50k for their services.
I furrowed my brow and my jaw dropped a bit. I quickly wondered if matchmaker was code for Madam. I mean, 50k sounded steep. For a date? You could get those for free.
“I, I don’t-”
With that she slipped me her card.
“Call me,” She said. She might of even handed me a bottle of Love Potion number 9, but that part is blurry now. Her email address and company website were on front of the heavy stock card.
“Oh..okay…I’ll check it out. The website. You know..”
“Trust me,” She said, as she walked up to grab her coffee.
“You just go to dinner. That’s it. And if you like them, great, if not, we set you up with someone else.” She said over her shoulder and she walked out on her very high Jimmy Choo heels.

I went home and immediately pulled up the website on my computer as though I was looking up some type of deviant porn act. This…was a secret. A dirty one. Well, a secret I will share with all of my readers. Which are a lot of people. The website was filled with flashy pictures of gorgeous women and the site boasted their high-profile clientele.
I immediately called Alexis.
“I am becoming an escort.”
“I was approached by this woman. She claims to be working for a “matchmaker”, but I am on the site, and it looks like, well, it looks like an escort service. Even the name is uncomfortable to say.”
“That. Is. Amazing.”
“I know. Maybe Jason was right. Maybe I should be an escort.” (See: Take My Ex-Wife. Please)

I googled the company and came up with a wealth of information. Apparently, they were pretty legit as far as matchmakers are concerned. But it still seemed a little escort-esque to me. In a bored moment, and realizing it would make for the best Darcy entry ever, I e-mailed my new friend, Heidi Fleiss, I mean Jackie the matchmaker, and made my appointment.

That night I turned on a red light in my bedroom and practiced dancing in my lingerie in front of my window, like any good escort would do. Oh wait, that’s a hooker. In Amsterdam. What do high-end escorts in New York City do? Wear stilettos and mini skirts to Rangers games. Yeah. That couldn’t be me. I like a lot of layers when I go watch them play.

The day of my “meeting” came. I wasn’t quite sure how to dress for it. It was mid-day, in midtown, in a real office building. Do I wear fishnets? Or just  jeans? A pants suit? Who was I kidding. I was never a lesbian basketball coach so I never ever owned a pants suit. It was particularly cold that day, and by the time I showed up my cheeks and nose were red, like the neighborhood drunk. Or a nice jewish girl about to make the jump to high-class hooker.

I approached the doorman (in this case, the doorwoman) in the lobby and told her what floor I was going to. She asked for my ID. My name was in the system so she could see where I was going. Awkward. She was on the phone and had a Bluetooth in her ear. (You know how I feel about that. See: Can you Hear Me Now). I was pretty sure she was whispering to the person on the other end that a brand new concubine was arriving. She laughed. I cringed.

I walked to the elevator banks. I got lost. There were so many damn elevator banks. I have lived in this city since the day I was born. How did I get lost in a lobby full of elevators? Oh wait, I know how; my moral compass was clearly broken, as I was on my way to meet a Madam.
“What floor are you going to Miss?” One random lobby dweller asked.
“Right this way.” He said, leading me to the proper hallway. He looked me up and down and I saw his head turn out of the corner of my eye as I walked past him. Ugh. Did he know where I was going too? But he did check me out. Maybe he’d want to be my first client?

When I got to the offices they were beautiful. Really top-notch. I had to sit and fill out paper work, just like at the doctor’s office. Except instead of medical history I had to fill out things like relationship history. What were my hobbies? My interests? What was my type? Was this really happening?

I entered the room to meet with the matchmaker. Not the original one I had met in Starbucks, but her cohort. After answering a series of questions as to what I was looking for and what my type was, and what some of my deal breakers were, I asked her…as politely as possible:
“This isn’t an escort service right? I mean…it’s not…is it?”
She laughed.
“No! Of course not. We just deal with very busy men, who are looking for something specific. And we find and screen the candidates for them. We will contact you if you meet their criteria, and you can always decline.”
“Okay.” I smiled. Still not convinced. The matchmaker was lovely though. Really. She seemed so normal.
I said my goodbyes and made my way back into the streets of New York City, putting on my sunglasses and pulling the hood of my coat over my head as I left the lobby of course.

By the time I got home, there was an email from the matchmaker telling me how great it was to meet me, and how she already had two people in mind for me with their brief bios attached. One was a surgeon and one was a hedge funder. The men sounded great. Truly. Successful, and kind, with very good life stories detailing acts of kindness and examples of how family oriented they were.

But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t feel comfortable with the process. I figured any man paying a service that much to have dinner with me, would expect a very special dessert. And it’s just not how I roll. I also didn’t love the story.
“Mommy, how did you meet daddy?”
“Oh, he paid a fortune to take me to dinner.”
It was a little too pretty woman for me. And not the opera scene that we all love. More the Hollywood boulevard scene with the bad wig and the knee-high boots and the sofa in the elevator for two.

So I politely declined the dates. I want to find men my way. The old-fashioned way. Finding dates isn’t my problem, but finding the one is. But I will let fate take it’s course. A serendipitous event that no one can predict. And I don’t mind waiting. I have so many hours of trashy TV stored on my DVR I could stay content for a long time really.

Wait. Did I just say I didn’t need to find a good man because I had so much DVR to catch up on? Where the HELL is that lady’s card?

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8 Comments leave one →
  1. Bob permalink
    January 17, 2012 10:49 am

    I ❤ this… great entry and love the gonzo journalism here, going the extra mile for a good story. Funny!

    • January 17, 2012 11:08 am

      Thank you so much for reading and for your feedback. I love that you heart this story. Isn’t that picture great!? I want that for my apartment. So…what do you think? Matchmaker…or Madam?

      • Bob permalink
        January 17, 2012 12:16 pm

        Call me old fashioned, Darcy, but I prefer to “meet cute” rather than pay for it, ya know? But when men are paying $50K to meet women, I think Matchmaker/Madam is tomato/tomahto because the women know the deal… and it’s pretty much based solely on money.

        But it can be a cold, cruel and lonely world out there and I’m sure some people have found *true* love that way. Right?

      • January 17, 2012 4:18 pm

        My sentiments exactly…and what is that they say? Money can’t buy me love. Nope, it can’t buy me love. But maybe it can buy someone else love. To each their own. And no judgements here!

  2. David Molnar (@ErieDavid) permalink
    January 17, 2012 7:31 pm

    The surgeon wasn’t Robbie, I hope.

  3. kevin permalink
    January 17, 2012 10:54 pm

    I am a man who was divorced and was lucky enough to find an even better wife the second time around. When I was first divorced, my friends loved to live vicariously through me. I would assure them that being single sucked. But none of them believed me. One day I met my wife and I realized I was lucky to never have to date again because I knew I had found the one. That, my dear, is some good news for you. And it will happen for you too. You sound like one of the good ones.

    I want to say I love your writing. I read everything you write. You have a way of writing that sucks you in and makes you feel like you are your best friend. I don’t know you, but feel like I do. I just want to say I love your blog and hope you write a book soon because it would do really well.

    • January 18, 2012 9:34 am

      Thank you so much for such a wonderful comment. It means so much to me that you feel that way about my writing. My intention is to connect with the reader just as you described and I am so glad it translates. Thank you!!! Means everything.

      As for the comment about your wife, that is awesome. You were also smart enough to know when you found the right one. I think sometimes people overlook that (I fear I am am guilty I that myself) certainly a story for another time. Thank you for reading and thanks for reading and thanks for your feedback.

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