Samantha X book extract: Back on Top-Confessions of a high-class escort

CELEBRITY call girl Samantha X reveals all in her new book, Back on Top: Confessions of a high-class escort. “My rule is that the better-looking the client, the more of a pain in the a*** he is,” the madam says. READ THE EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT.

Author and madam Samantha X.

THIS is an exclusive extract from Samantha X’s new book Back on Top-Confessions of a high-class escort.

I have a client called J. There is nothing amazing about J. He is not rich, he is not handsome and he is not exciting. If there was a male equivalent to Eleanor Rigby, it would be him.

J is 58 and unashamedly admits he is a recluse. His skin is waxy pale yet unblemished, and his body is not fit. Angry-looking varicose veins strain out of his calves and his swollen belly is full of processed food, but no alcohol. He lives alone and has done most of his life. In fact, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He has never had a girlfriend, although he came close to kissing a woman when he was 23. He had one friend many years ago, but he died in a fiery car crash. He spends birthdays and Christmas alone, very happily.

“I just don’t like people, Samantha,” he told me once. “I get nervous around them.”

Samantha X reveals what it is like to be an escort in her new book.

But I like J. I really do. He absolutely fascinates me. He is one of those clients who I could listen to for hours, and I do. I don’t hear about wild adventures or how many countries he has travelled to, or how many cars he has, because he hasn’t been anywhere or done anything. In fact, apart from spending time with sex workers, I don’t think he has ever done anything particularly exciting in his life.

Yet his conversation is absolutely fascinating to me purely because it is so simple, so easy. There is no kinky sex, no dirty talk. We barely even touch, except for the 10 minutes in our three-hour bookings [when we have oral sex]. Then we cuddle and chat for the rest of our time together. I tried to have sex with him the first time I met him and was quickly told to stop.

“I’m not very good at sex and I would rather not, thanks, Sam,” he said shyly, slowly moving my hands away. Once I knew that J just wanted company and a cuddle, I could relax and so could he.

J’s life is very simple. In fact, it is beautifully simple. I meet a lot of powerful, successful men and I am always interested in hearing about their lives. But J is far more fascinating. He doesn’t believe in stress. Even when there are problems at work his solution is simple: “I just think, Oh dear, and go and make myself a cup of tea,” he told me. “That usually does the trick.”

Even when his elderly mother died, he showed little emotion.

“Thank you, Samantha. Death is a merely a part of life,” were his neat little words after I texted my condolences. Even J’s diet is simple. For breakfast, just a coffee. For lunch, a ham or beef sandwich (on white, no butter) at work. And then dinner. Well, dinner is the meal J looks forward to the most: a Michelle Bridges frozen meal that he heats up in the microwave. Every single evening.

J is a lovely man. He calls me “my goddess,” and I always smile when he walks into my hotel room. I think I am J’s only ‘friend’ and that is fine with me.

Escorts always have clients like J and we love them. I know I do. Why? Because they are easy. They’re like animals — they have pure souls and pure hearts. They are kind and gentle, and treat us with the utmost respect. We don’t care that they aren’t handsome and exciting and rich. Give me kind, simple J over a coked-up banker any day of the week.

Samantha X reveals the why being a high-class escort in Sydney is very lucrative.

My rule is that the better-looking the client, the more of a pain in the a--- he is. More entitled and terribly arrogant.

“You should be paying me,” a tall, dark young client smirked at me once as he thumbed the green $100 bills in front of me. It wasn’t the first time a good-looking client had said this to me — it was almost like they were justifying why they were paying for sex.

It’s hard to smile sweetly through gritted teeth when really you want to tell them you would rather poke your eyes out with hot toothpicks then spend a minute more in their company. “And I faked them all,” I have been tempted to scream to wipe the smug smiles off their faces. Instead, I say, “Wow, I am a lucky girl, aren’t I? I really hope we can see each other again.” Then I give them the finger behind their backs as soon as they turn round to leave.

People always marvel at how escorts can have sex with ugly men. It always makes me smile, their lack of enlightenment; their shallowness. Ugly? What’s ugly to you might not be ugly to me. Ugly is an unkind heart, not an unconventional face. Ugly is someone who laughs at the expense of others and shows little compassion. Ugly is arrogance, rudeness and a lack of respect. Ugly is nastiness and spite.

So how can I have sex with ugly men? The answer is, quite simply, that I don’t. If someone gives away a glimmer of rudeness or arrogance over the phone or email when trying to secure a booking, I won’t see him. I don’t care who he is, how rich or famous he is or how big his d--- is.

My rule is that the better-looking the client, the more of a pain in the a--- he is. More entitled and terribly arrogant.

I don’t care whether he sends me selfies of his perfect abs or flexing his arms in the mirror of his gym, or whether he offers to pay triple my fee. Mental health will always, always, be more important to me than dollars. Even with — actually, especially with — the clients who book my Angels. I have two rules that I stick to as madam to my girls: if I wouldn’t see a man — and I am fussy — then I don’t let my girls see him; and if he shows a hint of rudeness or disrespect when making an appointment, I show him the proverbial door.

When we say we want to empower women, not exploit them, we bloody mean it.

MEET Gregory, who is just 21. He is another client whose sweetness and sincerity sticks in my mind.

He had booked me for four hours at a $1800-a-night suite at the Crown Casino in Melbourne.

“Gregory. How can you afford this?” I gasped as I looked around; he was already paying me over $3000 for my time. There was a bottle of Champagne on ice, cosy soft slippers at the end of each side of the king-size bed, and two massive bathrooms, one with a spa. And he looked so smart, too: a light grey jacket from Calibre, brown loafers from Gucci and a pale blue shirt from Armani.

“I don’t have anything else to spend my money on,” he said quietly. Then, suddenly: “Hey, do you like the cricket?” and before I could answer he clicked on the TV. “Yes, sure,” I lied, trying to work him out. But there was really nothing to work out. His needs were, again, very simple: he just wanted me to sit there. If I nudged closer to him, he would move away. At one stage he turned around and said seriously, “Sorry, Samantha, but you are in my personal space.”

“Oh, sorry, am I?” I said, mortified that I had made him feel uncomfortable, and I edged even further away. After about an hour of my eyes glazing over thanks to the cricket, and having drunk most of the champagne as Gregory didn’t drink, I decided it must be time he wanted sex. Surely he wanted sex. He was a horny 21-year-old.

Samantha X’s new revealing book.

The thing was, I couldn’t even sit close to him, so how was I going to make him come to the bedroom with me? “Why don’t I take your jacket off and hang it up for you?” I asked, reaching over. “Can I fetch one of those nice dressing gowns for you? They look so fluffy and cosy...”

“No,” he cried, inching away even more. “Sorry, Samantha, I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that I am really proud of my clothes. I wish I could wear clothes like this every day – like wear them in an office ... So if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep them on all night.”

His sweet and honest nature was humbling. The most physical we got was a kiss (no tongues) before he gently pushed me away.

“That’s enough for one night, I think,” he said. It was the first time I’d been told that in a booking — was I being scolded?

“I’ll get my coat?” I said and went to stand up.

“No, please stay,” he responded seriously. “We can watch TV. CSI is on. Do you like CSI?”

“Yes, I like CSI,” I replied slowly, sitting down again.

So for four hours we sat and stared at the TV screen, barely talking. Gregory wasn’t just comfortable in our silence — he was happy. So I kicked off my Jimmy Choos, picked up the box of chocolates on the coffee table in front of me, and put my feet up. If Gregory was happy with just being in my company, I was going sit back, relax and enjoy the evening with a sweet, shy and awkward young man who had spent an awful lot of money for me to sit here with him.

The next morning, just as I was brushing my teeth, he sent me a little text message: “Thank you, Samantha, for the best night of my life.”

I smiled as toothpaste dribbled down my chin. The lovely thing was, I think he really meant it.

* Back on Top: Confessions of a high-class escort, by Samantha X ($29.99), published by Hachette Australia on Tuesday.