Free Lost Girls by Robert Kolker

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    The rate depended on location. Calls within reasonable driving distance of central Wilmington were $150 an hour, cash only. The dancer collected $100, and the rest went to the house. Calls from farther away charged more—Carolina Beach was maybe twenty minutes away, and that was $200 an hour per girl—but since they were the ones driving there, the girls kept the extra money. The girls were making $800 a night or more, just like that, while their friends were working eight or ten hours a day at places like Bojangles’ for ten dollars an hour.
    When a guy called Coed Confidential, he would give his address and directions. During a normal appointment, the girl would come in, take the money, and go in the bathroom or bedroom to get changed. The client was supposed to give the girl adequate time to fit into her outfit—no pounding on the door, no shouts to hurry up. About thirty minutes later, Teresa would call to let the girl know how long she’d been there. The rule was no longer than an hour, unless the customer was paying more. The phone call from Teresa was a sort of safety valve: If she couldn’t get ahold of the girl, she’d know to be concerned. There were other security provisions: Girls couldn’t go alone to a party; more than one guy necessitated the hiring of more than one girl.
    Kim had no trouble perfecting her delivery of the script: A girl comes out, she models lingerie, she dances for you topless, she ends up nude. Some girls offer massages, but if she’s rubbing your back, she has to be dressed. Tipping is optional. Sex, or “full service,” was never officially part of the deal. Inevitably, guys would ask, and the girl working the phones had a stock answer: No, that’s against the law. They will be topless, and they give you a massage as long as they have bottoms on . The girls were allowed to keep all tips, which was tacit encouragement to do more than dance, provided a client was willing to tip big. Teresa made a big show of not wanting to hear about any side deals. “Do what you want to do to earn the tips,” she said, “but just know that we don’t condone it.” She also covered herself. Each girl signed a form drawn up by Teresa’s lawyer, declaring that she worked as an independent contractor and that Teresa was not employing her to do anything illegal.
    Those early years, it was all about fun, and in some ways it was innocent. They weren’t prostitutes, at least on paper, and at times they didn’t even feel like escorts. They were best friends. Shortly after Kim started, Teresa moved to a breathtaking plantation-style house: eleven hundred dollars a month in rent for four bedrooms, hardwood floors, a grand staircase, huge living rooms on the ground floor, an antique rug, and a big Jacuzzi in one of the bathrooms. All the girls who worked for her kept extra clothes there. It was like they were college kids, crashing together in the same stunning dorm.
    Teresa made it easy to work for her. If you wanted to go on a call, you did. If you didn’t, you didn’t. When you made what you considered enough money, you had the rest of the day to do whatever you wanted. The big-money calls were at resorts like the Bald Head Island golf club off the coast of North Carolina. Those jobs were ideal: Guys on golf getaways, wives left at home. The girls would dance and spend the rest of the time doing a bunch of coke, playing poker, and negotiating side deals for sex. At the end of the weekend, they’d come home with a few thousand dollars each. For many of the girls, working for Teresa was about more than the parties—it vaulted them into a life of affluence, with all the trappings. Lending practices were so loose that the girls could pick up a car-loan application form at OfficeMax and have Teresa fill it out with whatever amount the girl wanted, and in no time, she would be approved.
    Even answering phones, Kim was making enough to forget all about waiting tables. Teresa was kicking