I'm single and don't know if I could ever get married after sleeping with so many married men — more than I can remember. It doesn't exactly give me faith in marriage.

I call myself a "freelance escort." I'm 28, but am told often that I look at least five years younger. I have the kind of tiny but curvy body that drives men wild, with auburn hair and almond-shaped eyes.

The first time or two, I looked at their wedding rings the whole time and they always noticed and then got nervous, as if my guilt was making them feel guilty. So I decided not to look at their hands.

They want to talk a lot more than you think. They want to vent about their kids' private schools, their bosses, their bonus talks, their friend beating them at squash. I didn't even know what the hell squash was at the time. Talking, talking, talking, as if their lives were harder than mine and I wasn't the one there to have sex with them for money. I started feeling resentful of them.

I got into it when I first moved to New York and desperately needed money to survive. Sam, who ran the first escort service I was with, told me when we met that some guys pay $2,000 an hour. I thought he was exaggerating, but I decided to try it. My stomach churned so much before I got picked up the first night that I was constantly going to the bathroom.

"How can I be sexy like this?" I thought.

The driver picked me up in Manhattan, far away from where I lived, and we went to an apartment in Midtown. The guy there said he was an "investor" and offered me champagne right away. He said he had seen a lot of girls but wanted me to be his "special" girl, and that he liked me a lot. We spent two hours together and I got $1,000 instead of the $3,000 I had been promised. I asked Sam why I only got $1,000, and he said it was the cut I got for jobs until I proved that I could hold onto clients.