Discretion, Heels, and Humanity
They never walk in wearing neon signs or fishnets; they are elegant, composed and often better dressed than the executives upstairs. This is New York City, not a movie set . We learn to spot them quickly after a while of working, the kind of confidence, the brief glances; they dont ask for directions because they always know where they are going; it’s a routine for them.
Being the receptionist in a high-rise hotel that hosts everything from hedge fund meetings to private clubs, I’ve seen my share of unconventional visitors. Sex workers are part of that quiet, invisible current flowing beneath the city’s polished surface. They never linger around the lobby; they come here with a purpose; appointments are booked under vague names, and the means they meet always come seperately, acting like strangers to one another.
We dont judge; this city is running on money, power and need, and nobody understands that better than women and sometimes even men who walk past my desk with the perfect posture and unreadable expressions.
Some of them come in regularly; I slowly learn their coffee orders, their fake last names and their preferred floors. I’ve built a silent understanding with them; a nod, a smile or even a glance is enough for me to understand them. I once handed a woman tissue before she could even ask; her heels had broken, and I knew better than to fuss. She just needed a moment to get herself back together and go ahead with her confidence.
They are not loud; they are completely opposite of what you expect them to be. Sharp, witty, observant and elegant, that’s what they are. Some of them look tired, like the glitter of the city doesn’t reach them anymore. But others walk like they own the place. There was one I won’t forget. She waited for her client for almost an hour, sitting upright, unreadable. When he finally came down, late and drunk, she stood up, looked him in the eye, and said, “You’re not worth it today.” Then she walked out. I admired that.
Many of you think that I’m just here to answer phones the whole day. But that is not true. This desk is like a confessional booth without a curtain. Everybody passes through it, and everyone thinks no one is watching, but I see them all. The ones who come here silently, hoping nobody finds them here. And the ones who are paid to pretend? They often show more honesty in the quiet seconds between elevator dings than the men who pay them ever do.
New York runs on performance, but down here at the front desk, I get glimpses of who is really acting out there.