Orange

memoir excerpt

Jul 17, 2026

It’s during the escort service orientation that I learn the truth about orange.

I’m a 19-year-old actress and an occasional model (when I can keep a straight face while looking blank and sexy enough for the camera. It’s the blank part I can’t master. My brain’s canvas may have started as raw linen, but by the time I hit double digits, it’s a messy, splashy upside-down, inside-out Jackson Pollock in there.) On the other hand, a blank face, reflecting a momentarily blank mind… that could be a spiritual triumph! A Bodhisattva moment. In my twice-daily meditations, don’t I aim for such peace? Zen and the Art of Modeling. I feel another book coming on…

Anyway, Dale and I need to make more money to pay for our $500-a-month one-bedroom apartment in Reseda. And to keep ourselves fed with enough Cup O’ Noodles and bulk spaghetti and marinara sauce that my friend’s mom buys us from Sam’s Club. She gets us a month’s supply. I think it’s so cool. I mean, she’s a Sam’s Club member. She has a laminated card and everything!

Dale and I have jobs as movie extras, but the work isn’t consistent enough, so we start looking for other ways to make a buck. I see an ad in the back of the L.A. Weekly looking for models to provide companionship at parties and dinners for businessmen seeking arm candy and... dot dot dot.

But the dot dot dot... the lady who owns the escort service, Evelyn, wants to stress that the dot dot dot is absolutely, in no uncertain terms, NOT what this service is about. Not the the dot dot dot, no Sireee Buby, there will definitely be NO dot dot dot. No, no, no, no, no we don’t do that sort of thing here.

Unless, of course, two consenting adults happen to find themselves in a mutually consenting dot dot dot situation, in which both parties clearly and concisely consent to engage in the dot dot dot activities therein and heretofore and notwithstanding and so forth…etcetera etcetera etcetera…dot dot dot.

Although… being a big fan of dot dot dot... well... who knows? Maybe?

And afterwards... I can write about it!

During orientation, Evelyn, a tiny woman with an unruly mass of red hair and darting eyes, explains to a room full of young models how special we are to have been selected for this prestigious opportunity. Only the most intelligent, clever, charming women have been chosen to accompany these very important, successful men on their otherwise lonely evenings.

The men choose their escort by flipping through The Look Book, where our headshots and bikini shots are displayed alongside our measurements, where you can find our intelligence, cleverness, and charm.

I ask about the men.

“How do we know they’re... you know... good guys? And not... you know... not good guys?”

That’s when Evelyn really lights up.

The fluorescent lights above are way too bright, and they’re making that buzzing sound that makes me want to cry. The cold office reminds me that I forgot to bring a sweater, again. The space smells like Lysol and flowery perfume. Evelyn’s eyes are way too close together, and it’s kinda freaking me out. There’s a pop on fake pointy nail that must have popped off because it’s on the floor in front of me, hot pink and gold glitter. I’m hungry and really don’t want my stomach to growl, the sound is embarrassingly bear-like. Why did I come here again?

“I’m so glad you asked that,” she says. “I recently read a very important study about sociopaths. When you ask a sociopath what their favorite color is, they all say orange.”

She lets that sink in.

“So when I vet these men, the very first question I ask is, ‘What’s your favorite color?’ And if they say orange? No way, José, are they getting anywhere near my girls. You see? You’re perfectly safe.”

That night, over Sam’s Club spaghetti and boxed red wine, I ask Dale what his favorite color is.

“Blue,” he says. “What’s yours?”

I slurp up a single strand of spaghetti, flicking marinara sauce onto my nose.

“Orange.”