The next night, on the last day of the conference, I attend an after party with my co-workers. There is an open bar, and Jenna already has a glazed look in her eye. Clearly she’s taken advantage of the free drinks, and I don't blame her. I'm about to do the same.

"Where have you been these last few nights?" Jenna asks me with a cute little hiccup.

I feign ignorance. "What do you mean?" I can't help but laugh.

"I mean that you've been like a disappearing act!" Jenna says, raising her eyebrows. "You're here one minute and gone the next."

"Oh, that," I say with a shrug. "My back pain has had me going back to my room to lie down until my pain medicine kicks in. Which I shouldn't be mixing with the booze, I know..." I let my words trail off because I know that the more details you give in a lie, the more likely you are to basically destroy your own little scheme. I so don't need Jenna to know that I came to Vegas and became a prostitute!

"You are too young to be so old!" Jenna laughs. "You are turning into my grandma."

I can barely suppress a laugh at Jenna's comment. Her teasing couldn't be more ironic and farther from the truth. If only she knew what has been happening these last couple of nights. I can't decide what would shock her more, knowing that I have been whoring myself out...or knowing that I not only fucked my stepson but that I want to fuck him again.

I let those wicked thoughts shoot a brief thrill through me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

From a bar at the back of the casino, I notice a man staring in my direction. He has dark-blonde, slicked-back hair. His gaze puts me on edge, so I look away. I try to engage in small talk with the girls, but despite refusing to look in the strange man's direction I can still feel his presence.

His stare is not a flirtatious one. It is thick with intent. I wonder why he’s targeting me, out of all the beautiful women in the room, why me? I am with friends, so he can't be assuming I'm a prostitute.

I decide to turn around and see if the man is still staring at me. Sure enough he is and this time, he subtly curls his finger, urging me to come over.

I shake my head to say 'no.' There is no way I am going to walk over to that creepy man. I feel like nothing good will come of that encounter.

The night rolls on. I dance with friends, enjoy drinks, laugh at a few stories, and nearly forget about the man. But when I look in his direction, he is still sitting in the same spot, his deep gaze burning into my brain. Again, he motions for me to come over to him.

This time, more angry than afraid, I excuse myself from my friends, telling them I need to pee. Once out of their sight, I head over to the insistent creeper.

He tries to extend his hand to me, but I keep my distance.

"What do you want?" I snap. "Do you have a fucking problem?

"I heard what you've been doing," the man says, as if this no context statement is supposed to mean something to me.

"I think you've confused me with someone else," I say.

"No, I'm not," the man replies. "I know you're the newest high-end escort in the area. Don't play stupid with me."

"I don't know how you heard about that," I reply, and continue, "But I'm not doing that anymore, especially with you. End of story."

The man laughs, stroking his mustache and giving the slight hint of a smoker's cough, "I'm not interested in fucking you. I heard you're high end. I hear everything regarding your types of services in this area. I'm very good at what I do. I also heard that you are going at it alone."

I shake my head, half-heartedly shaking him off.

But the man continues, "That's both incredibly dangerous and also financially irresponsible."

"You know what—let me stop you right there," I say. "I really don't know what you're trying to get at, and it doesn't matter anyway. I'm done."

The man sighs, and leans back into his chair, "That's a shame because with the right management you could be raking in a couple grand a night for yourself while having the protection you need. I guess you are making more than two thousand a day at your current job then if you're not doing this anymore."

He says this with the hint of a dare.

I am shocked, both by the fact that there's a guy sitting here, offering to be my pimp, and also by the fact the he is suggesting I could make $2,000 per night for my work, which if I'm honest with myself, I find kind of exciting and enjoyable.

But what am I thinking? I realize that I am leaving Las Vegas the next morning. I won't be back for another year, not until the next hospitality convention rolls around. I also kind of have a life back home. I turn and start to walk away, but the man quickly chimes in, "You're not from around here, are you?"

I refuse to answer the question, but I know it is written all over my face: he's right.

The man continues, "If you can get out here for just one weekend a month, I can make you five thousand per weekend."

This stuns me. I stand here, trying to wrap my head around that number. But I can't just sneak off to Vegas, move around my hotel shifts, and become a high-end escort with a pimp and everything. Right?

"I can't," I reply, turning on my heels to leave.

"If you change your mind," the man extends his hand, "Take my card. My name is Thomas."