Hot Child in the City (cliché, I know)

When I landed on the tarmac at John F. Kennedy International Airport on Dec. 19, 2008 after having spent 4 months living in Prague, I had become accustomed to male – and specifically homosexual – prostitution. It was normal, nothing shocking at all.

I still remember the first time that I ever met a prostitute. After downing half a bottle of vodka, I left my apartment with my roommate and a friend, and we headed to Escape, what we assumed was simply a gay club. Wrong! As soon as we arrived, we learned that it was what the Czechs called a gay rent bar (a place where men go if they are specifically looking to find a prostitute). And on that night I met my first prostitute. He looked no different that any other student at N.Y.U. in Prague. He was 19 years old and a high school drop out, who made almost $300 per encounter.

After that, I began to see prostitutes more and more often. By simply walking down a certain street, I would have to struggle to avoid eye contact in order to prevent a hoard of teenage boys from running towards me, offering everything from oral sex to their virginity. On one occasion, I was actually mistaken for a prostitute and offered $400, because the man thought that I seemed purer than the rest. At that moment, I lost interest in Prague.

But upon my return to New York, I thought that was all behind me. That is until I downed yet another bottle of vodka – I should seriously consider switching to gin or rum – and headed off to a notorious, local gay bar (if you're really curious and want to know which one, send me an e-mail).

After getting my groove on to a handful of classics – Britney, Madonna, etc. – I wandered away from the dance floor and over to the bar. Standing there, looking right at me, was a god: a 6-foot-5-inch god. Persian. Wavy, brown hair. Blue eyes. Fantastic body. He ordered me a drink – Vodka again, ugh – and we talked for the next hour, about politics, restaurants, the Yankees, even the latest Kelly Clarkson song. Anything and everything.

When I finally got up the nerve to ask him if he was – and let's pray that my mother won't be reading this – interested in, uh, joining me for the remainder of the evening at my apartment, he moved closer, and whispered something in my ear.

"I'd love to," he said. "For $200."

I pulled away with a confused look on my face.

"Are you a..."

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am."

I politely declined, and instead of admitting my disappointment, I simply blamed the economy and N.Y.U.'s hefty bill. He smiled, and was kind enough to buy me another drink (Rum! Praise the Lord!). And that was when I heard his story. He was 28 years old, a graduate of the University of Chicago and Columbia Business School, and a former employee of Lehman Brothers. After months of being unemployed, he wanted to return to his financial stability and used the only asset he had left: his body. After a few more drinks, I left the bar (with a dinner date I might add – bad choice?) and I went home to go to bed.

I was restless for nearly two hours however. In the wake of the economic recession, had prostitution crossed the Atlantic? I sat there wondering about prostitution in New York. This may sound naive, but while I was living in Prague, I had this image that New York was above Prague, and far too cosmopolitan for prostitution. I eventually decide to wake up my roommate and tell him my story. He chuckled.

"Haven't you ever looked at Craigslist? Loads of 'escorts' advertise on there all the time," he said. "And check out Rentboy too."

I spent the next hour realizing that prostitution had been surrounding me for longer than I had cared to imagine. In the deep corners of my mind I am sure that I knew that petty prostitution existed, but it was not until I had my first, one-on-one experience with a prostitute in America that I realized that it was indeed everywhere.

The next morning I headed off to brunch with several fellow "Chelsea Boys." It was eerily similar to a "Sex and the City" moment. We were all at Cafeteria, sitting around sipping mimosas and talking about life. When I brought up my night, I was surprised by the responses that my story received. My friends were not concerned with the fact that a smart, intelligent young man was selling his body so that he could simply get by. They were in fact more concerned with whether or not I would attempt to sleep with him after our date. It was in that moment that I finally realized Chelsea's biggest flaw.

For them, living in Chelsea is about the excitement and the glamor, the cheap thrills. If only they could finally take a step back, and see all of the flaws of the community that they have come to cherish and love so dearly.

(And for your information, the answer is no, I did not.)