But little girls can draw conclusions/And profit from their lost illusions.

I am not sure why the poem by Phyllis McGinley – “What Every Woman Knows” – from which the above verse is taken resonates with me so when I think about Jeane and the 130 escorts who worked for her. . . 

It was a compelling sociological experience to review the 130 introduction letters sent by Jeane’s escorts to her seeking a job as an escort with Pamela Martin & Associates, Jeane’s escort agency. Most all of them spoke in the plainest of terms. For example, one letter said:

I'd like to take this time to introduce myself and let you know a little about me. I'm 24 years old, born and raised in VA, five minutes outside Washington DC. I've had a variety of different jobs from [working for a telephone company], working in a pharmacy compounding drugs, [working at a major D.C. Hotel] to cocktail waitress. A couple of reasons I think you should consider me for employment is that I'm a very giving and caring person. What ever position I'm put in I can get along with anyone on a very personal level and make them feel comfortable at all times. I do have a little experience. Although I cut that short when I realized it was not a good company. I spoke with [Jeane] on the phone, she was very nice, she described the position to me and I am still very interested. 

Yet one analysis – among many undertaken by the government – of the data seized from Jeane’s house revealed that most all of the escorts only worked a few months for Jeane before they retired; burned out by the reality of the job of providing sex for money to strange men. There were a few exceptions but only a few. Moreover, those who did subsequently return all cited the need for money as the reason to go back into the work of escorting. Which is why the full poem of Phyllis McGinley seems so apt to me:

What Every Woman Knows

When Little boys are able

To comprehend the flaws

In their December fable

And part with Santa Claus,

Although I do not think they grieve,

How burningly they disbelieve!

They cannot wait, they cannot rest

For knowledge nibbling at the breast.

They cannot rest, they cannot wait

To set conniving parents straight.

Branding that comrade as a dunce

Who trusts the saint they trusted once,

With rude guffaw and facial spasm

They publish their iconoclasm,

And find particularly shocking

The thought of hanging up a stocking.

But little girls (no blinder

When faced by mortal fact)

Are cleverer and kinder

And brimming full of tact.

The knowingness of little girls

Is hidden underneath their curls.

Obligingly, since parents fancy

The season's tinsel necromancy,

They take some pains to make pretense

Of duped and eager innocence.

Agnostics born but Bernhardts bred,

They hang the stocking by the bed,

Make plans, and pleasure their begetters

By writing Santa lengthy letters.

Only too well aware the fruit

Is shinier plunder, richer loot.

For little boys are rancorous

When robbed of any myth,

And spiteful and cantankerous

To all their kin and kith.

But little girls can draw conclusions

And profit from their lost illusions.