Skip to content, or skip to search.

Skip to content, or skip to search.

The Astral Plane Nail and Waxing Salon

After several rounds of correspondence, Ashley Dupré finds herself face to face with Silda Spitzer. And they’ve got company.

ShareThis

Illustration by Andy Friedman  

Dear Silda,


I hope you don’t mind my writing again after my maybe-somewhat-inappropriate letter of a year ago, in which I expanded on my feelings of remorse about your pain. I understand, I think, why you never answered, and I respect your decision not to. However, I’m hoping that in the same spirit, you can respect my need to reopen the channels of communication, at least on my end. I have been thinking about you a lot lately, and to me that’s an indication that you, on some level, are thinking about me too. I’d like to share with you some of the ways I’m trying to heal. That might sound weird, but I know you are an incredibly strong and intelligent and also compassionate woman. I have admired you so much, ever since I saw you on TV, and since then, I have read every article you have been in—in your stoical dignity you have become like a role model for me!

So here’s what I’ve been considering: A blind-dating reality show wants me to act as hostess, an online dating service called Sugarbabies wants to feature me as a romantic adviser, and something called The Onion wants to feature me as a moral adviser. Which should I pick? Your advice would mean a lot to me and be super-healing.

oxox Ashley

P.S. And likewise, if you have any advice you want from me, on any subject, I will be honored to give it.


Dear Silda,

While I understand and totally respect your decision not to answer my last letter, I am beginning to think maybe you are not so compassionate after all. I wonder, if your husband had mistakenly been intimately associated with a 22-year-old college student from your set, maybe a friend’s daughter, and she remorsefully reached out to you, would you just totally ignore her? I’m sure you have read Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky (I have too), and I hope you remember that in it, a spiritual young prostitute helps save a murderer. Similarly, in the classic Western High Noon, Grace Kelly is about to leave her boyfriend right before the shoot-out when a prostitute tells her, “If it was my man I would go to him!” And Grace does it! My point is that artists have long recognized that escorts are often a unique and powerful force for good in the domestic as well as the sociopolitical spectrum. There are many more recent examples, Pretty Woman, and the one about the guy with the humongous hose on HBO—but they are really moot as actually I’m not even an escort anymore. However, I hope it is not prejudice against escorts that is stopping you from answering.

Meanwhile, last night I dreamed that you and I were eating lunch together at Tavern on the Green. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but there was a really good feeling to the dream. It made me want to write and ask, would you like to have lunch together?

oxox Ashley

P.S. I wasn’t going to say this, but I know I can trust you. Former vice-president Dick Cheney has been writing me letters! I never even wrote to him, and so far I have not answered. This just shows how not an escort I am: I could charge him a lot of money just to read his letters. But I’m not.


Dear Silda,

Just a heads-up to let you know that on my blog tomorrow I am going to be making a statement that the women of NYC and New Jersey who’ve so vocally judged me are really no different from me, that they want nice things too and use men to get them. I want to make sure you know that I do not include you in this. In my mind, you are different.

oxox Ashley

P.S. In case you are not answering because you don’t want a paper trail, you can lea ve a message on my blog. I will be totally checking!


“Meet me at the Astral Plane Nail and Waxing Salon in Queens. You know what I’m talking about. Midnight. We’ll be sending a car. Use the side door.” s.s.


Dear Diary,

She answered me! Right after I posted my kiss-off to the hypocritical women of NYC (and N.J.). I was somewhat obsessively reading the most recent comments on my last blog entry—and there it was, the message from Silda! And the funny thing is, I did know what she was talking about. But I was so excited to hear from her that I didn’t ask myself how I knew.

Then somehow, there I was traveling through Queens via car service, containing my excitement and thinking about what I was going to say to Silda. I was in a strange mood. Almost sad. Because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to tell her what I feel and why I want to talk with her. The same stupid unreal things would come out of my mouth, and she would not respect me and then it would be over. And why did I even care?


Related:

Advertising
Current Issue
Subscribe to New York
Subscribe

Give a Gift

Advertising