A 90-Day Goodbye

There are endings that arrive like storms. Tearing through the house of a life and leaving every room rearranged.

And then there are endings that come quietly. Soft like a quiet sunset during the eve of first love, or like heat lifting from the Georgia pavement at dusk. Like a flower loosening its grip on the stem. I am a woman standing in the doorway of her own life, finally understanding that she does not have to remain anywhere simply because she’s there.

This is one of those endings, Paramour. I have made the concrete decision to retire fully from this industry.

Not halfway and softly enough to be misunderstood either. Not in the vague language of ‘on hiatus’ that companions often use when they are still keeping a small lamp lit for their return never turning off socials.

This is it and I hope you take the words that come after and in the next few months seriously.

I am giving myself, and those who have genuinely valued my presence, a 90-day closing season.

That feels honest and honorable. A sudden disappearance would not honor what this chapter has been. It would not allow time for our first to be our last. It doesn’t allow me to once again relish receiving flowers or compliment how your shirt matches your eyes over a farewell dinner.

But…an endless farewell that stretched far into some unknown and unnamed future would be its own kind of dishonesty. I have no desire to haunt the threshold of a life I already know I am leaving in a house that’s long since been stripped bare.

So I am choosing to give everyone who has ever wanted to meet me and everyone who has met me 90 days. This is our measured goodbye. The last brilliant bloom before the branches of summer turn to the harvest. There are things we know deep in spirit well before our minds can form the words that our mouths wish to hold.

The way summer knows when to let go and allow autumn to cover the Northeast in gold.

The way flowers do not hate the bloom because it must one day release it so that fruit may swell to nourish Earth’s great creatures. This flows along the same vein. I am a woman who has loved what has carried her forward, but every brilliant story eventually ends. New horizons have called like siren songs beckoning me to new shores. I have answered that call.

There is no disgust and I regret nothing. My time has been 90% pleasurable and so many of you have opened and broadened my world. Especially the men of the Northeast, my god have you raised the bar!

I will never forget the scavenger hunt at the Museum of Natural History NYC where you 3D printed each piece, gave me a codex, and ended my hunt with a beautiful sapphire as my gift. You indulged my inner child that day and that will forever be the capstone to my retirement.

I have cherished each book. Some signed, rare editions.

I still have my NJ Devils jersey for my first hockey game.

I have the leather journal you gifted me and I write in it daily.

I have every single menu to every single Michelin we’ve gone to.

I’m still working my way through an infinite amount of spa gift cards.

I still remember when you paid my tuition.

All of this and so much more were not received flippantly. I received them with immense gratitude and they’ve actually taught me a great deal about life…about love…about connection…about who really sees me, and who I remain invisible to. There was mutual recognition. I am eternally grateful and I know this long season of my life has set me up to be the most interesting woman in the retirement community one day.

But life is written in books, and it is time to begin writing my new chapter. For a while, I listened to it call me quietly.

I reminded myself of what this season had given me. Money when money was necessary. Freedom to acquire three degrees and explore the deepest parts of my person in a way that few are ever given the privilege to do. Beauty, strategy, discipline, and a life built by my own hands. A woman built by her own hands and who has lived by her own design. I reminded myself of the rooms I had entered, the cities I had moved through, the people I had met, the versions of myself I had been brave enough to become. And still, underneath all of that gratitude, something in me kept saying: Enough.

Because we each must know when the vessel that has carried  you across one river cannot carry you across the next.

This work has taught me more than most polite society has the courage to speak of aloud, but definitely indulges in the shadows. It has taught me about longing, lust, craven desire, unbridled pleasure, and the psychology of sex. Not the stuff people write about in pretty poems, though there has been that too. I mean the hidden kind. The kind of kink folded inside expensive jackets and pressed shirts. The kind of longing that sits across from me with a controlled voice and restless hands and long to grip my ass. The kind of desire that lives beneath accomplishment, marriage, ambition, loneliness, restraint, and the careful architecture of a public self.

I have seen how deeply people wish to be recognized...not merely desired. Not merely entertained. Recognized. Seen. Held. Witnessed in the fullness of their humanity without judgement. To be desired can be fleeting. To be recognized is to have some hidden part of the self called gently by a name long forgotten.

I have learned that intimacy is not always born from permanence. Sometimes it comes in a room where two people know the clock is present, and still choose to be honest within its shadow. Sometimes it arrives in conversation before touch. Sometimes it lives in the exhale and knowing smile that follows, the laughter after confession, the silence that does not ask to be filled but held and honored.

I have never treated your presence as a small thing.

I have never believed that my time, my softness, my attention, or my body were casual offerings. Everything about the way I moved through this chapter: my writing, my boundaries, my screening, my presentation, my pace were all a part of a larger architecture.

A way of saying: Enter thoughtfully. Approach me honestly. Enter with reverence for the fact that I am not an object passing through your life, but a woman with a life of her own. That is not changing, however; the timeline within which you have access to me has changed.

Over these next 90 days, my life will be turning more deliberately toward what comes next. New work. New structure. New privacy. New forms of devotion. A quieter life, as a retired hot girl…perhaps. A more ordinary one in some ways. A more extraordinary--one most definitely. A life where I am not always arranging myself around availability, interpretation, or someone else’s desires.

Because of that, I want to say this clearly: June and July will be the most graceful months to see me.

August will exist, but it will not hold the same openness or easy access to me as I will be slowly fading away online, and consolidating my presence (which many of you have already witnessed). By August, my attention will be elsewhere. My schedule will be tighter. My selectivity will be sharper. The closer I move toward the end of this 90 day season, the less available I will become–and not just on the calendar.

This is not a warning dressed in a Victorian laced bodice from some high-end lingerie brand.

It is simply the truth.

If you have been waiting, reading, watching, returning, wondering, or telling yourself there would always be another time, I would not build your plans around August.

June has room.

July has some room.

August will be tight.

This threshold is not built for lingering or hesitation.

If we have met before and you have thought of reconnecting, this is the time to say so clearly. If we have not met, but my words, my images, my presence, or the particular atmosphere around me has stayed somewhere in your mind, this is the time to introduce yourself properly. If you have almost written, almost booked, almost made space, almost trusted the impulse — let me tell you something I know to be true: Almost can become its own small grief. A little ghost that follows you, whispering, you had time when there was time.

I am not interested in manufacturing urgency. I have never needed to shout to be heard by the people meant to hear me. But I do believe in speaking clearly and succinctly. The woman you have known as Jasmine, Milan, Alexandria, and now Olivia is leaving. 

She is still here…for now, of course.

Still warm.

Still thoughtful.

Still capable of beauty.

Still able to create a room where the world loosens its hands from your throat for a while.

But she is leaving.

And because I believe in the dignity of endings, I want this one to have grace.

My current parameters remain:

Available hours: 9 AM–8 PM, If later is desired please consider tipping

Advance notice: 24 hours preferred

Sundays: reserved for those who book at least 72 hours in advance

Home base: Newark, NJ, but available by request throughout NJ and NY

My availability will be limited. I will be prioritizing established connections, thoughtful introductions, and those who make it easy for me to say yes. When reaching out, please include your preferred date, time, duration, location needs, and any relevant details. If we have not met before, screening remains required.

Even better: Complete my contact form to be ushered to the front of the line.

Please do not send vague messages asking whether I am “around.” I am “around” for those who approach me sincerely and who make it easy. I have always paid close attention to how people enter my world. That will remain true until the end.

To those who have been part of this chapter with kindness, generosity, consistency, humor, tenderness, or simple respect: Thank you!

You have given me stories I will never write in full, but will always understand. You have reminded me that even within imperfect systems, real moments can bloom. That tenderness can appear in unlikely rooms. That desire, when held with care, can reveal something human rather than merely hungry.

And to those who may still enter before the door closes: You have 90 days.

If you know you would like to see me before I retire, June and July are the months to make that known. August will not be the month for hesitation.

With care,

Olivia