Paige Savage: Luxury Black New York & Minneapolis GFE Escort

With an ambiguous background, I may confuse some about my beginnings & influences. Armed with (s)ass, unpretentious refinement, & humor, I am no ordinary woman, nor do I aspire to be. A southern romantic born in Europe, growing up I split my time between the bucolic Midwest & the sweltering heat of the Deep South.

I’ve always loved the slow pace of the Deep South, where the tea is sweet & the g’s drop off like the endless summers. Summers spent lazily by the lake, the nights made for smoky bonfires & illicit stories of high school conquests. I loved the opulence— the beautiful houses, the southern etiquette, the men in seersucker & the women dangling on their arms like highballs. It’s also where I learned how to throw a football & caked my jeans in mud keeping up with the boys who mocked, “No girls allowed.” 

Where am I now?

Bewitching you with my honey brown eyes & smooth caramel skin, reliving kisses stolen in dimly lit rooms as thrilling as those few sips of beer I’d sneak as a teen by the lake. Of course, I prefer scotch or bourbon now & have the raspy voice of a jazz singer to match, quick to excite. My grandmother, a true Steel Magnolia, believed that a cut of the eyes could say more than any words, but that the most beautiful voice was that of an educated woman from the South.

My body is reminiscent of those back roads we love: curvy & unbridled, the lingering scent of cottonwoods & magnolias calling. I can run hot like August in Savannah, smile like the sun, & laugh so hard I cry tears straight from the Mississippi. Often described as a “real down to mars girl”, I’m not so much the “girl next door” as I am the “grown woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to tell you how she wants it”. And yet, I can be found flaunting my thighs in denim shorts & jamming to Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mac, Buddy Holly, or OutKast. I’ll want you cupping my heart-shaped face in your hands, hooking your fingers into the belt loop of my denim shorts & pulling me in close. Then again, my hips & thighs are meant to hold onto, too — like those carefree days in your youth. You remember?

And when you run your fingers through my thick, curly hair, I’ll look at you, lean in closer, & with a wry smile I’ll say, “The higher the hair, the closer to God.”