Archive for February, 2010

I got my first call the day after the photoshoot. I was less than prepared. I had just gotten home from picking my car up from the bar I’d been at the night before, and I still smelled like cigarettes and spilled beer. My phone rang. Two-thirty appointment at incall (For those of you that don’t know, an incall is a house, hotel room, or apartment paid for and maintained by the agency, or the provider if she’s independent).

This was happening kinda fast.

I drove over to the incall, punched in the gate code, and went into the building. I was confused. No one had told me how to handle the “situation.” I didn’t know how to greet clients, how to subtly ask for the fee, or how to initiate the actual session. Once again, I lucked out. Another girl was already at the apartment, and she explained the spiel to me. Invite the client in. Check his ID if he’s new. Offer him a drink. Tell him he can leave his “gift” on the counter. Count the money and drop the agency’s fee in the safe. Check in with the agency. Meet him in a bedroom. Get down to business.

Someone knocked on the door. My face went red, not from embarrassment, but from nervousness. I let the client, DS, in and asked for his ID. He’d forgotten it. Of course something would go wrong on my first appointment. I called M and she told me to let it go. Even though he was new to me, he wasn’t new to the agency.

When I got into the bedroom, DS was sitting in a chair, pants already down, shirt up to expose his chest and stomach. I hadn’t realized how awkward I would feel being with a guy I had no attraction to until just then. He took control.

“C’mere, baby girl. Get down on your knees and suck.”

I did what I was told. He told me to take my panties off and stick my ass in the air. Again, I complied. He groped my ass and poked around a little bit.

“Yeah, I think I could fit my dick in there.”

I don’t like assplay of any sort, besides spanking. My one experience with anal was less than pleasant. A piss drunk ex-boyfriend “accidentally” slipped into my ass during doggie style one pitch-black night. It was painful. I rolled into a fetal position and cried. While the jury’s still out on whether or not it truly was an accident, I’ve already decided it’s not something I want to repeat, planned or not. DS left the subject alone. About fifteen minutes in to his half hour, we heard a crash outside the bedroom. The other girl, Katie, had tripped over something.

“Ay baby, go get that other girl in here. I wanna see her tits.”

We don’t work for free. I told him as much. He said he’d pay her an extra hundred. I don’t know if he ever did. Regardless, I asked her to come in the room with us and she followed.

I got back down on my knees and went down on him again. My jaw was getting sore. I wasn’t sure if I could do this for ten hours a week, even spaced out. Katie pulled the straps of her top down, and he squeezed her tits and pinched her nipples while shoving my head down. He looked like he was trying to milk a cow. I would have laughed if my mouth weren’t full.

“She’s real good at this, isn’t she?”

Slight, bizarre ego boost. And yet, he still wasn’t coming. Just groaning and groping. I asked him if I was doing anything wrong, if he wanted me to do anything differently.

“It would take a lot more than this to get me off.”

Ouch. Ego deflated. He didn’t say it in a mean way, though. And I suppose I understand where he was coming from. I love love love sex, but I can’t get off from straight fucking. At least, I never have.

Finally, the session drew to a close. Apparently, he had been watching the clock since I couldn’t in my position. Katie and I left the room so that DS could get dressed. I let him out with a hug.

Cue the thought train: A hug? What. The. Fuck? I hug my grandparents goodbye. Lord, I hope they never find out. It would kill my poor grandma. And Grandpa’s already got one foot in the grave. At least this pays well. I can finally pay off my credit card bills. And pay next semester’s tuition. I cannot fucking wait until I graduate. No real job is going to pay like this, though. I’m making as much per hour as some people with their fancy graduate degrees make. Ha, I should tell my uncle that the next time he brags about my cousin getting into Yale. Or Princeton. Wherever she’s going. This is one of the least sexy things I’ve ever done. Including that time I puked in my hair before having that one-night stand. At least that guy was hot. This guy was just… Well. Not up to standard, that’s for sure. I like ‘em masculine. Bear Grylls, yum! What the hell was up with all those little curlicues this guy called chest hair? At least he had trimmed his pubes for me. So thoughtful…

And so, I collected my things and went home, $100 richer.

The job may not be glamorous, but it pays.

*NOTE* There is something wrong with this post. The people I’ve had review this all agree – there’s something missing. Probably emotion. But that’s because my first call wasn’t an emotional one for me. I have clients that I adore hanging out with, and I have clients that I detest. The first one was neither; I was simply indifferent. I’ll get to the good stuff soon enough.

As I said in my first post, most of my friends, as well as several strangers I’ve met at parties or bars, know what I do for a living. I’m not ashamed of it. And if someone is the type to judge, I probably wouldn’t last long as their friend or acquaintance anyway. What I didn’t mention is that none of my family knows, except for my younger sister.

Now, my sister isn’t much younger than I. She’ll be of age later this year. There is enough of an age difference, however, that I’ve gotten to fuck up long before her. In the past, she’s insisted she’ll never be a fuck up. She’s called me a slut. And a drunk. And said she hates me. And she’ll never be like me. I know this because I stole her diary one night and read it. I’m an awesome big sister. Anyway, one day she found my work bag. In accordance with my line of work, my work bag is not the typical briefcase or purse. In place of files and laptops or a wallet and Red Bulls (or whatever it is women keep in their purses), I have several sets of lingerie and about three different cosmetic bags. Oh, and a set of fuzzy handcuffs and a crop. More on that later. In any event, she came to the conclusion that everyone else does when I say I work in the adult industry: I must be a stripper.

When she finally balled up and asked about my job, I explained it to her. I have enough leverage on my sister and her little pot smoking boyfriend that I know she’ll keep my secrets. Instead of being horrified, she was psyched. And I guess I can see why an outsider would. The money is amazing. The sex is vanilla (which may not be exciting to some, but you realize over time that vanilla sex ends quicker, and quicker is often better). The hours are extremely flexible. Of course, there is a trade off. It’s emotionally taxing. It’s hard, even impossible, to maintain a happy romantic relationship. Some women lost their dignity and their minds. But no seventeen year old is thinking of that. No, all they’re thinking of is how they’ve never seen that much money from one night’s work in their lives.

So she’s thinking of following my footsteps into hookerdom. On one hand, I know she’d do well. She may be seventeen, but she looks about twelve. Throw her in a schoolgirl costume and the pervs will come running. It’ll be like Britney Spears before she lost her marbles and her kids. On the other hand, I’m absolutely terrified. I am what I am, and I’m happy with myself, but that doesn’t mean I want my teeny tiny Twiggy look-a-like sister doing what I do. She’s easily broken, both physically and emotionally. She’s too good for this.

Yeah, I said it.

Maybe I’ll offer to buy her a car if she avoids this life. Teenagers are easy to bribe, right?

Whenever I tell people what I do for a living, the most common question is how I got into this line of work. Because of this, I’m going to preemptively address my new beginnings here.

I worked in food service for five years, my last stint being a year and a half waitressing at a wing chain. After calling in sick one weekend and getting fired for it, I decided I was done waiting tables for what came down to about ten bucks an hour. I spent the rest of the semester concentrating on school, and wound up on the dean’s list for my troubles. Mommy and Daddy footed most of my bills for those couple of months, and it seemed nice. Sadly, I hate relying on my parents for money, so I spent some time trolling around on Craigslist and backpage.com to get a feel for what jobs were available outside food service. I needed a certain amount of flexibility to fit around my school schedule, and I wanted to make a decent amount of money in the meantime. Without a college degree or a strong sense of entrepreneurship, my only option seemed to be in adult services. I found an ad for escorting, spent some time researching the agencies in my area, and calculated my earnings over an extended period. Mama’s gotta get a new set of wheels, y’know. I held off on applying for two months so that I could finish out my semester and get a feel for how my friends and peers would view my job choice. As it turns out, I’m one lucky gal. All of my friends at least accept my choice; most support me to varying degrees.

So, with a day of finals left, I bit the bullet and applied to a few agencies. All of them replied the next day. I thought I would put off replying to them until my finals were done, but one manager was persistent, calling me every few hours over the course of my day. When I finally answered that night, M and I chatted and went over the details.

M: So just so you know, our two requirements are that you kiss clients and give BBBJ. Are you okay with that?
BH: What’s BBBJ? [I’m not naïve, just a bit dense sometimes]
M: Bareback blowjobs. Can you do that?
BH: Oh. Wow. Umm. Sure. Yeah. I mean, I’m not in a relationship right now, so I guess it won’t offend anyone.
M: Great. Okay. So the rates are $200 per half hour, $275 per hour incall. $300 for an outcall. The agency gets $100 per hour per call, and you keep the remainder including tips. Just check in with me every morning by nine and let me know what your schedule is for the day. Now, we’re updating the website and doing a photo shoot in ******* tomorrow afternoon. Can you make it?

Oh geez. Two finals, and she wanted me to make a three hour round trip in between. Great.

BH: Yeah. Sure. I think so.
M: Okay, just pull into the Shell station right off the exit and call me to come pick you up. Make sure you have all your makeup and at least three outfits, and don’t look trashy. See you tomorrow, sweetie.

It sounded a little fishy to me. Actually, it sounded a lot fishy. I was beginning to think this was a sting of some sort. I made my old roommate detail and secret keeper. Just in case I went to jail or was abducted. I don’t like jail. I don’t imagine I’d like abduction much more. At this point, I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell my problem is. Why would I go against my gut instinct? Answer: because I was desperate. Because I was [and still am] greedy. Because there’s so much I want to do and want to have, and I can’t have it all if I’m dead broke.

So I packed my bag with all the lingerie and stripper heels I had, and headed out the next day. As it turns out, I had to wait at the gas station because the photo shoot was in an out-of-the-way residential area, and it was much easier to follow M than to try driving there on my own. A Porsche was parked in the driveway. I go inside, and there’s half naked girls and underwear everywhere. Shot glasses lined the counter. There was a round couch in front of a mirrored wall in the living room, and a stripper pole in front of a mirrored wall of its own in the master bedroom. I felt like I’d walked into a rap video. All of the girls were very sweet and very encouraging, and most of them were so, so fake. That’s what this industry is all about, after all. Give people what you think they want, but chances are, you don’t mean it for a minute.

I went through my outfits and had my pictures taken. The photographer kept telling me to look sexier, sultrier. But I can’t. I’m not that. I’m goofy [in a cute way, of course]. I joke a lot. I don’t smolder and glare. I tried my best, though. He seemed happy with the outcome. I wasn’t. I look angry in my pictures. Whatever brings business my way, though. Once we finished with the pictures and I’d downed a disgusting shot of tequila, I dressed and went on to finish my finals. And the rest, as always, is history. Or, in my case, my day-to-day life.

Hi, I’m the new Billed Hourly, and I’m a high priced call girl.