Archive for March, 2010

I forgot yesterday was my mother’s birthday. Or rather, I remembered but didn’t reconcile that fact in my head with the question of whether or not to work. Besides which, we don’t go out on her birthday because she’s afraid of the St. Patrick’s Day drunks. And so, I took an appointment in the evening.

His name is Mike, and he’s a client I’ve seen semi regularly since I first started escorting. He’s a quiet, unassuming Indian guy. Those are always the strangest ones. He was supposed to be at incall at five-thirty. By then, I’d already been there for two hours playing maid. Hookers are lazy, self entitled cunts with a knack for avoiding housekeeping, and don’t let anyone tell you differently. I’d probably be the same way, but I like having clean towels when I take a shower.

Five-thirty rolled around, and he wasn’t there. Ten minutes passed. I asked my booker if he’d gotten lost. She laughed. Everything’s funny to her for some reason. Another ten minutes went by. Finally, the knock came. I let him in and we made small talk on the way to the bedroom. In the time it took me to drop the agency’s fee in the safe and text the booker to check in, he’d stripped down to nothing. We don’t fuck around here.

I took his cue and pulled my teddy over my head. I wondered why I even bother wearing lingerie anymore, since it doesn’t seem to stay on for long. Perhaps I should just start answering the door naked and eliminate a step. I walked over to where he was standing in front of the full-length mirror against the wall. He gave me a brief kiss, then grabbed my shoulders and pushed me downward onto my knees. He directed me, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. “Suck Daddy’s dick, baby.” I thought, not this shit again. How is an imaginary incestuous relationship a turn-on to men? Regardless, I listened and started bobbing my head. His face contorted, almost in a wince, and he continued talking dirty to himself. “Oh, baby. That’s right. Yes, use your tongue. Suck that big dick.” I rolled my eyes, but kept going.

Finally, he yanked me up and started pawing at my chest. He pulled and twisted the barbells through my nipples until I winced. He seemed to take that as a sign of satisfaction, and the monologue began again. “Oh, yeah, let me fuck that pussy. You want me to fuck it? Let me see how wet it is.” It was as dry as the Sahara. I couldn’t let him know that, so I leapt out of his reach and grabbed a condom. I had bought one of those Durex party packs or whatever they’re called. You never know what you’ll get. I lucked out and pulled one of the flavored ones, my favorite. I unrolled it a bit and stretched it over the tip of his dick. “Suck me, baby. Keep it hard.” I went down on him again for a few seconds, just to make sure the blood was still pumping. He yanked me up again and shoved me backwards onto the bed. I piled a couple pillows and laid back, readying myself for what was sure to be another monotonous fuck.

He climbed on top of me and flailed around for a minute, trying to slide inside me. I took over and aimed him in. As soon as he was in me, he collapsed on top of me and started kissing my neck. He kept muttering instructions that I couldn’t make out. I made a general questioning noise that sounded more like a sigh than anything. He propped himself up on unsteady arms and started thrusting his hips. I closed my eyes and quickened my breathing. He sped up for a few minutes, then stopped and pulled out.

 “You have more condoms, yes?” I nodded. “Ok, pull this one off. I want you to suck my dick again.” I obediently peeled the condom off, tossed it in the trashcan by the bed, and went to work again. The second time was slightly more pleasant than the first; his dick tasted vaguely of the synthetic strawberry flavoring from the condom. I twisted my head, bobbed up and down, and swirled my tongue around as much as a could without letting him slip out of my mouth. His breathing quickened. He muttered more incoherent instructions. I kept with my routine. Out of the blue, he began asking me questions. “Do you do it in the butt?” he asked, while probing my ass. I shook my head and continued bobbing. “Do you do doubles?” I looked up for a moment and answered. “Yeah, I have. But not recently. I did several with girls that used to work here, but I haven’t worked with any of the new ones.” “They have a lot of black girls working here now, yes?” I nodded again.

“You know, my daughter does this.” I froze in shock. His dick flopped onto his thigh. “Does what? Escort?” “Yes. I can show you a picture. I have one in my phone.” “Well, sure. If you want me to see.” He slid off the bed and grabbed his phone while I checked mine. When he came back and held the phone out to me, there was a gorgeous, tiny Indian girl in various poses splayed across the screen. “She’s very pretty. What agency does she work for?” He told me. “How do you feel about what she does?” He shrugged and smirked. Creepy. No wonder he was calling himself Daddy. I looked again at the pictures and noticed her stats. “A hundred and five pounds?! She’s as small as my sister.” He perked up and asked, “How old is your sister?” I sighed. They always perk up when I mention having a sister. “Seventeen.” “Does she look like you?” I shook my head. “Not at all.” “Does she work here?” I sighed again. “No. She’s seventeen. She can’t work here.” He asked when she will be eighteen and if she’ll escort then. I told him, “She talks about it. I don’t know.” And the conversation dropped.

He asked me to put another condom on him, and I complied. No flavored latex this time. “Baby, I want you on top of me.” I rose to my knees and climbed over him, sliding him inside me. I rocked my hips slowly. I don’t like being on top, and I think it shows. I’d rather be on my hands and knees. Hell, I’d rather actually enjoy the sex. Anyway.

He started pulling at my nipples again, then tried to lift me up and down by my breasts. I leaned back and braced myself on his thighs, rocking faster. The bed banged against the wall repeatedly. The walls are thin in the apartment complex; I’m certain the upstairs neighbors could hear everything. I shut my eyes and kept going. He grunted and moaned and tried to slam my hips down faster. I can only go so fast with no lubrication. I got tired and asked for a water break. He nodded, and I rolled off of him and grabbed my water bottle off the nightstand. I took a few sips, put the cap back on, and turned back to the bed. He aimed me towards his dick again. “Make Daddy cum.” I went down nice and slow, deep throating him on every down stroke. He grabbed the back of my head and bounced my head faster, like a basketball. My nose kept slamming into his pelvic bone, cutting off my air. I choked. I could feel the water I had just drank rising up in my throat. I jerked my head up and gasped. “Honey, you’re blocking my airway,” I said with tears streaming down my cheeks.

He apologized and I went back to work. Before long, he started bouncing my head again. My neck began to cramp. I stopped him again and warned him that if he continued, I’d throw up. I know, I’m sexy. But an unconscious hooker doesn’t do [most] anyone any good. He asked, “Would it be easier if you laid back and I was on top?” I decided to give it a try. At least I could avoid the neck cramps. We changed positions, and he aimed into my mouth once again and started thrusting his hips. I figured out soon enough that my decision was a poor one.

With every thrust, my face was smashed into his pelvis and his dick hit the exact wrong spot on the back of my throat while simultaneously choking me. I gasped harder and more often. He took no notice. I could feel the water and my lunch rising back up in my throat. He continued. I shoved him off of me and coughed. He looked confused. “You’re choking me when you do that. You need to let me breathe.” He nodded and smiled, and positioned himself over me again. This time, he didn’t let up when I struggled. He just kept plunging away until I thought my moment had come. I was going to hurl on a client. I could taste it, the lentil soup I had for lunch, mixed with bile and diluted by the water I drank. It crept its way up, tickling the back of my throat. He gave one final jerk, made a choking sound, and pulled away. What I had tasted was his cum.

I rolled away before he could see how red my face was, mascara streaked under my eyes. “Would you like a towel to clean up with,” I offered. He nodded and I scrambled into the bathroom, where I cleaned myself up first. After I was done, we traded places: him in the bathroom, and me lounging on the bed, checking my email. Once he was done, he dressed. I stayed nude. “Do you work often,” he asked. “I work when I can, when I don’t have class or anything. The last couple weeks have been weird. My grandfather passed away, so I’ve worked sporadically.” He nodded quickly and made a vaguely sympathetic sound. I hopped off the bed and walked him to the door, locking it as soon as he was outside of it. 

I cleaned up the room. Towels in the hamper, condom wrappers in the trash, lights off. Sweats back on and I’m gone. As I sat in traffic trying to enter the highway to home, I logged on to chat. The boy was still on from earlier. I clicked on his name and typed as quickly as I could while watching the taillights in front of me. 

Me: Let’s play “Suffocate the Hooker.”
Boy: What hooker?
Me: Me. Duh.
Boy: Why would I want to do that?
Me: I dunno. Maybe you’re into that sort of thing. Anyway, I was talking about the client I just saw. But you of all people don’t want to hear about that.
Boy: Of course I do. 

I changed the subject, and traffic finally moved.

I got this lovely comment a few days ago: 

Let me guess 

the next entry is about this guy next door conflict. You are really into this guy but giving blow jobs for $50 probably gets in the way of a relationship. Seriously this shit is so predictable.

Now, there’s a gross error in this guess. I make significantly more than fifty bucks a pop. My guess is that this guy is either angry that he himself has to pay for pussy or angry that a lowly little hooker who hasn’t yet earned a college degree still makes about twenty times what he does. Or maybe he’s just a lonely little man, and he’s lashing out at me because he has nothing better to do with his time than troll blogs and make nasty little know-it-all comments. I digress.

But the angry little man does have something right. My job does get in the way of a healthy, respectful relationship. I’m not saying it’s impossible, just very difficult. I think relationships should be balanced and fair. I’ve had many an argument about whether or not it’s morally right for an escort to be in a committed relationship, especially marriage. I think this job violates the definition of commitment, the foundation of marriage. Oh, so funny. A hooker arguing morals.

Now, while there are plenty of successful relationships with distinctly dominant and submissive partners, I am not solidly in either category. As such, I need an equal. This need for balance and equality creates a conflict for me. Because of my job, I would have to be shared sexually. At the same time, I don’t share well with others and I’d be upset at the idea of my partner fucking other girls outside of a professional context. On the flip side, I can demand monogamy on my partner’s part, but this, as I said, creates an imbalance. I don’t want my partner to feel “cuckolded.” Quite the dilemma. Of course, there’s the third option of quitting my job. Financial security kinda takes precedence over developing a relationship right now, though.

The angry little man is also right on a second count. “This shit” is predictable. Despite being a hooker, I am a human being. I’m a social creature. I take joy and solace in companionship. And I truly do miss having a relationship. I like cuddling. I like falling asleep next to someone I trust completely. Someone I’m attracted to, someone I’m passionate about. Someone I want to spend time with for free. I like waking up next to that same person. I like the giddiness that comes from the honeymoon phase and the peace and comfort that comes from settling down.

Another one of the writers suggested that I get into a relationship to maintain a common thread in my writing and lend more emotion to the stories. Apparently, if someone is torn apart by my job for the amusement and entertainment of strangers, it’s good shit. I laughed. I got sarcastic. I suggested that I write about flying to a different city every weekend to fuck a different writer. It would be so poetic, me being both the common thread between everyone and their eventual heart-wrenching downfall. He either didn’t pick up on my facetiousness, or he just didn’t care. Thinking about how my work would affect my partnership saddened me, though.

The saddest part is that there is a boy next door. Well, sort of. Rephrase: there’s a boy. And I like him. A lot. He makes me laugh constantly. He gets under my skin and pries into every aspect of my life, including my work. As much as that makes me want to scream sometimes, I also want to just curl up into him, and that is such a delicious feeling. I haven’t felt this in a long time. *Gasp* A hooker with a heart. I’ve never heard that one before.

I’ve gotten a few requests for proof of my employment. Sorry, fellas, it’s not going to come from me. If you’d like to take the time to track me down, so be it and good luck. To boost my credibility, though, the link below will take you to The Idiot Board, where I did a Q&A called “Ask An Escort.” Incidentally, this is the thread that caught Griffin and SubtleDig’s attention and landed me my super sweet gig here. To date, it’s the most popular thread the board has had.

*BAM* Ask the Superfine Escort

For all most of you know, I definitely could be a 300 pound landbeast sitting in my parents’ basement. Or a strung out meth addict using the public library’s computer. You just have to trust that I’m not. Or find me. Somehow.

*Another BH Edit* So apparently the Q&A has been moved to the All Star Threads, a section that can only be viewed by board members. I apologize. For those of you that might have questions and don’t feel like creating a member account, feel free to email me at BilledHourly@gmail.com.