Archive for April, 2010

Billed Hourly doesn’t write enough. Her blog is devoid. Blah blah blah.

I have a lot I want to write about, but the timing’s been off. I forget details of appointments if I don’t write them up within a few hours of the call, but I’m rarely home in time or energetic enough to squeeze into that window. Now it’s the end of the semester. I have a lot going on. With all the minors and certificate programs and crap that I decided to add to my degree to make my graduate school applications look pretty, I’m a bit swamped with final projects, research papers, and upcoming exams. Regardless, He Who Cracks the Whip wants new material. So here you go, my pet.

As for work, it’s not something I’ve been doing much of. I’ve had little patience for the neediness, and a bizarre availability. The availability will change in the next month, after I return from China. The lack of patience, not so much.

The few appointments I have done lately have been relatively enjoyable, though. One kid, a Bronx Italian who wore a crucifix the entire time, came shortly after I stripped naked and touched his cock. We spent most of his allotted time talking about his childhood, and the last few minutes before he left were spent fucking on the edge of the bed in front of the mirror ala Patrick Bateman. He never said a word during the sex, and every time I looked at him, his eyes were either unfocused or focused on his reflection. It was amusing and oddly refreshing to have a client that paid little attention to me or the details of my private life. Another man that I saw last week was older and sounded to be Russian. He was stark naked when I got to the hotel and immediately hopped into bed. He kissed me quite a bit and asked continuously if I was okay. I nodded and smiled every time except when his weight rested on my hair. Eventually he told me he wanted to make love to me. I only hear that from older clients and The Boy. I only enjoy hearing it from The Boy. Hearing it from others makes my skin crawl. It’s a symptom of my self-sabotage, carrying over into my professional life. In the midst of “making love” at the most awkward angles possible, our room service arrived. We’d discussed favorite desserts earlier. One of mine is cheesecake, so The Russian ordered a slice of cheesecake for me from the midnight menu. My cheesecake with strawberry syrup and berry compote was bigger, more attractive, and infinitely more enjoyable than my romp with the client, though I certainly appreciated the gesture.

Last Tuesday, we had an agency-wide, hooker-only meeting near our incall. Our booker lectured us on the usual: be on time for appointments, dress appropriately, clean up afterwards… I tuned it all out. These gatherings are embarrassing for me. I used to work for the restaurant we hold our meetings at. Despite having worked at a different location, I still know the majority of the staff. I’d prefer that they not hear my coworkers discussing fuck-me panties and dildos at normal volume. M’s last point of business was an upcoming meet-and-greet hosted by TER.

TER, or The Erotic Review, is a website devoted to reviews for escorts and massage girls according to region. A good review can boost business; a bad one can break your career in this industry, if the industry hasn’t already broken you. The meet-and-greet was intended for all the agencies in the area and the men who frequent them. Due to the questionable nature of this field, the location was being kept secret until the day of the event. I thought this was ridiculous, but as no one cared what my opinion was, I stayed silent and kept drinking. M kept going. We were to assemble at our incall on Monday, dressed in something form fitting and preferably a bit skanky, 45 minutes before the event’s start time. And then I found an out: one of my final exams was on the same day, and it was scheduled to begin half an hour before the hookers ‘n’ johns cocktail party. No dice. I was expected to finish my final quickly and haul my skankified ass to wherever the party was at. I drank my way through the rest of the meeting and headed home to sleep as soon as it ended.

Monday came, and there was still no word on where this event was to be held. M finally called right before two, only to tell me that she had quit the agency that morning. She claimed the owners hadn’t paid her in over a month, so she had walked out, penniless. She asked if I would be interested in joining an agency with her. I hesitated. I wasn’t happy with how she had been running the show, and I wasn’t eager to continue under her direct control. I’d rather go independent. I told her I had some ideas and I would call her later to talk, then went about the rest of my day. I [think I] failed my final spectacularly, along with the rest of my class. Despite having finally received event details from the temporary booker at the agency, I decided to forego it in favor of seeing one of my private clients, an easy-going Jewish lawyer. He’d spent a month in Nigeria on business, and we were long overdue for some quality time. Since the lawyer is actually fun to talk to and only requires a handjob to go with his foot fetish, I’m all too happy to see him. After scheduling another visit for later in the week and heading for home, I called a coworker to see how the night had gone. She dropped the bomb: M had been fired for not reporting all the appointments she booked and pocketing the fees from the unreported calls.

Another agency’s owner is now running the phones until our owners find a replacement for M. Katie’s quite pleasant. Strangely, I’ve done more calls in the last few days than I have in the last couple weeks, with the same availability I’ve had since midterm. M hasn’t called me since Monday; I assume she’s figured out that her transgressions have made the rounds. Beyond that, there’s little else going on. Finals end next week; I’m off to China the following weekend. I’d say I’ll post something before then, but even the best intentions fall by the wayside. If I do, it’ll be a pleasant surprise.

I’m hoping this post will go a little ways in explaining why I haven’t posted anything new in a few weeks.

For my first few months as a call girl, I was the go-to girl for problem clients. Weird fetishes? Done. Asks too many personal questions? I’ll just lie to him. Clingy and emotionally needy? More regulars for me! I’ve never had any desire to be with any of these men, though, within or without the confines of my job. This used to just be part of the trade-off: more clients, more money, regardless of how I felt about them personally. However, it’s been weighing on me as of late. Life as a sex worker is not very fulfilling in any way but financially. I have a mental disconnect to the situation. I’m not attracted to my clients, so I cannot truly enjoy my time with them. I don’t want to hear about their families, their jobs, their lives. I don’t want them to go down on me. I don’t want their dicks or mouths anywhere near my mouth. I just want to be left alone now.

The worst is when they try to “please” me. I’m a very visual person. In my personal sex life, when I had one, I only ever had sex with guys that I was extremely physically attracted to. Most of them were dumb as posts, but that wasn’t the point. I wanted to fuck, not talk. I wanted fireworks. Spontaneous volcanic eruptions. Angels singing. Out of body experiences. Something. And by God, if that boy wasn’t a stud, I wasn’t getting off. Not only did he have to have all the right moves [or at least be able to take instructions], but he had to look the part, too. When I took up hooking, I remedied this enormous deficit of good looks by lying back and picturing past sex partners or, more frequently, Charlie Hunnam. This visualization takes a great amount of effort, because there’s always a little voice in the back of my head reminding me that the guy between my legs more likely resembles, oh I don’t know, Gary Busey than Charlie Hunnam. And once it starts getting louder, I have to start my mental movie all over again. It takes forever. I hate it.

Now the situation is even worse, though. There is actually someone I want to be with. I have no idea yet whether or not he’s worth a damn in bed, but until I find out, I can imagine that he’s every amazing sexual encounter rolled into one. I can imagine the fireworks, the volcanoes, the angels, all of it. And I do. And it makes work the greatest chore I’ve ever done, especially with the ones that think they’re pleasing me. I work harder to orgasm than I’ve ever had to in order to make a guy cum.  I’ve even begun faking it, because some of them just won’t give up. Others, I’ve just told not to try, I’m not in the mood. They get upset with me. I want to roll my eyes.

A few nights ago, I saw one of my needy, needs-to-please regulars. He’s a bit of a voyeur, always asking about my encounters with other clients. Normally, I like him. He has a tattoo running down his left side, from his arm to his shoulder, wrapping around and down to his ribs and hip. Ink fascinates me. I love checking out good artwork. Besides which, Scott’s a sweet, complimentary guy. Despite this, I almost couldn’t make it through our last appointment. The need and helplessness emanating from him depressed and repulsed me. The erectile dysfunction depresses me even more.

He ran late, as most of them do. That’s the wonderful double standard of escorting – clients can run late, even miss the appointment without penalty, but escorts can be denied their appointments if they’re five minutes late because of a traffic accident. When he finally arrived, I immediately started rambling. Anything to eat away the minutes until I could go home. He listened politely and followed me back to the bedroom. I lounged on the bed and continued rambling, and when I looked up, he was already undressed. As he nodded away at my one-sided conversation, I could tell he was getting frustrated, and I eventually acquiesced to a kiss. That kiss gave way to more, and then a bit of groping. My stomach turned. I closed my eyes and tried to smile.

“Can I go down on you?”

I had prepared for this – from my understanding, baby wipe residue doesn’t taste too good. I told him as much. He didn’t care. He asked me not to wipe with baby wipes anymore, even going so far as to ask that I not clean myself at all, even after seeing other clients. My stomach turned again. I gave him a small smile and told him that whatever he wanted to do was fine. He scooted down the bed until he was between my legs, then looked up and instructed me to tell him if he could make any improvements on his oral skills. “I know you’re not very verbal during sex, but I really would appreciate if you’d tell me if I’m doing anything wrong, or if I can do anything better.” “Oh, no. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you.”

I laid back and cued up my mental movie. One of my favorite memories: my gorgeous, crazy ex settling in for drunken sex one night. A whisper of, “I’m going to make you cum over and over again until you can’t move” before he did just that. Meanwhile, Scott did his own work as admirably as he could. If I was attracted to him, I might have actually enjoyed the whole experience. A second scene popped into my head, this one from a lesbian porn film I saw a long time ago.

A quick side note here. Despite being relatively open-minded sexually, I am not a lesbian. Nor am I bisexual or straight with lesbian tendencies. I like dick, and I like it a lot. However, most straight porn is aimed towards men. There’re a lot of ten-inch cocks being rammed into whatever hole is available, and some that shouldn’t be, and I’m not at all turned on by it. Instead, I’ve turned to lesbian porn. It’s made for women. What more could I want?

The scene I recalled was, as I said, an older one and very cliché. Two blonde girls hanging out nude in a hot tub, and the situation gets steamy. It progresses until one is sitting on the hot tub deck while the other works her over with her tongue, and does so with gusto.

My final mental image is of how I imagine sex with the Boy to be. From behind, kneeling down. Face buried in my neck, biting down while I moan. One hand over my breast, the other between my legs. Nice and slow and agonizing and absolutely delicious. I focused in hard, trying to block everything else out, especially the little voice reminding me that, sadly, the man below me was not the Boy. Not even close. At last, my heart rate sped up and I came. After a few moments of my thrashing around, Scott looked up. “Did you cum yet?”

Sigh.

I nodded, and he moved up next to me and flopped down. The man with erectile dysfunction was hard. “Can we do it now, before it goes soft?” How romantic. I leaned over towards the nightstand to grab a condom, checking my phone while I did so. It was Friday night, and I was supposed to be going out for drinks with my best friend soon. I lucked out as I usually do and pulled one of my favorite flavored condoms. As soon as I slipped it on him, he started wilting. A few moments of struggling, and I told him to lay back. I went down on him until the blood rushed back, laid back down on the bedspread, and he nudged his way into me. I’ve been having problems with sex lately. It seems that my vagina is protesting all the unwanted visitors by tightening up as much as possible, making every bout of sex seem like losing my virginity all over again.

He humped and sighed and told me how good it felt. I closed my eyes, moved my hips to match his, and smiled. Not five minutes later, he was done. It was his turn to make chitchat. “I love spending time with you, more than anyone.” I smiled and laughed, hoping it came out as convivial and not at his expense. He seemed to take it as such. We both redressed, and I prattled on about my plans for the night. I let him out and ran back to the bedroom to dress in my street clothes, only to be stopped by a knock at the door. It was Scott again. He shoved another $40 into my hands, on top of the fee he’d already paid. “I really like you. I want to buy you and your friend a drink. I want you to have fun.” And with that, he scurried out the door, down the hall, and into the parking lot.

The neediness is weighing on me, breaking my heart and tugging at my soul. My revulsion is overwhelming. It’s heavy.