Step 1: Make your living through a morally repugnant field.

This step is the most easily modified. You don’t have to make a living off of it. The money could be for a higher standard of living, college tuition, booze, strippers, or the massive amounts of Taco Bell you insist on picking up on your way home, only to sit in front of your computer for hours and jack off to images on the Internet. Whatever. Secondly, the field doesn’t have to be morally repugnant, it can simply be illegal or below your perceived social status. However, violating morals and values is a surefire way to alienate the hyper-religious folk (NOTE: I’m not denigrating religion. Laugh all you want, but I believe in God. I’m condemning organized religion. Difference).

I am more than qualified to comment on this. I’ll assume that if you’ve read this far, you know what I did for my money. I worked hard for it. In a field that’s sometimes considered the lowest of the low, especially by the religious right wing, feminists (but not liberal feminists), and my parents, I rose through the hooker hierarchy pretty quickly. I was making bank. I bought a car. I bought clothes. I paid off debts. I paid for everything. But who cares about fiscal security and responsibility if what you’re doing to achieve it isn’t all pretty and clean from the outside? Exactly. So go on, get out there and reeeally concentrate on offending people’s morals.

Step 2: Hide said living through an ever-growing web of excuses, cover-ups, and lies.

Keep plans vague. Always have an alibi. Have every electronic communication device in your control on passcode/password lockdown. Don’t make it obvious shit, either. For example, if you have an iPhone, don’t make your birthdate or the last four digits of your SSN your passcode. Make it the numerical equivalent of “cunt” or some other four-letter word. This is simple stuff, stuff we all learned back in grade school when we were sneaking out to drink Smirnoff Ice in some kid’s basement. But I’m warning y’all, it is so easy to slip up. You can get comfortable in your web and forget that you have something major to hide. And that’s when it all begins to crumble.

This step was my failure point. While I hid the hooking well, I made a huge booboo in the end. I [supposedly] left my home laptop running and logged into my email when I left for China. My theory is that my dad installed a key-logger on my laptop when I wasn’t looking, as my most recent virus scan pinged a bit of key-logging spyware. Regardless, as I said earlier, my dad hopped on here and found a whole slew of parental nightmares. Not only did he and my mother find my emailed reports from SubtleDig identifying me as the occasional writer for BH, they went ahead and checked out the blog itself. And then they took it a step further and read all of the logged chat conversations between myself and The Boy, including the more recent ones covering my covert vacation with him and my theorized foray into porn. Did I mention they found it on Mother’s Day, hours after I boarded a plane for Beijing? Coming home was less than pleasant.

3. When confronted, adamantly defend your decisions and assert your status as a free adult. 

The third step is the most important if you want your entire family ripped away from you. Whatever behavior you’ve engaged in will appear even worse when you defend yourself. There will be yelling and tears and threats. Top it all off by reminding your family that you are an adult, at least from a legal standpoint. This will really seal the deal, and all you have to do to get kicked out and be written out of everyone’s will is count to ten. And there you have it.

Here’s where the story ends for me. A full twenty-four hours after I had arrived back on U.S. soil, my parents dropped the bomb. They knew everything, or at least thought they did. They knew enough. I explained why I chose escorting. I’m twenty-one. I haven’t finished college yet. Tuition just went up another thousand dollars a semester, and my college fund will run out long before I graduate. Bills need to be paid. When my last car broke down in four different ways at once, my only saving grace was the money I had stockpiled for a new car. 

Above all else, I didn’t and still don’t want to feel indebted to my parents. I cannot stand asking them for gas money, beer money, spending money, any kind of money. Despite telling me they’ll gladly help me out and then some, their actions always prove otherwise. My mother whines like a five-year-old when I tell her my boobs or my butt have surpassed my current wardrobe and I need new clothes. She huffs and puffs when my tuition needs to be paid, even though for the time being, the money for that has already been set aside. Not even by her, but by my grandfather. My dad gets cranky when I point out that my tires are bald or the house is nearly out of groceries. Every cent they give me feels as though there are enough strings attached to negate the money’s value.

In any event, I was given a choice. I could abandon my [admittedly stressful] way of life and stay at home, with mom and dad supposedly paying for everything, or I could do what I wanted to do and get the fuck out. Not just out of the house, but out of my family. Forever. My parents and grandparents were poised to write me out of their wills. My mother planned to cut off all contact between my sister and me. She even went so far as to say they would arrange a time when they were home to allow me to collect my things. It would be an eviction from my entire life.

I chose my family. I am still hurt and angry, but I’m able to face my parents now without wanting to scream most of the time. No one else in my family has mentioned the situation, and I’m grateful to them. As for the future of the blog, I don’t know where it will go. I’ll continue writing here and there until they get rid of me. I assume it’s difficult to find escorts willing and able to write about their exploits. Perhaps I’m wrong.

I’m almost certain one or both of my parents now monitor this blog, so I’ll go ahead and ask what’s been on my mind for days: Was it worth it? Was all the pain and anger and confusion worth satisfying your curiosity about my life outside the family? 

Are you happier knowing?

So my life is on hiatus until everything is sorted out. I’m sure none of you will understand, and that’s okay. Just thought I’d throw a little explanation out there.

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.

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.

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?