Posts Tagged ‘The Boy’

As I mentioned in my last post, during my trip to China, my parents became extremely aware of my income source of the past several months. I omitted almost all the details but I’m giving them to you now. This is the most foolproof way to lose everything in a matter of minutes, assuming your family is similar to mine (mostly WASPS with a few Eastern European Catholics thrown in).

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?

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.

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.