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.

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