Cheating 101

Here’s the why. This is the how.

Husband and are coming up on fourteen years together, thirteen of them in a legal tax-sharing agreement recognized by our state and celebrated drunkenly by my dad, angrily by my mom, and privately by us in our home a month before the big day when, after the Reception Location Skirmish, the Battle of the Invitations and the Mother of the Bride’s Dress Melee, we realized that getting married and having a wedding are two only coincidently congruent events. I have cheated for at least ten of those years, maybe twelve, had permission to do so (of which I nonetheless violated both the spirit and the letter) for two, campaigned for that permission for six or seven years, and prior to that, just slept around.

He almost always knew. He almost always knows. I’m not that good a liar. But I’m a damn good cheater. Which brings us to our lesson for the day.

There’s no point in hiding your cheating if you want out – use it as an excuse, or better yet, pack your bags and leave the key behind. Sometimes cheating is an outlet, a vent, or a window through which to step back and view your full-time relationship. Ex-Lover was much kinder to his wife once he started sleeping with me. Their relationship got better. Better enough that he realized, even when it’s good, I don’t want to be here.

And your fulltime partner must want to keep you. It’s very, very easy to get caught, unless your partner has a vested interest in the status quo. When they want to believe you, to believe that things are okay, they will wrap their minds around excuses and alibis you wouldn’t buy from a class-cutting ninth-grader.

Yeah, people were running around with water balloons at the barbecue lunch today, James got me right in the head.

I got pulled over for not having a headlight, I think I should stay in Next State Over tonight and come back in the morning

I’m just a little edgy tonight, I’m gonna go for a drive.

Try to pick someone who has as much to lose as you do. At that early stage when you notice you really like them, that’s a good place to say to yourself, will this person lose their marriage, their job, their image, their security if they tell about me? If the answer is no, it’s worth turning your attentions elsewhere, filing them under Would’ve Been Nice.

Establish and maintain a reputation. I’m flaky about some things – I can leave the house for milk and come back three hours later with a new couch – and rock-solid on others. My friends all joke about how Husband and I talk on the phone nine times a day. Which means anyone I’m with has to be okay with me ducking into the bathroom, the other room, or the car to make call number eight. If I can’t take his calls because I’m fucking, I turn off the phone so I can claim bad reception later. Likewise, make your alibis realistic – if you’re in a restaurant, be in a restaurant. If you’re out of town, be in the same town you said you were. The easiest alibi is the whole truth minus your lover’s presence. And making your friends lie for you is hard to control, difficult to get the details straight, and rotten to your friends, who shouldn’t have that burden.

Lying to two people is hard, so don’t cheat with someone if you can’t tell them the truth. Why deal with angry vengefulness because you forgot to mention your fulltime partner? Why hurt someone who thinks you’re a potential permanent relationship if you don’t have to?

Finally, keep something sacred. Beyond health and safety (duh), if your partner is really worth keeping, it’s good to have something or things that keep you mindful. After our private wedding, Husband and I went for sushi, the food we love, the food we eat wherever we can. I do not eat sushi with lovers of any stripe – not takeout, not happens-to-be-at-the-Chinese-buffet, not one tuna roll from the grocery store. I have eaten sushi with ex-Lover once, before he was my lover. It was the night he became my friend.

It hurt me more when Husband took his girlfriend for sushi than that he had a girlfriend.

Ex-Lover still refuses to eat sushi with me.

Power Girl's Guide to Getting Free* Drinks

*so long as you are a fairly attractive girl with good fashion sense and a sparkling conversationalist.


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Yes, Gentle Readers, it's time to kick off your weekend with How About Now?'s first-ever post from a guest writer. Power Girl speaks, as it were, and hopefully you will be the beneficiaries. And yes, this does work better for women, but if there are any brave Gentle Male Readers out there, I'd be curious to know what happens if you give these (ahem)well-researched techniques a shot. I turn the floor to her:


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POWER GIRL'S GUIDE TO GETTING FREE* DRINKS: TIPS


TRAINING
Have yourself a merry little workout at the gym, (the kind that leaves you with more energy vs. snoring on the beer-spilled table, and not so strenuous that you can’t move the next morning should you need to make a quick panty-grab-power-walk of shame,) then make plans to go out with your fave gal pal. The pump-up from the gym should give you a general glow that carries with you throughout the night. Make sure to shower part of that glow off before going out.

Gal Pal: Choosing the right friend is important; the dynamic between you and gal pal must be such that you can carry an intelligent conversation about nothing for several hours at a time and with ease; you don’t want to have to try too hard.

The magic number is two. You and gal pal. No dudes, no tag-a-longs. Three is intimidating, and most guys only fly with one wingman. Also, most men are TERRIFIED of women. Recent discussions with male friends and strangers have revealed that the male gender is threatened by the female gender on the basis that women have the ability to hurt men, and men are terrified by the prospect of getting their delicate little hearts broken. This had never occurred to me before, partly because I’m uber considerate of my significant others feelings and wants and desires and would never do anything ever in the world to hurt them (read: doormat), and partly because I lack general common sense. I’ve lacked it so you don’t have to. One lady is desperate, two chicks = safe and inviting, and three is a girls night out. Want drinks? Two chicks.

Physically you and gal pal should both be incredibly attractive and fulfill two different types, i.e. boobs vs. long and leggy. Great smiles and warm laughs a must. Also points if your hair is drastically a different color, so long as it’s not red. Redheads buy their own drinks. Unless they are being paid for their time (read: sex). Then they better damn well be having-their-drinks-bought-for-them-you-cheap-bastards. If you are a civilian red, grab a bottle of peroxide, stat. Blondes have more fun.

Don’t bring your Mom. She does not qualify as your gal pal, no matter how much you love her (read: no matter how much liquor she’ll pay for), and it will only lead to cock blocking later.

WARM UP
At home getting ready: while gal pal rants once again on speakerphone how she needs to just casually date someone to take her mind off ‘the one’ (you know, ‘the one’ who screws her over time and time again, when will my bitches ever learn?), pop two slices of leftover Hot-n-Ready pizza in the microwave and start the bath water so it will be scorching when you hop in. Rummage through your closet and select no less than five complete outfits, and remember to throw a timely “Yeah!” and “Uh huh.” and “He’s such a douche-bag.” to gal pal so she doesn’t catch on that you’re totally fazing her out. Don’t feel too bad about this. Hang up and hop in the shower. As you rub-a-dub your body and face, visualize the no-less-than five outfits and create quick hair and makeup schemes for each. When thoughts of your recently failed relationship creep in the shower with you, and the ghost of him haunts you about how you really blew something beautiful and true, kick it all out ASAP. While you’re at it, purge your soul of all deep thought. Let it wash down the hair-clogged drain. Tonight is about being a vapid, fun-loving hottie, and there is not enough room for you and sentimentality in your tiny, time-efficient bathroom (you know, the kind where you can BM and wash your hair at the same time). Don’t bother washing your hair; it will only smell like smoke when you get home at 4 in the morning.

A quick towel dry and you’re ready for your fashion parade. Try on several of the outfits before realizing that all of them look like you’re trying too hard, especially the almost-too-short skirt. ‘Tis the season. So DO NOT WEAR: Tank tops, halters, tube tops (never, never wear tube tops), shirts with glitter or sparkly sequins (unless a retro piece, and then you better have removed the shoulder pads), things that show too much cleavage, shirts that show midriff/midback. These fashion faux pas all scream cheap trash and date rape, and if you’ve gathered anything from Mandy’s blog, I hope it’s a sense of self-worth. You are probably worth more than the clearance rack at DEB. Remember, you don’t want to look like you’re TRYING too hard. These girls are ALWAYS trying too hard.

Dig through your recently dirty clothes and find that new top you just bought and only wore once. Give it a smell test. When it passes, grab another funky shirt and go for a trendy layering look. Change your pants. Change them back. Just wear jeans. You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. Mascara, liner, shadow, designer boots (minimal, if any, heel), and, the finishing touch...


The MAGIC hat: Wear a hat. But first, rules: One and ONLY one of you should be wearing an hat on any given outing otherwise it will look like you and gal pal are exactly the same and you coordinated what you were wearing to match and that is totally trying too hard. Also, it helps if the less sparkling of the two conversationalists adorns the headpiece; don’t let ego get in the way here. The hat gets the notice, the head keeps them buying. Wearing a hat can even hide the fact that you aren’t as clever. It’s a mask, a shield, bright red wool shrouding you with mystery and rendering you all the more desirable. Trust me, trust me, trust me, I don’t know WHY the hat works, but it does. If you aren’t getting at least five “nice hat!”-s a night, you need a new hat. I recommend something brightly colored that doesn’t blend into your dark surroundings. Nothing with twinkles or jewels. Vintage ok but don’t take it too seriously. Don’t match your shirt; you don’t want to blend into yourself. I usually go for red (don’t wear purple).

The entire process, from the moment you enter your apartment to the second you leave, should take no more than 25 minutes. Any longer and it will APPEAR like you’re trying too hard.

PREGAME
Race out to gal pal’s neck of the city and rescue her from some drab engagement: bland family dinner, bad first coffee date, baby-loving-conservative-band audition hell… It’s good if your friend has a prior engagement. Creates a sense of urgency and excitement for the rest of the evening– oh, the getaway!

Go into the first dive-bar that’s open on a Monday night. Realize it isn’t as dodgy as you had hoped, and note the general lack of clientele. The fat chick and her lax beau playing KENO aren’t likely to ask what you’re drinking. It’s your turn to buy the first round. Ask gal pal what she wants, knowing you’ll end up with 2 of what you want anyway. Paying with a credit card? Close it out immediately. You’ll be on your way to somewhere else as soon as the last swig is swallowed.

When a gaggling group of already-wasted-at-9-and-a-half-pm girls comes in (most of them will be overweight and wearing ill-fitting clothes that show too much skin, all of their shirts sparkle in some way, and they are trying way, way too hard), switch tables. Do not feel bad about this; their squealing is irritating and damaging your important (read: pretentious) convo with gal pal, and their aura of desperation might be contagious.

When the first drunk man of the evening (there will be several) trips and lands at your feet, and you debate whether or not to help him back up, and he looks up and says, “Wow! What a great hat!” and you think, “Wow, what a great …straggly patch of chest hair,” actually say, in an exuberant voice to match his, “Wow! Thanks!” No sense in being ungracious. Chug the last of your brews with gal pal and hightail it out of loser central. Never stay in the first bar. It shows you settle too easy, lack taste, and have nowhere better to be.

PLAY BALL:
Drive to the new indie bar with the open mic night in the outskirts of town. Pray there isn’t a cover. Wonder why you feel a bit woozy after one beer, then remember the pizza you left in the microwave. Grab some popcorn and a table near the back. Not the very back, that’s reserved for skanks who are so drunk they make out with you AT the bar. You don’t want to try that hard. Your friend’s round, she’ll come back with the microbrew special.

Bait, set, trap. You have: No mothers, one hat, two hot chicks that are obviously having a marvelous time, and a table for four with two empty chairs in a really happening joint.


Remember, you are not looking for a good time; you’re already having a good time. Occasional eye contact/smile/nod with potential drink buyers is always encouraged, but your table, and your conversation with gal pal, is THE place to be, and THE thing to do. If you have followed these tips carefully, the rest will take care of itself, and you and gal pal will be drinking a la free the rest of the night.

The secret is in the set up; the game is gravy. Relax with your gal pal, don’t get caught trying too hard, and you’re in like Flynn. He’d buy you drinks too.

Retail Therapy

Power Girl and I have a Theory of Retail Therapy. Not to be confused with “shopping.” Or “browsing.” Or even “hanging out at the mall.” Retail Therapy is when the list is not the point, the looking is not the point, even, to some extent, the hanging out with your dear friend who knows almost everything about you, tucks away in her own small heart the whoring and the slutting around and the desperate insecurity, is not the point. Retail Therapy is when your dog dies, your cancer comes back, your relationship is over and you’re reduced, physically and/or emotionally, to frantic dry heaving before every meal. Retail Therapy is about regaining control. Being in charge of your own life despite the forces of death, love and metastasization.

The Theory: If it is perfect, it is worth any price. If it is imperfect, it is to be instantly forgotten.

Shopping in this way, purchasing in this way, is intensely powerful. Meeting the saleslady’s eyes over your armful of potential, knowing that if the item is right, you will make her day, if the item is wrong, there will be no regrets.

Expedition One: An exclusive (how exclusive can it be when Banana Republic is there? We think it actually means “no food court”) mall on the East Coast. A grey, rainy day. Power Girl and I plunge into Bloomingdales and try on perhaps forty formal and cocktail gowns with two specific occasions in mind. Our saleslady is a treasure, one who has the guts to say, “No, that’s not you,” rather than shark us. We have her hold five dresses and head to Bebe, where we are requested to leave our clutch purses at the counter. Next! A small boutique of many designers. One dress is great, but not exactly what I need. Next! Another is smashing, but not special enough for $800 (I think I can get something similar for under $500). Next! Coffee break. Power Girl has chai and an almond cranberry pastry, I have warm milk with a splash of coffee (my new indulgence) and an orange and chocolate croissant. Ladies who lunch are lunching around us, petit fours on tiny china plates, incongruous plastic spoons. We return to Bloomingdales and end up with seven dresses. Damage: $1500, including clearances, bonus markdowns from the saleslady, and a 10% thank-you-for-opening-an-account-with-Bloomingdales discount. Not too bad considering the biggest chunk was a $785 floor-length formal, fine-pleated navy chiffon, Grecian, stunning. It’s my first formal that looks nothing like any prom from any era. Mary Pickford would have worn this before shedding it in a heap on the floor to frolic in the indoor pool, Douglas Fairbanks a slick baby seal by her side.

Power Girl hunts fruitlessly through the rest of Bloomies, Coach and Banana for a bag (we eventually find it at Target for $5 on last-chance clearance), I pick up a little red ipod and accessories, we head to Chinatown, park in the first spot we see, enter the first restaurant by the car, and plunge down rickety stairs to a room in which we are the only non-Chinese. Metaphorical chopsticks drop to the tables before the room resumes chatting among themselves in Cantonese. Jackpot! Even the college students who drift in cross the language barrier at the door, sound-sound-sound-“computer lab”-sound-sound-long syllable-“research paper”. We invite a lady waiting for her party (there’s no wait-seating) to sit with us, and she teaches us about vinegar in the soup, gives us her card, invites us to call next time we are in town. It is the best Chinese I’ve ever eaten.

Damage for the day, including parking, lunch, dinner and the airport tolls from picking up another friend and Secret Scientist who squeezed next to me in the backseat with the bags and softly held my hand the whole way home: $2135.

Expedition Two: I have measured my finances (I’m saving up for either new windows or a trip to Europe as a present for Husband, not sure if warm toes and a lower gas bill or the alleys of Amsterdam are a better birthday surprise) and decided that I will blow all of my last present/fee/ill-gotten-gains from Be-My-Real-Friend on happy shopping. I count the already-therapeutic ipod in this. Power Girl has decided her latest bonus is meant to be perfect boots and some new clothes. We head to Toronto, land of shopping, though the dollar right now is hurting rather than helping us. Screw it. It’s time to pay any price for perfection.


Esprit: t-shirts from clearance.
Roberto Couture: boots for Power Girl. More than she has ever spent on shoes.
Some Sort of Older Woman Store I Normally Wouldn’t Shop In But That Turns Out to Have Amazing, Sexy-Classy Shirts and Blouses: two blouses and a skirt. More than I would normally pay, but two weeks later I’m still getting great feedback on the shirts.
Food Court: Bagel sandwich for Power Girl, spicy tuna roll for me.
My Favorite Lingerie Store Ever (Tacky Name, Ugly Lighting, and the Greatest Bra Saleslady in the World): Four bras of a brand I love that is about to be discontinued, and cutie panties for Power Girl. The saleslady here is another wonderful woman, she adjusts everything “Put it on the second hook for trying on! Always the second hook! OK, I am sorry about my cold fingers but let me just pull you out a little here, and tuck you in a little there…good fit, but not your color, take that off and put this on” and will not let us buy a bra that doesn’t fit. Not that we want to this time.
Godiva: Chocolates for sustenance. I have a cappuccino truffle. Power Girl has dark chocolate raspberry.
H&M: The mother lode. Skirts, dresses, shirts, accessories, and finally the purse I’ve been looking for. We call to each other in the dressing rooms – “do I like this?” “God, yes.” “Hell, no.” "It's cute but not perfect." Lover calls in the middle of trying on and I am flustered enough to pick up a pair of formal shorts. The Fug Girls would be gripped by seizures, but they’ll be cute with tights and boots.

All day long, we do not agonize. We do not question our finances, worry if something truly matches, mess around to see if we can fit in the wrong size. If it is perfect, we buy it. If it is not, we hand it back without a second glance. There is no “Gee, maybe it will work if I…” If there is no medium in the back, we’re outta there. As a side effect, the money from my client transforms into a present from my friend, the means to have a good day at a time when I desperately need one, a happiness that he has made possible, a gift certificate for self-medication. Suddenly, I realize, it’s not about the money, if I can make it not about the money, if I can make it about spending time with Be-My-Real-Friend, treating him like I’m not a sure thing, letting go of the crushing sense of obligation for him to have a good time and let him treat me like a girl, it’s actually pretty fun. It’s not that a sure thing costs, it’s a fair trade – pleasure for pleasure, with the bonus of enjoying the time when I can calm my ass down and enjoy the time. Where else is there a man who is happy to talk to me, asks very little, cares what I think of him, listens to me whine and gives me a big cash present every time we meet?


Damage: under $1000. It’s a small price to pay for the perfect happiness of being better dressed, in control, and carrying four bags filled with potential. We cab back to the hotel, we try things on again, we rest. I silently thank Be-My-Real-Friend, then just go ahead and call him. For once, it’s good to be a whore.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Being Broken-Up

…It’s true what they say – eat less and exercise! I’ve only been on the Break-Up Diet for four days and the pounds are melting away! Follow the simple, three-step plan of food that tastes like cardboard, long city walks alone through the streets you once shared, and just plain ol’ not remembering to eat, and you, too, can lose five pounds in four days. He-llooooo, cheekbones!

…Why not take this time to reconnect with other loved ones? Four years is finally enough distance to phone Writer, the long-term boy prior to this one, and give best wishes to him and his lovely post-me wife! And when I’m in need of human contact at Oh-God-Thirty in the morning so that I won’t dial Lover’s number that one more time that mentally dons rappelling gear atop the Cliffs of Insanity, it reminds me that Secret Scientist is just finishing his Starbucks run and ready for my call. Thanks, friends!

…How about taking up a new hobby in your now-copious free time? Drive to a distant city and explore documentary photography at 3AM in the Meatpacking District! Jog moonlit paths in Central Park! And hey, did anyone say “post more often to your damn blog, you lazy bitch?”

…Learn more about grammar by replaying all your recent conversations in your head and analyzing the exact degree of offended, bitter, jealous or lonely you should be! By listening carefully to old voice mails, timing phone calls for when you’re sure he’s out with that adorable ‘other woman’, and reading old love letters stained with his semen, you can derive hours of misery from just a few pages of material!

…If you’re having trouble staying with the plan, try enlisting a buddy to be your coach! Ask them to make you a CD of “bestrongstaybrokenup songs”, or call them every time you feel the urge to dial your ex's number. Whenever my phone rings, Power Girl takes it firmly away from me and tells me not to answer or she’ll rip my fingers off – she’s such a tease! Eventually, she’s going to find me texting in the closet, but for now, Gentle Readers, that’s our little secret…

(he still wants to be friends)

Theory (On Whoring, Privacy and Choice)

Part One is here.

A Gentle Reader, Anonymous Girl on the Verge, continues:

These privacy concerns [about sending out possibly identifying pictures] are all that keep me from following a comparable course as yours.

As a writer and artist (struggling, of course), I anticipate receiving some publicity at some point, hopefully some success. I intend to be very selective, taking the 'courtesan' route from the start. And although I would have no shame about any whoring or other sex work I do in the interim, I'd nevertheless prefer to keep those activities separate from my public work -- at least until I'm ready to connect the dots myself, which in fact I look forward to doing, but on my terms.

Damn straight.

As far as starting with the courtesan route, The Accidental Hooker has a lovely post on “Prostitution: The New Temp Job” on the difference between aspirational marketing and reality, and of course Gillette as referenced in Part One.

As far as doing this at all, well...I cannot advise. But I can offer both my response, and Jenna Jameson’s.

Jenna, on becoming a porn star: Porn is not a career, or even an option, for most women. But if you are seriously interested, consider what you will be doing with the rest of your life, because even if you become a nun afterwards, you will always be known as having done porn.

When you come out, on your own terms or otherwise, some of your friends will be upset that you did this, and some of them will be pissed you didn’t trust them enough to tell them about it at the time. I’m walking a fine line with Power Girl right now where I don’t know how much is right to tell her for her own peace of mind – she’s great at keeping secrets, I trust her judgment and value her input in this as in other things, but how much does one really want to know about one’s good friend’s sex life? Am I doing enough for her in return? How fair is it to put her in the position of Secret-Keeper? (We all know what happened to Peter Pettigrew)

...



Walking through the airport on the way back from seeing Be-My-Real-Friend, I’m craving something. Walk and look. Starbucks? Juice? A book? No, what I really want is to be writing. For the first time in my life I’m experiencing drive and compulsion to write every day. My days write themselves in my head in realtime, I’m one of those awful people at Disney, video camera strapped to face, I’ll watch my vacation at home later.

In the long run, this blog will be a book. Daily readers are the kick in the ass I need to write every day instead of when it’s convenient and inspired (almost never). Gentle Readers who ask if I’m OK when I haven’t posted – you help me be the writer I need to be.

But there’s a catch. If the blog becomes a book, a good book, sells lots of copies in the airport, someone will out me. It is, in this day and age, almost unavoidable. I don’t know enough about internet anonymity, and honestly, part of me must be willing to stand up and own what I write, or I’d have done more research. Fear for me is not fear of being outed, it’s fear of being insignificant. Unknown. If the book isn’t successful enough and good enough for someone to want to out me (and get paid a great deal for the information), then I will have failed.

And when I’m outed, when the book is huge and I’m on Oprah or probably someone more open-minded’s chat show, I will have made a choice.

I have based a lot of my life on not choosing.

Husband and Lover. And more.
Wife and worker.
Home and travel.
Writer and other job and other job and yes, one more job, to the point where I wonder, if I cut out the rest and focused on one, would I go up like a rocket, energy condensed?

In high school, my [one subject] teacher told me, you’re wasting yourself, you should go into [my field]. Another told me I was wasting myself if I didn’t major in English and become a writer. My graduate mentor told me eventually I’d have to focus on one aspect of my field. My writing mentor tells me I should write more, perhaps only. So far, I haven’t made a choice.

What happens if I’m Mandy the Whore instead of Me? If all I can get is another book deal instead of my life?

Right now, I am shrapnel. Will I be a missile? Or just explode at launch?

...

Good luck, Anonymous Girl. Let us know how it goes. And you’ll forgive me if I hope you don’t become competition.

Practical Whoring (Part One)

A Gentle Reader, Anonymous Girl on the Verge, writes:

[nice compliments] May I ask you about something you touched on only briefly in a very early post?

At what point in your initial contacts with prospective clients do you first send them photos of yourself? How identifying are the pics you send? Is your face clearly visible? Is anything less than that acceptable to clients? How nekkid are the pics? What are your concerns about being recognized, and about losing control over your pics, for ex by someone posting them elsewhere, whether or not they're accompanied by other identifying details?

This is the easy part:

You send photos when you damn well want, of what you damn well please.

Some ladies post identifying pictures to their websites or on client/provider bulletin boards. Some put them on Craigslist, faces and all. Some have only a physical description and send photos via email. Some may never send photos and get the clients to take them on faith, based on a coffee meeting, or by turning up at a Meet&Greet event thrown by a local bulletin board. (I could have booked ten appointments from the M&G I went to without sending any pics at all, *and* I got to weed out guys I thought were creepy or icky without having to do ten coffee dates). I’ve looked at a lot of boards and a lot of websites, and the most common tactic is to post a decent body shot with your face hidden, cropped out, blurred, or wearing big sunglasses. I’ve also seen ladies who post absolutely non-sexual shots of themselves in normal street clothes, showing their face, and those who publish thumbnails of different parts.

I personally do not send face pictures to clients at all, though this may change now that I am seeing very few (right now, one) people whose real names and real jobs I know. The face picture I sent to Be-My-Real-Friend when it became clear after about fifteen emails that he was serious and legit was fully clothed and non-sexual. If you have a social networking page, send a photo from that (renamed) and then your line is, “Officer, I have no idea what you’re talking about – is some creepy stalker downloading my Myspace pictures?”

If you *want* to send pictures to a client, be aware that anyone who can’t make a decision to see you or not based on *one* photo that shows your general body shape and condition and *one* photo that highlights your best feature, is using your pictures to wank. Do not send them more until they pay and you want to use a photo as a thank-you or a lure for more business.

A sample interaction on a local board:

Desperate Guy With No Money: hi goddess how r u? pics?
Mandy: Hi there, nice to hear from you! I only respond to pm’s written in complete sentences – thanks!
DGWN$: Oh, i understand. I think u are hot! Can i see some pics?
Mandy: If you’re interested in booking an appointment, let me tell you a little about myself… [2 paragraphs with big words, it’s a cut-and-paste] …If I sound like your kind of lady, will you tell me about yourself and where you’re located?

DGWN$ responds, I tell him he’s too far away to be my client, he says he understands and continues to send me requests for pictures about once a week. Delete!

For serious clients who introduce themselves, have references and write grammatically, I send one photo of my body in a form-fitting dress and one of my chest in a bra. I don’t send any nekkid pics (“nekkid” – Naked and Up To Something, thank you Lewis Grizzard) to men I know in a professional capacity. I don’t wear the clothes or underwear in my working girl pics in non-professional contexts. And if someone ever says, “Hey, isn’t that…” I’ll say, “Damn! That does look like me! I wonder how much she gets?” My pictures aren’t porn-ish enough (I think) for anyone to bother posting them all over the net, and I send them out at low res – enough so that they aren’t even clear if viewed except as an email attachment.

One thing that sticks out, though, in Anonymous Girl's phrasing:

Is anything less than that acceptable to clients?

It’s not what’s acceptable to them that counts, it’s what’s acceptable to *you*. You You You YOU YOU. If whoring is an option for you, it’s very, very important to draw your own lines and set your own boundaries, and it starts at first contact. If you’re shy about saying:

“Sorry, I don’t send additional pictures until you book”
“No, I don’t give out ‘pink’ pics”
or even, “I’d like to see a picture of you, too, will you send me one?”

then where will you be when it’s time to say,

“I need your gift first.”
“I can’t talk about that.”
“Don’t call me that name.”
“Don’t touch me there.”
“I don’t swallow.”
“I don’t do anal.”
“I don’t bareback.”
?

I realize that Anonymous Girl is not dumb, and that she’s asking about marketing standards rather than jumping off a bridge with all her friends. But it is a slippery slope of self-perception, and remembering that you are (and must be) in charge of every step of the transaction is really important when you’re a whore. This is where review boards can be a blessing instead of a curse (read Compartments for an excellent summary of the bad side of boards. There’s usually a ladies-only area where you can ask questions and get a sense of what everyone else is doing. There’s almost always a thread about “Is this lame guy wasting your time/trying to beat down your rate/asking for more pics from you, too?” And the answer is always yes, yes, yes, I’ve put him on ignore.

I would say that more ladies don't show their faces than do. I would also say that the higher the price, the more likely the lady has professionally-taken magazine-quality shots, and the less likely she is to show her face. Check out the escorts at Demimonde and Pearl Elite Independents for lovely shots from which no-one could be identified.

And finally, Gillette has written some great essays on courtesanship and how she went about it. Lots of links within those posts and some very valuable information.

This has been the Practical portion of our lesson. Tomorrow: Theory (on Whoring, Privacy, and Choice).

10 Things About a Woman (Whether or Not She’s a Whore)

1) If she offers you a shower, it’s not a suggestion or a request. Many service providers have this on their website as a gently-worded section of the “What will our time be like?” page. Maybe you already are squeaky-clean…but she hates your cologne.

2) If your hands are empty, hers should not be full. This goes for when she’s got packages and is passing through doors as well as when her hands are full of cock. Put your fingers in her hair, your palm on her back, do something with them in return. Unless you’re acting out The Sultan and the Nubian Slave, in which case you’re paying extra not to carry her packages, so to speak.

3) If you’re not wearing a condom, she’s ovulating and HIV+. Don’t put your naked penis in a woman unless and until you like each other enough to hold hands in the waiting room.

4) Listening is not waiting for your turn to talk. If you have no clue what she’s babbling on about now, repeat her last sentence in a questioning tone. She’ll explain further. If you’re paying, you can say, “let’s not talk.” If you’re not paying – in cash or with commitment – try not to date her again if you can’t stand listening to her.

5) As discussed in my treatise on the one client who understood this, don’t ask her during sex, “What do you like?” The answer is either complicated or embarrassing – we want to pretend you automatically know, and if you’re paying us, we may not want what we normally like – we want what gets you off. Do something and ask “Do you like that?” If it’s personal, go for the play-by-play afterwards in the orgasm haze...

6) Don’t ask her where she keeps her money. Don’t ask what she spends it on. She may be saving up to be independent of you. Be a gentleman and wish her well.

7) No matter how tough she is, some days she needs to lean on you.

8) Apologize when you are not wrong. It costs you nothing and she may apologize back. At the very least, it defuses the situation.

9) Stroking her ego is part of foreplay. Telling her she’s hot makes her feel hot. Be as specific as you can.

10) Gentle Reader, your suggestion for number 10...?



(Note bedsheet marks.)

Cooking with Mandy – Take Me Truffles

You need:

Nina Simone: Remixed and Reimagined
Bag of Ghirardelli semi-sweet or bittersweet chocolate chips
Heavy whipping cream
Cinnamon
Cayenne pepper
Patron Tequila
Cocoa powder
Fork
Soup spoon
Medium-sized glass/ceramic/china bowl (glass holds heat in a way you need)
Small bowl of any material
Microwave
Aluminum foil
Plate or tupperware

Put on Nina Simone and wash your hands.

Pour the chocolate chips into the glass bowl and microwave for a minute and thirty seconds or until the chocolate chips are gooey. Just like anal, it’s better to start slow and end up going longer than you planned than to burn your chocolate and have to start over with unpleasant memories.

Stir the chocolate with the fork, adding a pinch of cayenne and a pinch of cinnamon. I advise shaking them gently out of the package rather than using your fingers, because you will later forget and touch your eyes and tragedy will ensue. Special Tip: Cayenne and cinnamon in the Hispanic foods aisle cost about half what they do in the baking and spices aisle.

Add a shot of tequila. (Don't get into the tequila yet or you won't be able to taste the truffles.)

Stir some more and taste. Keep adding cinnamon and cayenne until you like how it tastes and you think “well, it could be a little spicier.” It will get spicier later. Lick the fork clean.

Stir in two big spoonfuls of cold whipping cream. The chocolate may start to become pasty right away. If it does, add a little more liquid, either cream or tequila. If it doesn’t, put it in the fridge. Either way, leave it sit (fridge or counter) for as long as it takes you to gratify your partner while kneeling on the kitchen floor (or masturbate to completion). No fair pretending and watching TV instead. If you are quick, you might need to go twice.

Wash your hands again and put a sheet of aluminum foil on the counter.

Pour a few spoonfuls of cocoa powder into the other bowl, add a tiny pinch each of cayenne and cinnamon and stir with the fork. This cayenne is going to make first contact with your tongue when eating the truffles, so be sparing.

Use the spoon to dig out walnut-size chunks of chocolate paste and mold them into balls with your fingers – work quickly and discover why the M&M candy shell is such a big deal. Roll each ball in the cocoa powder and set it on the foil, spaced apart. If you run out of cocoa powder, make more.

Let truffles sit while you have a second round (cook's choice), unless you live in a hot climate with no A/C (skip to next step). I recommend bent over the sink or sitting on the counter, depending on counter height. When you're done, if the truffles are still moist, roll them in cocoa powder one more time.

Feed yourself and your lover a truffle or two, then tuck the rest away on a foil-covered plate or in tupperware while you head to the bedroom for round three.

I’m not sure whether “Bon Appetit” or “Bottoms Up” is more appropriate. Consider them both said.

Bits and Pieces

I'm still musing over what to write about my second appointment yesterday, so I'm invoking my girlish right to dissemble and I'll get to it tomorrow. It was good - good enough to need to keep it private for another 24 hours. For now, some sidenotes...

...Yes, Anonymous, you can hire a whore without references (from previous women you have seen). Some SP's are "newbie friendly" which can mean anything from "I don't care as long as it's green," to "yes, but we have to meet for coffee first," to "you have to make a deposit by buying me a gift card first," all the way up to "I'll be checking your home address, correct phone number and confirming your employment." No shit, there are ladies that do this. Alternatively, there are 'verification services' such as DateCheck, that verify your identity and employment, and the whore in question can check that you have been verified without actually seeing your info herself. My policy is that since I meet everyone in a non-appointment setting first, I'm working more on my guts than on your references...

...Sexual Athlete texts me about three times a day and sends me several emails a day, many of them one-liner 'hi' messages. He asked if it was ok to do this, I said, sure, fine, but don't expect me to answer them all. I've a day saved for him next week and I'm hoping he arrives with an ipod...

...After my mini-Bonkathon yesterday, I have decided I can't stand to be away from Husband on one of the few weekends we'll have together this year (due to my other job) and am going to just be a Bad Friend, failing to fly to another state to see my best friend who is arriving from another country. Though I have to admit, it's 50-50 not wanting to be away and not wanting to be around her 7-year-old twins...

...Also yesterday, the bad parts of whoring (driving, getting ready, dealing with the details, fucking someone I don't really love being with) were outweighed by the good parts of whoring (money, having a nice time, money, money) to the point where I thought, hey, I could finance a couple of major non-frivolous purchases with a few more days like this. So I think I am going to try and set up a Bonkathon in the next two or three weeks - try to see two clients in a day to ease the whole getting ready and putting together a cover story process, once or twice a week until I meet my goals. After all, as I said to PowerGirl, when she asked how it went, "The memory of fucking them is already fading, but the money is still in my purse." I think it's actually less traumatic to do them in a row...

I'll leave you with this, Gentle Readers - Bubblegum/Peppermint Candy was transformatory. Deliciously so...

“So, you’re ready to hire a whore!”

The Holiday of Love has once again arrived, and though your heart yearns to spend a cuddlesome evening by the fire, where the sweet nothings exchanged are only a prelude to the hot, lubricated passion on the bearskin rug; in which you and your beloved will out-bonobo Casanova and his Top Five in the space of the mere hour betwixt the children’s bedtime and the moment you drop from the exhaustion of yet another thankless work day in which your dignity (not to mention your libido) has been crushed beneath the knock-off-of-a-knock-off-Prada snow boot of your whiny, undeserving boss and the meaningless chatter of your fellow drones; you are in fact more likely to spend it wishing you had bought – or been given – a nicer/more expensive/more appropriate present, then dropping off after a half-hearted mounting attempt during which you actually pictured Pamela Anderson, Yasmin Bleeth, and for some of us, Eddie Izzard, in a vain attempt to get off a medium-sized one instead of one just good enough to stop.

Gentle Readers, for those hunting for an alternative way to spend this, most over-marketed of holy days, I present:

A Primer on Negotiable Affection, in Honour of St. Valentine’s Day

Option A
You cruise the streets in the seediest area of town and pick up a hitchhiker who offers to suck you off for $50. You bargain her down to 40, then when she passes out you bareback her and leave her at the next gas station. Later, you develop an oozing sore on the side of your scrotum that just won’t go away.

Option B
You approach a likely lady in a hotel bar – short skirt, lots of makeup, stiletto heels. Her boyfriend, Vito, appears from the men’s room just as you think you’re about to close the deal. Cost of setting broken nose – about $475.

Option C
You browse websites or social sites dedicated to ‘the hobby’ and pick out a lady you like. Maybe her pictures are great, maybe she’s gotten great reviews. That’s right, reviews. Other gentlemen she has seen have posted information about their time with her, how much they paid, whether she tried to upsell you for additional services, looked like her pictures, showed up on time, seemed clean and sober, was a C&D (Cash-and-Dash), right down to how much makeup and perfume she wore and whether she had stubble. Not only do you know more about what you’re getting, you know that other fellows have seen her and she didn’t arrest them, impound their car and add their mug shot to an embarrassing website that will cause your co-workers to abruptly stop talking each time you approach the break room.

Her website says call her with your references (What is this, a job interview?). You give her the names and contact information of other ladies you’ve seen (usually three). Now it’s her turn to research. She calls or emails the ladies with your information – usually a physical description, your phone number, email and internet handle, plus the info you gave her about when and where you saw the lady she’s calling.

“Great time at the Comfort Inn! She’ll remember my enormous Manhood! It was the biggest she’d ever seen!”

The ladies try to remember you: “Let’s see, balding, paunchy, middle-aged, Comfort Inn near the airport, I told him he had a big one...can you be more specific?”

They note whether you smelled nice, paid in full, had bad stubble (works both ways, buddy, ask me about my beard burn) wanted more than one shot, and were easy to get off. Most importantly, they’ll tell whether you were a NC/NS (No-Call-No-Show), a tipper, or an asshole.

You and the lady confirm by phone an hour or two before your appointment. You arrive, check out the room to make sure there’s no friends hiding in the closet and lock the door – or she does if it’s at your room. She wants her money up front, on the table, and without talking to her about it. If she’s smart or doesn’t trust you, she discreetly counts it and hides it. You chat. You ‘get comfortable’. You both watch the clock while trying not to get caught watching the clock, and you leave with a hug when the time is up. She emails you to say she had a nice time and she hopes to see you again. You spend the next week and a half pestering her with text messages, emails and voice mails, until you realize time is money and she wants you to book before she talks to you again.

Behind the scenes...the very smartest girls also search your name on the hobbyist boards, checking to see if you post mean reviews or racist comments. They’ll check the lists of “Good Boys” and “Bad Boys” posted in the deny-it-exists Ladies-Only area (I suspect the men have similar lists in their private area). They’ll find out if you have a rep for seeing streetwalkers, if you’ve bragged about barebacking, if you shorted the fee, and if you were dumb enough to mention any of these things on other boards.

It’s not all that safe – but hey, Ebay taught us we can trust a million strangers based on their feedback from other strangers. So why not in this venue, too?

Gentle Readers in “the hobby,” I welcome your thoughts on anything I’ve left out.

As for me, I'm spending Valentine's with Husband (when he gets home from work), pizza and cupcakes. Meanwhile I'm wading through pm's and e-cards from clients, and sending out a few myself (go, marketing!). Lover is far away, and he knows better than to try to celebrate this particular holiday with me.

Wish he didn't.