Bits and Pieces

...After ducking out on a couple of potential meeting dates with Guy Who Shoves a Little, I finally am persuaded to make an appointment - after all, I've already invested the time in dinner. I call one of his references, who tells me that she saw him for a 7-hour appointment once and they never left the hotel room, he wouldn't let her have the radio or TV on and when she suggested, after six hours, going to get something to eat, he asked, "Didn't you eat before you got here?"...


...I go to Target to get some candles, since I've read some reviews of other ladies mentioning that the client appreciated it. Might make the hotel room feel a little more romantic, right? I peruse, rejecting overly sweet, overly soapy and just plain nasty, as well as anything vanilla (hate it). I end up passing on several scents I genuinely like, because anything I regularly smell while working I will associate with working, possibly calling up images. So the "coffee" scented candle is right out...

...a client asks my price for an evening-long date by asking how much I want to spend on shoes this month...

...Sexual Athlete from the Two-Client Day offers to help incorporate my other business. Let's see, the lawyer who fucks his client--no, wait, that's not it...I wonder whose hourly rate is higher?

How About Now?

Part One
Husband returns home after a week's absence, we have talked every day, I have genuinely missed him in the emptiness of the house, found myself staying up later and later with the internet and reruns of Law and Order.

I give him time to unpack, he's coming down with a cold, he steps into the shower. When he comes out, I am waiting for him with a towel. He puts on his pajamas, I touch his cock, I ask if I can kiss it. I suck him kneeling on the bath mat, bamboo imprinting on my knees. I love his cock, peach-soft skin, shorter but thick, one of the good things that came of his affair was that he started shaving here. He holds my head and fucks my mouth, making me gag, I go back and forth between actively using my tongue and holding my jaw slack and my lips firm so he can fuck.

"I've got to fuck you." I stand up, he bends me over the bathroom counter, I hold onto the sink as he slides into me from behind, grips my hips, plunges.

"Where do you want me to come?"
"Where do you want to come?"
"Can I come on your face?"
I turn around and kneel, opening my mouth for effect and hoping it's mostly on my face, I've been off swallowing for anyone lately (I never swallow for clients, too personal). He comes. This time, he does remember that it's nice if you then pass your partner some kleenex.

"Is everything all right?" he asks. He does not mean with me. He means with us, with our relationship. He means, please tell me you won't leave me. I'm not turned on enough to regret not coming, and I suspect he's too tired and sick for the amount of foreplay it would take to get me revved up again anyway.

"Everything is great. I love you."

Part Two
This morning, my client and I cancel, I have misunderstood the location and I can't get there and back in time to meet my other obligations. I am shaved, blow-dried, made-up and wearing pretty underwear. Why waste it?

Husband is aware that something is up - I have been talking on one phone and the other one rang, I don't know if he's buying my cover story, the facts of misunderstanding plus the veneer that the appointment was with a business friend we both know. He asks, "Is everything all right?" and I promise I will never leave him.

I kiss Husband through the shower curtain, pass him his towel. "Any chance of seducing you before breakfast?"

"How about after breakfast?"

He leaves the house without breakfast.

Post Script
I cried writing the first part. I felt obligated to put in the second part, to give some context, to not make him look like the bad guy.

Everyone else wants me...

Men in the World

I pause my car so that a man can cross to Pier One in front of me. He's middle-aged, slender, has one crutch.

Looks like a client.

In line at the bank, a 40-something lawyer flirts with the tellers, they tease him about his new haircut. He's tall, paunchy without being fat, his haircut is just a tad short at one temple, exposing his hairline creep.

I bet you've hired girls.

A young guy passes me my change at the mini-mart. Tattoos, earrings, probably pierced where I can't see.

You don't have the cash.

At the grocery store, I walk the aisles, looking for milk, Nyquil, kielbasa to cut up into the soup already started at home. I pass men in produce, bakery, the cola aisle.

You could have me.
You could have me.
You could have me.

In the parking lot, the standard looks, my standard response - smile, drop eyes, look left and down. One calls out, "Hey, do redheads really have more fun?" I laugh the fake 'Aren't you cute' laugh, a short bark, then think better of it and smile for real.

You could have me.

It's like a secret power, I'm invisible, I can fly, I can bend steel bars and you don't know it. Longing, hard-on, loneliness all around me.

If only you asked the right question I could solve your problem like that.

Lost in Translation

A recent post from a bulletin board, in a thread discussing whether and what type of dirty talk is hot:

Just yesterday I had an appointment with someone who pulled the dirty-talking thing off magnificently. I always kind of assumed it would be hot to hear, and the real thing did not disappoint...

What a turn-on!!

Nothing fancy, mind you. Kind of along the lines of:

"Yeah, that's it. Keep (verbing) me with that hot (noun). (Verb) me with that big (noun)! (Verb) that (noun), baby!! (Verb) me hard!!!" etc, etc.

Kind of loses something in the translation, but it was hot.

Awww....

Through my personal Myspace, I get a message from a boy I spent one reasonably lovely night with, and who is hoping to come again, so to speak. We keep missing each other in various cities, plus once I refused to travel an hour on a worknight to sleep with him on a futon in someone else's not-quite-converted garage, and I keep hearing from my friends that he's socially repellent. I have thus far defended him. Then I get:

Subject Line: scheduale
I am hoping to be around from the 23-28th...so lets say monday or
tuesday...you could get a motel room... and I'll bring
wine and bubblebath.

make me come to [your town].

--K

Awww....it's just like whoring, only for free.

Did I mention that the two things I hated most on Craigslist were bad spelling/incomplete sentences and challenges from the gentlemen indicating that the ladies should prove their worth? It reminds me of Mistress Matisse posting about her irritation with clients who assume she is at their beck and call...

Incall

I am on time. I am always on time. Most SP's are not. That’s probably why it’s important to me. Client greets me at his front door, in what passes for an upscale subdivision around here. I’m just pleased it’s close to the drycleaners, I’ve been meaning to pick up a dress I left last week. He asks if he can kiss me, offers me wine. We cuddle on the leather couch and discuss the vagaries of the “hobby” and the internet community that goes with it. His house looks divorced, it's under-furnished, the couch and entertainment center a little lost under high white ceilings. My money is on a credenza near the door. I leave it there for now.

He kisses me, his lips are thin and soft, his mouth is small for such a tall, heavy man. His tongue reaches into my mouth, barely past my own lips. He discovers my stockings, delighted, and takes off my patent spike-heeled boots (what I hate about winter: the choice between cold feet and practical shoes). Off comes his shirt, my shirt, his pants, there are mouths on nipples, he is carpeted in hair. I take down his boxers and discover the smallest penis I have ever seen. It has no neck, the head pertly balanced on his scrotum, testicles small enough so that now, in fact, I don’t recall what they looked like. I mentally roll up my sleeves and figure, well, I’ll do the best I can with what I have to work with.

For the record, it does grow, quite a bit, becoming the second or third smallest I’ve ever seen. He mentions that he has taken a pill (later, I realize he means Viagra - let’s just say this blog will not be quotable as testimonial for the Little Blue Miracle) and puts on a cock ring. We adjourn to the bedroom. Photos of his now-adult son are on every surface and wall. Heart-shaped picture frames. A ceramic one with "I Love My Daddy" in faux-childish crayon. A series depicting a cute third-grader becoming a thick-spectacled high-schooler with a mouth full of braces and one lazy eye.

More oral at the edge of the bed – he is quite taken with me putting his hand on the back of my head and encouraging him to fuck my mouth until I gag. He only just reaches my throat, but it does create some eye-watering and nose-running, giving me that attractive slut-who-wants-it look so beloved of low-budget porn.

He goes down on me. Gentle Readers, you already know my position on oral, so to speak. A little dramatic scene for your entertainment pleasure:

(Client licks)
Me: Ohhhhhh….. Let’s see, I’ll use his money on dinner at nice restaurant, good salad…
(Client sucks)
Me: Yeaaaahhhh…. Cashmere sweater, I would love to have another cashmere sweater, Nordstrom’s having a good sale…
(Client rubs his stubble on my tender parts)
Me: Easy, there! That’s a little intense. If only you all didn’t insist on me being on my back for this, perhaps we could find some common ground…

I suit his little fellow up and we try for Full Service, but neither cowgirl nor doggie is a success. He un-suits and brings out a Rabbit vibrator from under the sink.

“Let me just give that a bit of hot water to warm it up,” I say, not realizing until I get home, that hey, dingbat, anything headed for the Dark Night of the Vagina should probably be donning reflective gear. I do, however, wash that sucker with soap and the hottest water I can stand. The Rabbit is pretty impressive – I think I want one. It swivels like Big City Lover, and it’s a lot less emotionally traumatic.

A brief scientific digression:

Time it takes the average woman to achieve orgasm, according to Sexuality Education.com: 20 minutes.

Time it generally takes me to achieve orgasm…let me check…

…: 10 minutes.

Time it takes the average client to start urging me to come: 3 minutes.

So Client sends in the troops, which are nicely intense. I definitely want one. But despite the Rabbit feeling pretty darn good, and me being relatively close to the edge anyway, when Client starts urging me to come I end up faking it. I’m close enough to try to push for it, but it’s clear that it’s going to take at least another 5-7 minutes, having started pretty much from scratch on insertion, and what I need him to do is shut up and let me push into it. It’s less trouble – and less personal – to just toss one off.

Afterwards, we cuddle on the bed, and I give him a backrub. This is the best part. I feel close to him, he enjoys it (“You have strong hands”), I like him. He wants to see me again.

While we cuddle, I ask him if he likes off-color jokes, and tell him one:

"A man goes to a brothel where he has heard there is an amazing special. There is a lady there who will give him a blowjob while singing the National Anthem. He goes upstairs, goes into a dark room, and sure enough feels an amazing sensation and hears the Star-Spangled Banner. The bombs burst in air, he pays her and leaves. He goes back the next week, asks for the same thing, it’s incredible, rockets red glare. He goes back again, he has to see who this fantastic woman is. He flicks on the lights and sees the lady…washing her glass eye."


Client says, “Well, I won’t be telling that one to my son.”

Me: ??

Client: “He has a glass eye.”

Oops.

Bits and Pieces

...At the end of a Get-To-Know-You dinner, I'm interested that the client would like to book me weekly for several months. If I liked him more, this would be ideal, I wouldn't even see anyone else. But there's something 'off'. As we leave the restaurant, he holds each of the doors, and as I walk through, puts his hand on my lower back and ever-so-slightly, shoves...

...I get a massage and the therapist asks me to leave on my underwear (usually, they say, undress however much you are comfortable). As we progress, she ends up having to shift my underwear around to get at my hip joints and lower back. This feels more awkward and self-conscious than if I was fully naked...

...I have finally learned how to use my blowdryer and hair straightener. Years of middle school and high fashion magazines are no match for 4 weeks of whoring...

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I had meals out with three men yesterday. Two of them picked up the check. The third one I slept with. What's wrong with this picture?



First meeting - Client for lunch. He wears a blue sweater that brings out his eyes, he's sweet and a little nervous and laughs at my jokes. I eat half a salad (fortunately, as it turns out) and we plan a hot-tub appointment for next week. Later that day, he sends me an email-

Subject line: WOW
That about says it all, wow...

Hey thanks for lunch. It was an absolute pleasure meeting you. The only downside is that now I have to wait until Tuesday to see you again. Well at least that allows the anticipation to build. As I hugged you goodbye, I could only imagine the sensation of holding you close, lightly kissing and caressing your neck, you turning your head and the first kiss....

Okay so I'm not a writer, but you get my drift.

Slightly cheesy in phrasing, yes. But the man is a FINANCIAL PLANNER. He made some EFFORT writing that. He risked making a fool of himself because I talked about being a writer and he thought words would please me, and he tried to do something I would like.

Second meeting - at the Shooting Range. Client, a self-described 'Geezer', reminds me of my Grampa before he got a little angry with dementia. He's got that spry, chipper, wry sense of humor, where he says outrageous things just to see what I'll do. We suit up with safety glasses and special earmuffs that electronically muffle noise when shots happen but let us hear each other's voices the rest of the time. Geezer teaches me how to load, aim and fire a .22, a .38 and a Glock 9mm. I am most accurate with the 38, but darn pleased that in fact I hit the main part of the target most of the time. At the end of our shooting session, he shows me what appears to be a fanny pack but is actually a quick-draw holster for a small handgun. I find it suddenly terrifying that people with permits can walk around wearing something like this.

Geezer then wants to take me to dinner - it's only 4:30, and my first thought is, well it is Early Bird Special time and he's probably AARP as well as NRA...he tells me about his foster kids (!?!), we eat 2-for-1 steak dinners and I am impressed that he tips the waitress $10 on a $22 check. He wants to take me snowmobiling and book me for a weekend.

Third meeting - I go see Big City Lover, complete with hour drive to his hotel from where I am, which is already an hour from home. We go get food - he needs it, I have soup and another half a salad - and I'm dreading the arrival of the check. See, BCL and I have had a couple of conversations about his position on chivalry, which is officially 'men and women should both be nice to each other', but which seems to translate as not holding doors or coats or picking up checks. Not that he doesn't do these things at all, but that he doesn't do them consistently one way or the other.

When the check arrives at Meals #1 and 2, both Clients not-so-subtly lunge for it, their body language indicating that the waitress has made a crucial tactical error by setting the folder squarely in the Gender-Neutral location on the table. With BCL, however, the check sits there, mocking me for driving, for the intention of head. But eventually, I reach over and say, "Well, I think it works out about the same, shall we just go halves?"



I hate going Dutch. I hate it with the burning heat of a thousand suns. I would rather pick up the check myself than work out who had the second glass of wine and did it cost more than half a shared dessert. With Husband, I usually carry the (joint) cash, he gets doors and coats. Lover feels strongly enough about 'man pays' that the last time I went to see him he put gas in my car. (When he was married, we went halves by me booking the hotel in advance while he paid for meals and on-the-spot expenses. Now, when I occasionally demur at a dinner or treat, he reminds me I am less expensive than was the marital mortgage.)

Here is the thing. I understand if the existing societal conventions, so useful to most men in providing simple, easily recognizable signals that say "I Value You," are not BCL's cup of tea. But I don't find that he's replaced those conventions with any other method of telling me that I'm worth more than as a non-complicated romp. After many years of Good Sport Sex, I have finally met a string of guys (personally and professionally) who treat me like my pussy is the Publisher's Clearinghouse Prize, and they are willing to subscribe to Sewing Circle, Cooking Lite and Teen Vogue to increase their chances of winning. It does not sit well with me to be with the guy who gives his kid the stickers and tosses the entry form saying, "Nobody ever wins that shit anyway."

Back at the hotel, we check our respective emails, he admires my bra (whore-wear), and we get into bed. For a while, we gently touch. His eyes are closed, and I think, ok, maybe we'll just go to sleep. I roll into his body and his hand wraps around my pussy like lightning. I watch his hand in my panties as an observer. The fingering starts to turn me on, and I roll over, kneel between his legs and suck. His eyes are still closed. His cock is very smooth, the head very dark. I straddle him, pull my panties (also whore-wear) aside, and lick my fingers to help him in. I had forgotten why I fuck him, and the answer suddenly comes back - the way he moves his hips, an incredible circular motion that fills me and rubs me and hurts just enough. He comes. I come. We stay there until I need to turn the heat down in the room, and when I go to the thermostat his come slides out of me, pools in my panties. I debate mailing them to Lover but think it will probably take too long, the smell will be gone.

We sleep. In the morning, he gets up earliest, sends email, gets dressed. He leaves a little before I do, for the job that brought him to town. I miss the part about being held as I wake up.



In the car today, after meeting yet another client, I finally get the balls to call BCL and tell him that I need to know he values me. Somehow, the conversation ends up with him sounding perfectly reasonable and me feeling whiny.

But I'm home tonight...

Sure, Yeah, I Own This Body...Don't I?

Big City Lover is in town. He has fetched up about 90 minutes distant, in for a week while Husband is gone (pure coincidence). He would like me to come and see him.

If I see him, we will probably fuck.

I we fuck, I will have to tell him I am a whore. BCL and I generally have condom-less sex, he knows I have another lover with whom I also have condom-less sex (they have met, warily) and occasional lovers with whom I have covered-sex and I have promised to tell BCL if that situation ever changes. You see, BCL has a child. So it is not just his own well-being at stake, but also that of a charming young lady only recently un-grounded for her forbidden forays into Myspace.

I don't want to fuck. I especially don't want to drive 90 minutes in sleet, arrive after dinner-time having bolted something in the car, show up at his hotel room, and fuck. Or worse yet, have a scene about me being a whore, supportive or otherwise.

I agonize about this. He is in town all week, I do want to see him but I don't want to fuck him - he unintentionally burned me rather badly regarding a place to stay the last time I was in Big City. And I'm sort of 'off' him, having burned him right back by not turning up the next arranged time to see him. And I don't want to do it without at least dinner and chat. And, and, and.

What is the problem here? Why do I not feel I have the right to say, "by the way, I'm happy to spend time with you but I'm not up for sex tonight/this week/ever"? Why do I feel - as I have felt my whole life - that if you show up, you fuck? Why do I feel like I am being a Bad Sport if I don't want to put out? That I have some how assumed the obligation to provide Premium Access to any man who provides me with more than one dinner, access that cannot be revoked for Any Damn Reason I Want?

During high school, I had more Good Sport Sex than sex I wanted to have. And half the sex I wanted to have was really just I'd Like To Be Held Sex. But now I'm an adult. I've learned how to come, pretty much on my own demand, I have negotiated with myself and my husband and my lover to get to the relationships I feel comfortable with, I have gone down some amazing pathways (more next week! stay tuned!) to the sex that blows my mind and makes me feel adored, worshipped, blessed. In my 'real' life, I'm known as a shark negotiator you don't want to mess with, a girl whose Super Power is "No-One Says No." I've even set up a little business providing Premium Access.

So I summon up all my will and courage, call BCL, tell him I've been in a minor car accident and reschedule for tomorrow.

I am woman, hear me roar.

Morning

This morning I was lying in bed, enjoying warm blankets and a cat at my feet, and the phone rang - I had forgotten I agreed to babysit for the neighbor for an hour this morning. Client lunch at noon, but I think I'll be able to make it.

Neighbor home a little late, so I call the client, get his voicemail, ask if we can make it 12:15 or 12:30.

I am taking the world's fastest shower when he return-voicemails me back - he'd been hoping I could be early, guess we'll have to make it another time. I call him immediately to suggest that I can be there in 10 minutes and perhaps we could just have coffee? I again get the voicemail. Turn your damn phone on, buddy.

He doesn't call back. Which is just as well, as I discover upon hanging up that Husband has taken the blow-dryer out of town with him, and I suspect my drowned-rat hair will not lead to booking an appointment.

On a side note - the neighbor's children are adorable. Husband and I have proceeded from debating whether to debating when. I am frankly terrfied.

1) Not really a kid person, though I hear it's different when they are yours.
2) Perhaps this is shallow, but I like having a tight pussy and I'm worried it'll get all stretched out.
3) I'm worried, not that I won't be able to continue my sex life, but that I won't want to.

How's that for morning reflection?

Finer Points

I make an appointment for a get-to-know-you with a client.

We're going to meet at the shooting range.

"How will I know you?" I ask.

"I'm 58, 6 feet tall, and I'll be wearing a black leather jacket with a Marine Corps patch on one shoulder and my NRA patch on the other."

Should I be screening for politics?

Whatever Shall I Wear?

I may be meeting a last-minute client tonight for dinner and dancing (or something). It is 20 degrees and slushy out.

Sexy clothes:
Short skirts (I go with knee length, shooting for class here), thin stockings with garter belt, high heels (my favorite are the Kenneth Coles in the picture, they are fabric, not leather), clingy tops of thin material, bare necks, bare arms, bare wrists, bare ears, fluffy hair, perfect makeup.

Warm/dry clothes:
Thick tights or long underwear under brown corduroys, tank top layered under long-sleeve shirt layered under heavy sweater, coat, hat, gloves, thick socks, winter hiker-y boots, scarf, chapstick and lots of it.

Houston, we have a problem.

Bits and Pieces

...for me, the money buys my instant availability rather than overcoming a lack of desire, though I am walking that line a bit...

...If your spouse sucks at cleaning, hire a maid. If your spouse works too much to care for the children, hire a nanny. If your spouse hates cooking, hire a cook or order in. But God forbid the spouse can't/won't have sex - they're an injured innocent and you're a lousy partner if you try to fulfill *that* need without leaving them...We spend our whole lives being brought up to believe that we must only have sex with people we are in love with, and that it's wrong and bad to enjoy being with more than one person in that way, that we are wrong and bad if we keep expressing a basic need, and we just have to 'deal with it' if the person we love best cannot provide for us. We'd never say that about food...

...Lying with Client, talking about Amsterdam, I say that I would like to visit a live sex show, and Amsterdam would be the place to do it since it will probably be a good one there. Thus far, I say, I have not been to Amsterdam with someone who would go to a live sex show with me, and I don't want to go alone because I'm worried I'll be mistaken for a prostitute. Oh, wait...


...My latest dilemma. Perhaps the idea that will come to be the overriding theme of this blog. If a client is doing things that do not turn me on, or feel actively bad, do I stop them, redirect them, teach them, or let them keep going and fake/enhance my enjoyment so that they think everything is just fine? On one hand, I am not there for my pleasure (we could argue), I'm there for theirs. That's why they're paying. The product is Girl Who Thinks You're a Fabulous Lover, and my job is to make them feel like the world's greatest athlete. On the other hand, the kind of personal experience I am starting to be interested in having is the outreach aspect - getting compensated like a therapist for much the same job, minus some of the professional detachment. With my circus client, I was honest about what oral was like for me, and I asked him his reasoning for a certain position for oral for him, just as I would with a personal lover. Sooo...can I make money and not offend clients if I treat them like a lover I care about being with again, and like I want to be genuinely having a good time? Or will they just feel instructed and put off by an overbearing bitch instead of the compliant little slut they paid for?

So the question, Gentle Readers - better for you if the lady, for all you can tell, is having a lovely time with no instructions to you, or if she says wait, do it like this? The client cannot (so far) tell the difference between my real and faked good time...

The Two-Client Day

What do you call a black pirate?
A pirate, you f-in racist!

So when I started, I thought, I will never see more than one client in a day. Ever. I'll just feel like a whore, and not in the good way.

Drove over to a major city to see a client - it's been a booked appointment for about three weeks. I've had numerous phone calls with the client, he found out my real name and what I do (I foolishly made one phone call on my regular phone, before I got the prepaid working) and while it was at first a freak-out, it has been a relief to have real conversations and not lying conversations. I know his real name, he uses his business email, I'd seen a pic, etc.

We chat pleasantly over salad and coffee at the local TGI McGillicuddy's Good Time Emporium (slooooow service) and head back to the hotel. I like my room, fluffy duvet, nice sheets, finally a place that understands that in a room for two people, those people may want more than one slender towel apiece.

When we step in the door, he puts on the chain lock, shuts the drapes, drops the money in front of me as I'm putting on music and is all over me. DFK apparently means "shove your tongue down her throat" and all I can really do is keep my mouth open and go with it. I feel like I am a lousy kisser, since anything I attempt ends up being contrary to his thrusting pattern. But I like him and he's smart and nice, and I've driven all the way over here, and we've had good conversations.

He takes off my clothes and sets on my pussy like a starving man. Will someone please notify mankind - and I don't mean that in the 'including womankind' sense - that while there are some girls who get off on having several fingers thrust hard inside them while you go down on them, you may want to start gently until you know her? And get a damn nail file? (Later, there is blood on the sheets). Why don't I say anything about this at the time?

He urges me verbally to come. It's so clear that he is not even paying attention to what might make me come that I just fake it.

Yet I am still reasonably enjoying being here. We trade and he comes in my hand during oral. A brief rest and he's good to go again. Condom on, cowgirl, mish, cowgirl, mish, they always love putting my feet by my ears and he comes again. Resting and chat. More mish - he may have come again here - then on to standing up against the wall and finally more oral for him. I'm kneeling, so I duck my head and spit into my own lap while he's still breathing hard. During all this, I come twice. It's interesting to have gone from being the girl who could never come (25ish partners in the first 5 years before I got a lover who cared enough to take the time and I could help him figure it out)to being in the place of, ok, I'm in the right position and we're rubbing the right things, it'll be less frustrating to come than not to.

He's decided I'm one of his all-time-favorites. I think he's ok, though he has shed quite a bit of bodily hair in my sheets.

So...after an hour of lunch, two and a half hours of private time, and coming a minimum of three times, he gives me my basic fee, no tip, and I have to remind him about reimbursing me for the hotel. !!??!!

This is not his fault. I need to change my price list. The answer to the question, do you think people will take advantage of me if it's a one-price-however-much-time situation? is YES. And it's not even taking advantage, because I set the deal. My level of resentment clearly indicates a change must be made. So now I am calling appointments 90 minutes flat. Still more than most SP's, not so much that I'll feel used.

After he leaves, I pour coffee into the bed and call the maid for new sheets.

I decide I must do something about this level of resentment unfairly directed at Client #1. My pussy is sore as hell - I tend to be fairly tight, and the client has done rather a lot of hard thrusting. But I weigh the possibility of money against pain and money wins.

So I set up a coffee with Client #2, with whom I've exchanged emails. I don't actually know if we will do anything, but at least I can maximize my time here in the city. I go get dinner and get ignored by the waiter, as often happens for a single diner. While eating, I read the paper and find out that a touring Cirque knock-off is in town, so I figure if the coffee is short tonight I'll go, or perhaps tomorrow to the matinee.

Client comes to the TGI McGillicuddys, which is jammed,no hope of sitting any time soon and as he walks in the door, sparkly eyes and shy smile, mischief rises in me and I say, "Let's go to the circus."

I tell him we can go Dutch, since I have sprung this on him, but he's a good sport and gets both tickets. We watch the show, I tell him my real name, I tell him what I really do, and I happily bitch about the quality of the acts and the lame between-act choreography, and point out the really hard tricks (I'm a big circus fan). He's sweet, he's a gentleman, and having taught two daughters to drive, he says "OK, get over to the left lane--when it's safe". He tells me he wants to see one lady on a regular basis. I ask him why he doesn't get a girlfriend. Oh. He's married. Oops.

At the circus, I say to him, "OK, it will sound like a line, but I do find you genuinely attractive and I'm really enjoying being with you." He thanks me. I say "Since I know that sounds like a line, I'll also tell you this, at the risk of sounding like a racist instead of a liar - one of the things I find really attractive about you is that you are mixed-race, and that's a big turn on for me."

I tell him he's off the hook if he wants to go home afterwards - I've had a great time, and he has, too. He opts for the hotel. We look at pictures from my last trip. We have long, slow oral in both directions - he has the right mix of firm and gentle and I tell him that while I almost never come from oral, he makes me feel like it's a possibilty. There is a lot of touching and kissing and stroking - he has great hands. He stops himself from coming several times, and I tell him, "you get more than one shot." He says, "I only have one shot in me tonight." Eventually, I ease him into me - his cock is huge, long and thickening towards the base - and he comes immediately. For which he apologizes. I don't say it, but my sore, sore pussy is relieved.

We stay there talking for a long time - I tell him about Amsterdam and the red light district, he tells me about his daughters. He says I remind him of his mother, but it is not nearly as creepy as you might think, given that is cock is in me at that point.

He, also, gives me the minimum, plus $5, more a function of not having change than a tip. But I do not resent him his six hours (three private) because I have had a nice time, and there was a real connection beyond, OK, you're reasonably interesting. I am ok sleeping in sheets we've been in. I even debate not bothering to take a shower, though the shower wins.

The thing is, I have this naive, romantic idea of the sacred whore. The idea that sex can be a healing, nurturing thing that can deepen a person's self-awareness and change how they look at themself. I've been with people in my personal life where there was great joy and great love, even though we were not in love. Sometimes I never saw them again. Sometimes I have stayed connected to them as friends or lovers.

Seeing my second client was joyful and fun and spontaneous and romantic and exciting. I felt cared for, and I cared for him. The money was nice - I wouldn't have driven over here without some money - but had the evening ended at the circus, had I paid my own ticket, I still would have had a lovely time, and I think he would have, too. My job in his life, should he see me again, is to help him have a good time and feel like someone adores being with him and wants him. And I can't do that unless I really feel it, so I'm glad I do. No, it's not as intense or as deep as being with someone I've picked out myself, or with Lover or Husband, but it is really there.

Looking up...

Tomorrow I meet a client with whom I've had lots of phone calls and who seems to have a sense of humor. And he was classy enough to mention that he'd be seeing a theatre show I like and did I want anything as a souvenir?

I'm meeting a fellow who sent pics of himself and wrote a long email, next week for lunch.

I'm emailing with another fellow who likes appointments of 4 hours or more so that they can have a meal and do a non-sex fun thing as well as the main event.

Another one likes to give and receive massages, then oral only, no F/S (full service).

Another one lost his wife last year.

And one more who sent a long email and pics of himself.

Finally, I'm starting to meet a better class of people...I'll keep you posted.

Enough about me, what do you think of me?

I go to meet the client who texts me all the time, using up my prepaid minutes, and who constantly tries to get me to send him dirty PM's (not it!).

I run late, because I have colored my hair (adding a dash of brown to the red, apparently it lasts longer that way, anyway, I like it) and done the kitty to match, and I leave it on a long time. I rush to dress, make up in the car, and on a whim, throw my whore bag into the car in case we progress to appointment tonight.

I go to TGI McGillicuddy's Good Time Emporium and meet him in the bar. It reeks of smoke. I catch his eye, greet him, and realize, he's sitting in the smoke-infested bar...because he's a smoker. Ick. Bleah.

We chat.

Me: It's nice to meet you! I hope your meeting went well.

Him: Meeting great, my job my job my job my job my clients my clients my way of doing business my smarts my smarts my savvy...

Me: Wow!

Him: My consulting my consulting my way of doing business my employees my way of running the office "I spend a lot of time manipulating, well, not manipulating, but controlling in an encouraging way" my way of running the office my business...

Me: Fantastic! I've been reading about the fight to abolish (regulation related to his job).

Him: That's BS, that's BS, that's BS, my business my business my job my title my office my work that's BS, here's the way it works, here's the way it works.

Me: Oh! That must be--

Him: (Story about how his business acumen and how it was spurned by a client who got taken advantage of by someone else and wanted to come back but he wouldn't let them. The story takes 11 minutes. I time it by his watch).

Me: Wow! You're so savvy!

Him: So what's going on in your life?

Me: Well, I just finished my master's, and moved here to--

Him: My life my house my cottage by the lake my boys my snowmobiles my atv's my jet-skis my boats my woods my vacations.

Me: You must be so--

Him: So how did you get into the hobby?

This is the first time he listens to anything I say or lets me finish a sentence.

At this point, we have been here about 40 minutes. This guy bores me out of my gourd. And he smokes. I'm already thinking, well, if I do him tonight at least I'm not wasting the getting-ready time. And he's not unattractive, just boorish. But hey, it's part of the job, right? Listeners-R-Us.

We decide to adjourn to a hotel. I call my Safety Friend and get her voicemail - I haven't warned her about this one in advance. I call Husband, to let him know I will be home a little later, and he sounds bereft. It's been a long day. I feel weird. My gut says, No. I spend the remaining six minutes of the drive trying to come up with a good excuse to bail.

We get to the hotel and I get into his car and explain very sweetly that I must have eaten something that disagreed with me, I'm having terrible stomach cramps, I'm worried that I'll puke if I go down on him. (Especially since, as I recall, this is the guy who likes that thing where the girl lies on her back and leans her head over the edge of the bed and he fucks her mouth, not that that really matters since it's a lie anyway). He has by now chewed gum. I kiss him, he gropes me, I bail.

He actually wasn't a bad kisser.

I rush home, beating Husband by seventeen minutes, during which I strip to the skin - every item I am wearing down to my panties reeks of smoke - shove everything in the laundry basket, text client to thank him for his concern for my well-being (he has texted me again, I swear I will bill him for that dime) shower, rinse my hair, and blowdry enough to not look like I have been in the shower. When Husband arrives, tired and down, there is soup warming on the stove and a wife in a bathrobe to greet him at the door.

I think I'm happier scheduling for the daytime.

Sugasm #62

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Diary of a Likely Call Girl

In the UK, Belle de Jour’s book is “the Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl.” In the US, Puritan-founded nation we, it’s “The Diary of an Unlikely Call Girl.” I read it, and found myself thinking, ok, active and varied sex life, time as an exotic dancer, broke and in the big city, this is ‘unlikely’ how?

I suppose for the average white-bread book shopper, being white, middle class, educated, not addicted to any drugs and not burned with a curling iron as a child qualifies as unlikely to enter a sex-based trade.

I’m white. Middle class. I have a BA and an MFA, one from an excellent school and one from a state school that was convenient and close. My parents live in a nice house, and I live in as nice a house as my parents (an amazing realization when it hit, btw). I don’t do any drugs – I’ve never done any drugs. I’ve never smoked a cigarette except for that two weeks in 9th grade when I really wanted Cindy to like me and even then I couldn’t figure out how to inhale. I don’t even drink (alcoholism on both sides of the family, plus I dislike the taste, plus I was so unpopular in high school that learning to choke down beer wasn’t going to help). My parents were not abusive, though they demanded high standards (“6A’s and a B? Why did you get a B?) and there was rather a lot of teenage rebellion on my part.

But…

Age 6? 7? 8? I surprised a man later arrested for pedophilia (Disney World babysitter, no less) by kissing back and asking for more kisses.

I actively – as actively as a thirteen-year-old can – let a friend of a family friend seduce me into a handjob with some mouth in the car on the way home from a canoeing trip.

When I did something to the car – can’t recall if it was a ticket or a mashed bumper – in 11th grade, possibly 10th, probably 10th, and my parents told me I couldn’t drive again until it was paid for, I called up an older friend (30’s at least, or prematurely all grey) and told him that I would have sex with him for $100. I remember coming out of the bathroom in his apartment having changed into a red silk shortie slip and high heels, nervous and shaking, I remember having missionary sex on the pallet bed in the corner of his unfurnished apartment, I remember another night he drove me 5 hours to my first rock concert, I was supposed to be spending the night at Becky’s and instead I slept the whole way back on the floor of the white van…



I started exotic dancing as a senior in high school. I was not popular. No-one openly admitted it if they thought I was pretty. I left school at 2:30 and worked the 3-10 shift (a shift I made up myself, always the creative worker) and danced in a teddy stolen from my mom’s drawer while guys told me how beautiful I was. One day my English teacher gave me a lift to work.

Dancing turned out to be a good way to make money between high school and college, and between college and more college. Long after I stopped, I still kept my thigh-high boots, combination lock and pasties in a box, only a few years ago admitting that I was now too old, it wasn’t a back-up job any more.

I read Mayflower Madam and was impressed by Sydney Biddle Barrows’ desire to run an escort agency as well as any business could be run. I read Belle de Jour and was not impressed by the lack of literary climax in her book, but noticed that she was certainly popular.

And I started thinking – could I make money as a dominatrix? Well, probably, I play that role well, but there’s not much market for it where I live, and it looks awfully complicated to set up a dungeon and build a clientele, let alone acquire all those props and costumes.

So this is what’s left.

I’ve been blessed with muscular intimate parts, a decent body and the ability to playact. I have a husband who pretty much loves me no matter what I do, though I’m sure not telling about this one, and a lover who knows all about it but also knows it doesn’t count, unlike the men I personally fuck to turn him on. I have a Safety Friend.

And right now I am fending off 30 private messages on one board and 10 on another, hearing that someone’s saying something bad about me in a secret area of a board (I can’t think why), and stressing about turnaround times on emails so I won’t give lousy customer service or alienate a potential client. I’ve always said, I’m never going to work less hard at anything I do, so I might as well work for myself. I can’t give less than a good job.

I think it’s going to kill me.

(sings) Popular, You're Gonna Be Popular...

I have a personal email for my real life, a business email for my real business, and an anonymous email for escorting. It has now come to my attention that I need one more - so I can talk to people about this blog, without putting out the email I use to communicate with the clients who might be offended by comments like "I wanted to mouthwash my pussy."

I have a business/personal phone. I have a whore phone (pay-as-you-go, thank you Virgin, and no, the irony has not escaped me as I suspect it has not escaped Richard Branson).

I have an account at two hobbyist bulletin boards, which means I effectively get messages from four places about guys who want to meet. (On the boards, in email, on the phone, they are gentlemen and I am a lady. In here and my head, they're guys and I'm a whore.)

And to track it all, I have an Excel sheet. Who wrote back last, what pics I sent them, did I send my all-purpose basic information cut-and-paste with enough big words to scare off some of them, have they proposed a meeting yet, do I have their email, their phone, have I googled them, what did they say they like. You worry about forgetting your significant other's favorite perfume or birthday or the six and a half month anniversary of the day you met? I worry about confusing the DATY, BBBBTCIM, Region A Salesman Guy with the FS, MISH/RCG, Blonde/Blue, Do You Do Couples Guy from City B.

I have 12 guys in active play - as in, we are talking about when and where to have a coffee meeting. This is way too many. I'm scared to turn away clientele, but I think I need to not schedule any more of them for a few weeks. My next appointment is this week, and I'm trying to decide if I should see more than one guy - I'm travelling to another area, I'm already going to be in a hotel and I have the ability to make the bed like the maid does.

Will I feel slutty and nasty if I see more than one? Will it get around that I saw more than one even though I'm saying I don't, which I think is part of the charm (May be wrong on this one)? Or will I feel good about maximizing my time, making the most I can off of the travel time and hotel room?





A new development - I sent off a non-public photo of myself holding a prop that could be considered a BDSM prop. The guy I sent it to turns out to be very, very curious...

Thumping the Melons

Met a fellow for coffee this morning, pre-gym - another one who says I'm better-looking than my pic, so time to change up the profile.

Had a bagel and coffee, he sipped coffee he didn't want, we chatted a bit nervously and tried not to attract the attention of the elderly (and perhaps unshockable) gentleman reading the paper at the next table.

I liked him, I'd date him in this context, he's interesting and shed some light for me on why some men see SP's (the wife is not terribly giving in this department, but the partnership is still important). I can absolutely empathize - I am with Husband 100% and forever, but I like dining out.

He walked me to my car. I hugged him and kissed him near the mouth. He reached around and...patted my ass. And said, "You know I've been wanting to do that, right?" A tiny part of my brain was shouting, "Excuse me, buddy! That is my personal ass and it's not just yours to--oh."

I guess I can't be offended if they want to check out the merch before plunking down the cash.

Morning

And here is what I do:

Shower - I have waited three days so my hair will turn out clean and not too dry.

Shave - I am the only girl I know who can shave every day, pits, mons, legs, all of it, without getting bumps or a rash. I leave some behind, though - it's well-trimmed but still there. Never been a fan of the naked eight-year-old look.

Dress - my own non-working bra and panties, since this one is a get-to-know-you-coffee only, tights and fishnets (it's freakin' cold out there), just past the knee tight wool pencil skirt, clingy sweater. I'm taking a pair of jeans to change into afterwards. Will never wear jeans to an appointment, not even pants. Struck by something a hobbyist (they call themselves 'hobbyists', I'm a 'Service Provider', SP for short) said on the bulletin board: 'Why do all the ladies post photos of themselves in sexy lingerie and cute nighties when they mostly greet me at the door in jeans?' I'm not here to be comfortable, I'm here to be a fantasy. Plus, I only own one pair of jeans so I don't wear them a lot anyway.

Hair - have recently learned how to use the straightening iron, waiting for terrible August haircut to grow out, there's one weird layer that ends at my ears in an otherwise shoulder-length cut.

Makeup - Enough so that I look hot, not enough to make Husband wonder where I am going.

This is more care than I have ever given to my appearance in my life. When all the other girls were learning to lip gloss and blowdry in eighth grade, I had my nose in a book. Probably "Maggot."

Fresh and Clean

Their money is always brand new, they have just come from the bank, and when they set it on the bedside table or the dresser there is a moment where I wonder, what are you doing that for?

And then I realize it's for me.

Lessons 101

One of the other things I do is teach. And often, I am asked to teach a watered-down, fun-and-frolic version of what I do to under-10's. I'm good at it. They love me. But it's not really my thing.

On the outside, I'm saying, "Go, honey! You can do it! That's great! Good job! Wow!" but on the inside, I'm counting the minutes until my time there is up. They hug me, and they can't wait to come back next week, and I'm just glad to collect my pay and go home.

It's a lot like having sex for money.

Today's take - $400 out of which I paid hotel and it only took an hour. Wonder if that might be a marketing tactic - I charge with the idea that they can stay as long as they like, then make out well because they just want to get fully dressed and leave. In fact, one of the big differences so far is that when I have sex for fun, there's a lot of laying around naked that happens afterwards. When I'm a service provider, he can't wait to get dressed.

Went to Vicki's the other day and bought a bunch of new lingerie - Lover came with me and we also hit Macy's, where the dressing rooms were so deserted we practically fucked in the room. I lost my balls about going the whole way, but there was a lot of grinding with me in panties only.

I'm sitting in my hotel room, watching TV and using the wireless. I've made some discoveries:

1) I need to buy separate clothes as my instinct is to wash everything and when I mouthwashed, which I've never done before, I wanted to mouthwash my pussy.

So I think one or two dates a month will probably be sufficient, and I may not even do that. However, it is already fading into unreality - I'm still in the room and it's like he was never here.

2) It's been so long since I've had protected sex that I forgot that the wrapped-up part of the condom near the bottom of the penis pinches! Note to self - a little more lubricant wouldn't hurt, either.

I was definitely his fantasy girl. He had some bumps down there that I found a little freaky and I'm hoping it's benign as he claimed. When I discovered them during 69, I stayed calm but was totally freaked out and so ready to be done.

3) I'm normally a wild screaming orgasm-er. I yell "oh my God" and sometimes if I am feeling warmly, "I love you!". Today I faked two orgasms during oral (which never ever ever gets me off) and realized as I was getting into the first one that I have to tone it way down to be believeable. The after-orgasm voice is breathy and comes from my chest resonater. Gee, voice lessons *did* come in useful!

4) Having someone I'm not into lick my breasts makes me nauseous, which maybe I shouldn't place too much credence in as Lover is about the only person who can mouth my nipples and not make me nauseous. It's never been a great thing for me.

Have signed up at another escort board and am now getting PM's through that one, too. I don't think I'm ever going to advertise - I have another client scheduled for later in the month, and am likely to line up one more, and I just don't really want to see that many people. Again, it's like teaching 7-year-olds. The money is nice, and it's not actively repellent, but as a job I'd put it somewhere between grouting tile and cleaning the back of the stove. It doesn't actively disgust me, but having it done is better than doing it.