(The End)

cartoon from Gaping Void

DTW, again and always. Upgraded, a thrill for me as well as for Power Girl. Thank God we’ll get some sleep, and the little china houses filled with liqueur the attendants bring around at the end of the flight…yes, they give you gifts in business class, thank you for flying KLM. I am as happy as I have ever been – the universe is conspiring to shower me with blessings, as Rob Brezny might say.

I walk to the fountain, the massive black oval in the center of the terminal, the leaping water momentarily still. It’s time.

And as I call up each unforwardable photo living in my phone, I think, yes, that was a good time. And then I hit delete.

Pumpkins lined up to be weighed at a fair.
Waterskiing drag queens.
The mermaid I painted, now painted over.
Bruises on my breasts.
The time I dyed my hair Lola red.
The girl in Las Vegas.
Mary Magdalene with her jar of ointment.
An erection in jeans.
A fortune: You Will Pass a Difficult Test.
His hand in my ass.

Clean.

The fountains start their arcing paths, catching the light of the sun over my shoulder. I realize I have lost my screensaver, this is still my phone for one more month. I follow the edge of the oval, the water reflecting my knees as it slides over, hugging the berm of the pool, and I snap facing into the light, the blackness of the fountain, the clearness of the water, the sun coming through it all, everything clarified, everything clear.

This is what I will look at. Until I get the new phone. And then I’ll snap something else.

This is the end of the story.

It’s not clean – there are still some posts in rough editing, ideas scribbled on napkins and pieces of paper tablecloth, plot lines unfinished, things left unsaid, some of them important.

Here there is a whimper – in my other life, the life where people see my eyes and my smile and my body all in the same snapshot, there is a bang. One big enough to need a pre-emptive removal of this particular risk.

It’s the end of the movie.

Beautiful Girl is on a mountain in Taos. She sends texts when she gets reception. She is clearing her life of alcoholism, laziness, and inertia – only a little of the last is hers. Someday you will hear her voice. Maybe you have already.

Power Girl is standing beside me, finding her power and helping me regain mine. We’re off to cities in Europe, Asia, Canada, and the next big thing. The blond and the redhead holding hands? That’s us.

Secret Scientist is scientist-ing and music-ing, with Hairline Boy, who is happy there weren’t enough pills in the cabinet and has appointed himself a future helpline.

Zurich texts me: Flights have just doubled everywhere – don’t worry, Mandy will get her mail-order booty somehow.

Fucked-Up Guy was good on Friday, and I was fine with it being too late for me on Saturday, and I knew on Sunday it would be too late when I saw the shot in his hand. But I needed the time to pack, no harm no foul.

Be My Real Friend is my real friend. We’re working on girlfriend-with-presents status, and I need to tell him, the thing that makes me a whore is asking for it. If you choose it, it’s a present. Even if it's cash.

Folk Rocker is on the other side of the world. We’re both looking forward to a future meeting, unforced and uncompelled.

Big City Lover has come through as a friend in surprising ways. We’re cool.

I don’t know where Ex-Lover is or what he’s doing, and I’m OK with that. I am at times a little wistful, but my mourning is done. And I’m letting go of feeling obligated to be good to him. The only thing I miss is being a muse. But I suspect that when someone else needs me in that role, they will appear to me (or I to them) and there will be more long conversations, more writing, more listening, more…

Husband is still imperfect, still trying, still next to me when I am home and still lonely when I am gone. He’s made some local friends. He’s planning home improvement and a trip to see me this summer. He's manning up, as Beautiful Girl would say.

And Mandy? Mandy has a big dream on the verge of coming true. And not that lame self-realization, use-the-zen, feel-the-moment crap but in a concrete way. In a big way. The best thing I ever made up ‘til now may be about to place second. True story.

There will be a book. I hope you will buy it. Even (Anonymous) if only to enjoy schadenfreude.

And so, Gentle Readers, goodbye, goodnight, and good luck.

Thank you.

Closer to Fine

I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains

Me: I think we should be not-friends for awhile and see how that works out.

Him: OK, I'll talk to you...later.

(sound of two car ignitions)

And there it is. The magic-fucking-bullet. And not the silver bullet I use so much the paint's starting to wear off, thank you Doc Johnson, but the bullet that puts the whole damn thing to rest, stops me tearing out my hair and my heart. Confirm delete friend.

An hour later, I'm in therapy, with my dread-locked doctor nodding seriously at me:

"So, he started dating one of your employees? That's a very angry move."

I have never thought of it that way. I tell her, I tell Beautiful Girl, I tell another friend, yes, we went on vacation together for a few days, we came to a meeting of the minds, we moved on from oh-our-relationship-made-me-a-bad-person-and-now-I-am-redeemed, and he told me he always wanted to be full time and permanent, at heart he is monogamous, he didn't want me to fuck other people but emphasized getting turned on so he could deal with it, he wanted me to leave my husband.

They all say, "That certainly puts it all on you."

I tell Doctor Dreadlocks I'm screwed, I have to make a decision whether to hire his girlfriend and keep her where I can see her, or not hire her and have her show up where I am without warning, to visit him.

She says, "That's his mess. He made that problem. Tell him to clean it up."

And maybe I will.

But right now the feeling of not-talking, not-poking, not-friending, not-worrying is so freeing and lifting me from the dark fog of maybe I will take all these pills that rattle so invitingly in my purse, that I can't be bothered to pick up the phone, not even for a tiny victory.

There's more than one answer to these questions
pointing me in a crooked line
The less I seek my source for some definitive...

Day One: Aftercare

There is the blank page.

There is the empty notebook, the block of time constantly rescheduled, filled in, replanned. No time to write, so busy! So busy…

I have been having a writing holiday. Taking four weeks to travel, restore my spirit, see the world with new eyes –

(that’s a lie)

Not much has happened around here, the sex has been marital, the adventures limited –

(liar)

I haven’t written because I have been focusing on my marriage, on my husband, exploring Amsterdam, Paris, my sacred city Bruges, reveling in the Northern European cold, the white and startling snow that followed us from city to city, “I don’t know whether to say Merry Christmas or Happy Easter” from our tiny gay host—

(also a lie. Fact, but a lie.)

I’m debating whether to continue whoring. Continue sleeping around. Continue blogging. Continue writing—

(closer)

I am afraid. For the first time in my life, I am afraid to write, afraid of what will come out – this from someone who used Columbine as material, triumph coming at last from the memories of the days when I would have done the same. I cannot eat, it is dangerous to open my mouth. Telling the first word means telling them all; I don’t know if I can stop. The poison dissolves me from the inside, wracking my guts, destroying my sleep, calling me to the Dread, the lure of the medicine cabinet, the icy road, the rope, the knife, the gun.

There is something in BDSM called aftercare. It’s when the parties involved calm down, come back to “normal”, release each other from their roles. Mostly, it’s the dominant partner bringing the submissive partner back to a place of equality and comfort, soothing their wounds, their ruffled spirit, their mind.

Ex-Lover used to be very good at this. “Good girl,” he’d say, and I felt approved, that my efforts to please him, to scream when he wanted, to fight against screaming when he wanted, were well-received, pleased him as much as they took me down the dark hallway of terror and release. For four years, he cut me open and sewed me up, told me when to do the job myself, put me back together. Not just with my clothes off, but in my head, my daily life, tormentor and refuge, hell and hope. I fucked no one else without stepping outside my body, recording the scene for him. Lately for you, too, Gentle Reader.

I debate for three and a half weeks whether to see him in Europe as we planned. There is the pleasure of making Cute Girl uncomfortable, the worry on what the time together will be like, the sense that this is senseless, there is no friendship to be had, no going back. Finally, I weep with my best friend in her foreign city, I weep with Beautiful Girl via Skype, and I change one plane ticket. I will go only to the city that finishes my trip, wait in the airport, get the next flight home I can. I tell this to Ex-Lover, first via text, then phone to be polite.

He meets me in the city, taking a train some six hours to be there. We share a room, a bed, a walk through a street festival, oranges, chocolate lemon rind, meals he orders in the language I do not speak. We sleep on separate sides, we dress in the bathroom. We see the church. We decide to go to another city, where we meant to spend time. And there we take long walks, hold hands, share candlelit dinners, look at views, have conversations. Everything is as it always was, except we do not fuck. Or kiss. And in the night he says to me, “roll over and I’ll hold you,” like he always did. He wraps his arms around me, so tightly one of us is drowning, one of us cannot breathe. Three nights next to each other, three days side by side.

And still, there is his girlfriend nervously texting, trashing my company (for which she works) on her not-so-private-as-she-thinks blog, snarking at me in email for business decisions I made after weeping and then clear-eyed asking my partner to choose, to be even-handed, to be fair fair fair enough to cut off my own finger lest she think I’m pointing at her.

And still, there is everything there always was. Right down to

I love you.

I love you, too.

And in the night his hand reaches across my body, he mumbles in his sleep,

mine.

His hand on mine, my hand on his cock,

yours.

We ride together on the train, he sees me to the bus. I lose my head, I’m nervous, I say, still yours, just a little bit. Still mine, just a little bit.

He turns three times as he walks away.

I am happy. I think I am happy. And then there is the long ride over the ocean and I pour out into emails what I do not even know is in me, I realize I am shaking in the corner, raw and beaten and the man who is excellent at making the hot girl writhe beneath his hand has no time for the bloody creature at his feet, there are new games to play, a fluffy new puppy to pat and love, and I watch everything that should have been mine (all anger comes from should thoughts), everything I need to come down, unspool, release, be let go, let out, told that was enough, that was good, it’s time to go now, watch it all be given away.

I am waiting to come down. I am waiting to be released. It’s not enough to walk away, to be my friend, to plan things that feel like dates and thread me on. I have spent four years learning to stay wired until he fades the dimmer and it is not enough to simply flip the switch.

He texts:

I feel like once you’re serious about another lover things will be easier with us…I keep hoping for simple solutions to complex problems, and that one would require nothing from my lazy ass

I can’t come without weeping. I can’t touch anyone else without remembering his hand on me, starting the recorder in my head. I don’t see another serious lover in this picture.

He is not worth it, and I know this. Beautiful Girl knows this. My best friend knows this. He knows this. I start a phone call, “Maybe we shouldn’t be friends any more.” The call finishes with plans reaffirmed, plans to talk again soon, a request for my schedule to make that happen.

So I will write. I will hide the limp and swallow back the poison and open up the vein to dip the pen. I will write for you, Gentle Reader, and for me. There are things in the notebook waiting to be shaped, notes from time with Be-My-Real-Friend and Secret Scientist and Folk Rocker and Big City Lover and Zurich. Some of them are lovely, full of drippy porn and happy laughing faces.

Thirty days. Every day. An obligation to you and myself.

And then - ?

Perhaps I will be done with him.

Perhaps I will be done with me.

(Laughing)

So I have another pseudo-deep whiny-whiny post already written, and it will eventually see the light of day.

But not yet.

I am lounging in the syrup of once again being with someone where I replay what happened in my head in the car, the next day, as I fall asleep, it distracts me from eating, I pause with food on my fork and get temporarily lost in the warm glow of memory all the more precious for being fleeting, tenuous, likely to be recaptured eventually from mutual desire, but unlikely from circumstance.

Notes were taken, porn will be written - but I beg your indulgence for a few hours, while this swirl of sensations and skin-tingling memory settles into transcription. You'll excuse me if I am disinclined to reach that point...

Retreat

I have left the big TO and am now happily ensconced at the home of a fellow writer and longtime friend, for our semi-annual writing retreat. Sounds a mite fancy, means we meet at one of our houses, curl up in a warm room, and write for three days. Blog posts will likely be part of this, but if there is a little silence, that's why.

For those of you interested in "Process" (a lofty title for the painfulpleasurework of writing), here's the morning's schedule:

- Slept until 10, lay on my back in bed thinking and noticing the grey quality of the light until 11, mentally planned the day's attack.
- Morning toothbrushing, etc.
- Wrote a few pages in my notebook about a realization I had, one that has been directly prompted by available mental space I've gained by honoring my promise to self and the Girls (Power and Beautiful) to stay back and not call, text, message or poke ex-Lover (not since Wednesday, and believe me, every day is a victory, not a little one, but a full scale lap-around-the-track, gilded laurel wreath, hoist-me-to-your-shoulders-boys-and-trot-me-round-the-goals triumph), pages that will end up refined and tightened and show up here later this week.
- Yoga with Fellow Writer.
- Yogurt, internet (have to ration it so it doesn't eat the writing time), posting here.

There are four projects on my plate for this three-day span. Finishing the first draft of a medium-length project in another genre; writing out from my scribbled notes in the margins of the map balanced precariously on the wheel and with the occasional accidental honk (but I can't pull over because forward motion lets the words come), a poem that came to me last night on the dark, rainy drive here, radio alternating between Philip Glass and new Canadian pop/rock I've never heard, thank you Canadian Content; a very short piece in still another genre; and sitting with the printed out pages of How About Now? and organizing them in a few ways - likely, chronology, topic, ?? - and seeing where additional material needs to be written to answer questions, clarify, fill in backstory, make it flow like a book and not a diary. I'm planning to start with the poem, because it will hopefully be something I can knock out reasonably quickly and feel accomplished. (And hey, this post counts, too, because I say so).

A side note: Thank you, very, very much, Gentle Readers who have contributed to my Amazon Honor System box (to your right). I randomly checked it this morning and my contributions have tripled since last week. So thank you, not only for thinking of me during the holiday season, but for letting me know that you like and appreciate my work, and value it as something that adds to your life and is worth paying for. I've also had several recent emails from people saying they enjoyed reading, and that means a great deal to me, too. Both of these gestures are truly helpful to me as I work on rebuilding my self-worth lately, and I thank you so very much for visting that construction site. Hard hats required. And of course, this offer (see section marked 'Gratification') is still open - perhaps a little holiday pressie to yourself?

Now I'm off to the warm room...

Reaching Towards Relief

I've been wending my way through a book, Tomcat In Love by Tim O'Brien, recommended by Brit Boy. The epigraph is the last sentence of this poem, which I had read before in a class, but hadn't really noted. Now I'm noting. I hope you'll enjoy it - I think it's now one of my top five.

(The other four would be Aristotle by Billy Collins, "You want a social life, with friends" by Kenneth Koch, TS Eliot's Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, and The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, because my mother used to read it to me.)


One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

-- Elizabeth Bishop

Coffee, Gentle Readers?

I will be in San Francisco this weekend. If you would like to meet for coffee, drop a line.

A note to those who care (thank you) - right now, the blog is about four days behind my actual life. This is a good morning, this is a good day - I can't swear there won't be another abyss (or at least a small fissure) but I have come through to the other side and things are much, much better. One more already-written bitter post to go, and then we'll all step forward together into the lovely fun world again.

I'll be holding my hand back for you still finding your own way.

Live Through This

And this is the flip side, the sitting at the computer knowing that hey, if you can just write some porn it will all be ok, the readers will stop deserting you for newer, fresher content and you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that someone likes you, someone still wanks to you, but all you can do is try to make the solitaire game come out right, over and over again. Because the thing that stops me from being a really good whore is the truth, and the thing that stops me from writing you, Gentle Readers, some damn good porn, submit to Sugasm, make it all glossy and fun, is the truth.

And the truth is, I want to die.

Monday, I wake, weeping. Husband cradles me, wants to know what’s wrong. And so I finally tell him – I broke up with someone. I worry that I’ll never be their friend again. And Husband, the strongest man I know, soothes me and holds me and tells me that it will all be ok, it’s just my pride. We go out together instead of alone, and spend time, spend money. It’s lovely. I decide, midway through Target, I Am Over It, which is what I text to Lover. Beautiful Girl reminds me in a long chat, don’t give up your power, don’t let him be your equal, this has been coming for a long time.

Tuesday, Lover texts me, Will It Make It Any Better to Know That Cute Girl and I Have Imploded? This makes me happy, of course. They have finished because she logged on to Facebook at 8:39, saw all the public flirting with Yet Another Girl, and finished him at 8:51.

Tuesday night, I unavoidably see Lover. I resolve to treat it as a first date, and I am not impressed. I’ve dressed, new shoes, new top, taken pains to look like Not From the Discard Pile. The way he speaks of women does not impress me. He is slightly unkempt, not on time, takes the last bite of asparagus. We are cordial. My allegiance shifts slightly, how dare he pick Cute Girl over Yet Another Girl because the plane ticket costs less? Do I want to even be friends with someone who plays the game this way? Our ability to be polite is hopeful.

Wednesday, Cute Girl learns through a complicated and high-school-reminiscent system of Facebook, Myspace, and LiveJournal comments that I have been her lover’s lover. She and I talk. I make it clear I’m not mad at her.

Thursday Lover calls me, wistful. We again discuss a week in winter in Foreign City. He reminds me of special times we’ve shared in the place he is now, texts me about songs on the radio that have to do with the Us That Was, laaaahh da da da daaaahhhh…

Friday, when I have been sick all week through all of this – truly, snottily, nastily sick, not just heart-sick – Lover rings again to see if I will mind his seriously dating Cute Girl.

Well, let’s see.

What he can do:

- Date my friend/co-worker without any social disapproval, since we have been secret and must remain so.

- Suck her in deep before she even knows she’s screwing me over.

- Continue to flirt with lots and lots of other girls in a way that I will have to be aware of, that will be unacceptable to Cute Girl, and that I can’t pass on to her because 1) I will look like a jealous bitch (which I am) and 2) she’s a big girl.

- Force me to continue being “friends” with him so there won’t be talk.

- Force me to continue working with her so there won’t be talk.

What I can do:

- Nothing.

And thank God for writing, thank God for words, thank God for the few, the brave Gentle Readers sticking it out through what by now looks like the cover of Hole’s first post-Cobain album, because as I write the urge to count out the number of NyQuils it would take onto the counter fades and in comes righteous anger. Thank you Cyndi Lauper, thank you Dresden Dolls, thank you PowerGirl and Beautiful Girl and Secret Scientist who are there and Computer Girl who would be there if I called. Thank you Husband, for telling me it’s not OK to bring this into our home, but loving me anyway while I can’t stop crying, can’t get out of bed. Thank you Lover’s Ex-Wife, because this is what your end was like and I was part of that. Thank you Be-My-Real-Friend, because Just Clients don’t listen to me whine like this. Thank you patient S and D from GC, thank you G, whose emails haven’t yet been answered, who send hugs, who trust anyway. Thank you words like bricks, building the wall, the shelter, put up the yellow triangle on the door because this relationship is now radioactive and while half my heart (ok, more than half) wants to take pity, let him in, it’s only until the world ends, there is no room, no room, I only have enough left for me and anger.

Headed East

Towards...

Man Who Loves Stars
Be-My-Real-Friend
Secret Scientist and his sidekick Hairline Boy
Fucked-Up Guy
Another one I haven't named or talked about yet

and

Lover.

Away from...

Tourist, looking forward to a fly-in.

Power Girl, in the aftermath of the world's fastest breakup, still kind enough to describe the difficulty as "a mutual lack of compromise" instead of "no matter how many days I go to church with you I won't be a housewife or move to the political right."

Beautiful Girl, once again in thrall to a Penis Flytrap.

Husband, whom I am very, very sorry to leave. He's made me a mix CD. I'll probably cry.

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).

Whore Sex vs Not Whore Sex, Part I

I start the day by breaking my glasses, missing the airport exit, and getting charged extra to standby for a later flight. I fly into National, which I refuse to call Ronald Reagan Airport. My skin is a mess – I’m already dehydrated from working all weekend, the flight made it worse. I powder my nose again as we taxi in, turn on my cell…and get a message that no, my hotel is not booked. Turns out that on Last Minute Travel some of the deals aren’t actually assured until they call you back. Spit. Dirty Drawers. Garbage. But I pull out my guidebook and book the swanky boutique hotel I’ve been eyeing for the past two weeks, figuring, ok, the extra $100 will be worth it if I’m having a lousy time and need somewhere nice to lick my wounds.

I see him on the other side of the security doors, he’s short with the stocky but not fat build that bespeaks a good-sized cock. As I come through the doors, he:

1) Ignores my outstretched hand and lunges over to kiss me on the mouth, open-mouthed, repeatedly, taking off the top third of my left big toenail with his giant clunky shoes;
2) Reeks of some godawful cologne;
3) Does not take my suitcase.

In my head, the robot starts flailing his arms…

We get to the car. He gets out something about “can’t wait to taste those-” (eewww!) and goes for the lips again. The robot has his hand on his forehead, shaking his head. This is worse than less-expensive whoring because it’s going to last twelve hours and it’s just starting.

A momentary digression on cologne:

Anteus

“Anteus is the God of Fire and Earth. He appears to his followers as a short, stout man with a bulbous nose, a long cap and he is often seen carrying a pickaxe or hammer.”

Rrrow! Bringin' sexy back!

scent strength: intense (I’ll say)
scent life: 6-10 hours (Oh dear God make it quit)
recommended use: evening (or never)
recommended age: mature (Estimated Age: Mummy, anyone?)
classification: woods (They crept through the woods, the sickly-sweet stench leading inevitably to the rotting corpse. “Some whore’s sorry she shagged that,” mused Constable Wexford.)

We make awkward small talk, me asking about his job in my time-honored technique of “You talk, I’ll think about what the heck to do about this.” The robot in my head waves a printout of flight times, damn the standby fee, get out while you can! Be-My-Real-Friend reaches across me to the glove compartment and points to a greeting-card envelope inside. “That’s for you.” The envelope is fat. Inside, there’s a card, clearly stuffed with money. “I’ll read this later.” I’ll count this later.

I check into the hotel, it’s delightful. The robot does a little Saturday Night Fever spin and pose. The clerk is from my home state and gives me a complimentary late checkout. We get to the room and Be-My-Real-Friend lunges again. The robot’s still dancing downstairs in the psychedelic lobby, I’m on my own now. I work up my guts and tell Be-My-Real-Friend that I’m so sorry, his cologne is one an ex-boyfriend used to wear and would he mind washing it off? He takes it with good grace, and while he ducks into the bathroom I check the money. All 20’s, too much to count right now, so I stuff it in my purse. Be-My-Real-Friend comes out of the bathroom, warp speed ahead, over to the bed. More kissing – he’s not a bad kisser, but the timing and pace are so wrong I’m ready to cry.

(maybe if I kiss you you’ll like me maybe if I suck your cock you’ll like me maybe if I’m available, I do whatever you want, I don’t expect dating or calling or thinking of me first you’ll like me and smile at me when you pass my locker and I’ll have a secret no-one else knows and all I have to do is give up all of me)

And there’s the rub. If I’m a whore, I show up, we fuck, you pay, that’s cool. I don’t care if you like me, except for liking me enough to pay me again. But when the personal element enters in *at all*, I can’t just be a fuck. I have to be wanted, and that means taking a fucking minute to court me, however informally, before the cock slides in. I don’t want to have whore sex any more, it kills my soul. And so far, this feels just like whore sex.

I duck down and suck his nipples to avoid the floodgates, then sit up and look him in the face.

“So you want to have the real me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you want me to really like you.”

“I hope so.”

“Well the real me with my real friends doesn’t fuck until we’ve hung out for awhile.”

It gets much better from here.

Upgrading the Product Line

So I’m noticing on the bulletin boards around Midwestern State that a lot of guys are bitching and moaning about girls who want to switch to condom blowjobs only, since right now there’s a bit of an STD scare going around. (Girl posts that she’s the owner of a brand new, turbo-charged STD, everyone panics, I’m just grateful I haven’t seen many guys, and they haven’t seen many girls (so they claim)). The big observation is - imagine whiny pasty middle-aged guy typing petulantly on company time - “Well I notice they’re still letting us do oral on them for their pleasure!!”

Oh, those selfish, overpriced girls! Letting you pleasure them without protection because it feels so nice, and then refusing to return the favor! Ummmm, whiners? News bulletin:

I’m not. Getting pleasure. From you.

When I come with a lover, I’m with them. I’m with them. I’m enjoying how their body feels, their hands on me. I can tell them, touch me here, do it softer, try it another way, without worrying about offending them or turning them off – even with a new person, I presumably have a personal connection that led us into bed, and I don’t have a vested interest in them coming back to spend more money. If they find me bossy in bed, fine, fuck off, there are lots of less-complicated girls out there if they don’t want to put the effort in.

When I’m with a client, I can’t say, “grab my ass like this, not like that” or the equivalent in nicer language, because that’s not my job. It’s not my role to discover together how they can please me. It’s my role to please them, in whatever way they overtly or covertly ask for. Overtly, they tell me they don’t want me to fake it. Covertly, they clearly expect their skills to make me come nearly instantly. In a way, I think playing this role makes me a lousy whore - or at least, not the kind of whore I want to be. Judging from comments on bulletin boards, I think there are guys who want (or think they want) to be treated like they are really someone I want to be with. Like I care about how they please me, rather than just hoping it will be less-unpleasant than it could be.

More often than not, I come with clients. They like me on top (less work) and that happens to be the position I come relatively easily in. Rub the space below my clit enough, there it goes. But even in the throes of orgasm, part of my brain is ticking off the clock. I’m thinking: How much should I give away in my face? Am I loud enough? Too loud? Crank up the volume a little. No, bring in the lower register, that always sounds good. Close your eyes. OK, throw in a couple extra spasms. Stretch it out a little. Breathy voice. “Mmmm…thank you…that was great…you make me feel so good!” It’s like eating something very nice when you’re just not hungry. You can appreciate the taste, and maybe you paid a lot for it, or maybe someone you care about made it for you and took some trouble, but it’s not the same as sitting down to the table with the sauce of appetite.

I’m thinking more and more about this – how perhaps the whole point of moving into upscale whoring is that I can be me, I can be a lover whose time is purchased rather than a whore whose services are the product. What’s valuable about me is real me – Mandy is a lot more interesting and worth a lot more money for her time than the person I have pretended to be for my clients so far. I also suspect that men with more money have more to lose. I’d rather be able to tell my real name, and what I do, to someone who will enjoy talking with me about it…and will lose his wife, kids, and standing in the community if he tells.

So here’s what I think. I think that if I charge ten times what I charged before, only do long dates and overnights, and put up a cute little website, perhaps 100 men (who are genuinely potential clients) will find me. Of them, 90 will not be able to afford me. Five will not find me attractive and will get a girl with a Barbie body instead. Of the last five, I will not like three. But at ten times the price, I only need two in six months to make the money I want. If I’m lucky, maybe only one and see him twice.

I notice there are fewer seats in First Class...

History: Famous

“So what do you do?” I ask, because he already knows what I do, we’re at my work.

“I’m a musician,” he says, and we both know that’s not all, that the twelve people in the private room and the tension in the dressing room on his arrival don’t have a lot to do with music. But we pretend it is, pretend we can have a normal conversation, pretend there’s lots to find out about each other and that we both care.

He’s nearly forty now, or perhaps on the far side, it’s hard to tell grey from blond. In the poster on the wall of my rented one-bedroom, over where the funky part of Dallas becomes a bad neighborhood, he’s thirty, or maybe a drugged-out twenty-five, fronting a band that will be famous always but always a little less famous than him. He’s drinking brand name gin and tonic, three green olives on a plastic sword balanced on the edge. I’m drinking champale, which is house code for a six dollar cranberry juice and ginger ale. I’m underage, my Poloroid’s on the Do Not Serve board in the back hall, but I don’t drink anyway. He’s either a boobs man or a brains man, because if he was an ass man, I wouldn’t be here, being a little softer around the backside than the rest of the Dallas girls. My bet is on brains. I’m hoping it’s brains. I figured out pretty quickly I wasn’t a Barbie body, was never going to be the tightest girl in the bar no matter how many reps I did, my money comes from conversation and climbing – they’ll pay twenty bucks for the fun of watching me climb two stories up, wrap my high boots around one of the cage bars, lean back and slide down, squeezing my thighs to stop short when my hair brushes the platform. Sometimes thirty.

We’re supposed to do two sets in the cages after two songs on stage, but he’s had a word with the manager, or rather, his manager’s had a word with my manager, and a girl who never liked me to begin with and now is into full-blown hate is taking my sets. Lock my locker for sure tonight, or better yet, take everything home, shoes, dresses, makeup, anything that can be ripped or cut with nail scissors or smashed on the tile floor. I learned in Florida never to leave money in a locker, as fast as you can make a hundred and eighty bucks it still burns to lose it. Dallas is better, there are house mothers who police the dressing room and iron and bandage and pass out cups of liquid latex in the clubs inside the city limits, where if the cops come in, your fake nipples have to peel off in one piece and be opaque to a dollar bill. Here outside the city limits, we’re bare up top, but in the Cabaret we’re also in dresses “appropriate for street wear” when we sit with the customers and we don’t cross the invisible wall in front of their knees, the barrier between us and their groins.

I’m not even supposed to be here. I work next door, in the less-exclusive room of this two-club complex squatting beside the ring road, fronted like a mansion with pillars and a fountain and a circular drive where even the dancers use the valet. In my room, Club Concert, the girls can wear lingerie on the floor and the men don’t have to have ties. We are also less pretty. They call it “a different look,” which means we have smaller or possibly real breasts, softness in the belly, baby fat still around our cheekbones. My placement in the second room seems to me a logical extension of high school, the punchline of finally finding out I am pretty and I can be popular, as long as I leave school at 2:30 and work the 3-to-10 shift.

In Dallas, it’s 7 to 2, but there are so many girls here they check our ID cards when we come and we leave when we’ve made enough. It’s Sunday, slow, but Sundays have always been my lucky night. Tommy closed our room at midnight, told us, “Since it was so slow tonight, you can go over to the Cabaret if you want. Don’t forget, ladies—” and we chorus back, “Appropriate for street wear.” We are a mixed blessing to the girls in the other room. More girls means less time on stage, where no-one makes money, but it also means more competition for dances on the floor. I go up to the same two songs as always, and near the end while I am getting bored and cursing the lack of pole on the main stage, a man comes to the edge of the stage.

“He would like you to join him in the VIP Suite.” I know who “he” is. Even in the other room, we knew he was here. Bulletins came through the dressing room mom — he’s here, he’s in the Suite, he’s not buying dances, he’s sending people down with tips, no, they’re going on their own, no, it’s his money. The DJ finally locked his door and announced that he wasn’t going to play the song, that song, his song, for anyone, so could everyone please stop whining?

I tell the man at the edge of the stage I have to do four more songs in the cages before I can come up, and he nods and goes to arrange something because the room manager comes to me before Annie Lennox finishes her final “hey” and tells me that Dani will be covering my cage sets and would I please put on my dress and go upstairs immediately. Backstage, I struggle into my dress as Sassy waits for her music. “Good luck,” she says, because nothing is secret, and I am grateful that she’s a nice person who talks to the new girls in the dressing room and just laughs when they ask her why she’s called Miss Six-to-Eight.

The door to the VIP Suite is shut, and I don’t know whether to knock or just go in, finally deciding to knock on the grounds that servants don’t. The man who came to the stage opens the door, asks me what I want to drink, and motions to a wing chair by the window. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, the lights are lower here, so we can watch the floor through the glass window.

He leans back in the wing chair, watching the girl on stage through plate glass. The music is piped in, the DJ announces Crystal who is one more whining voice refused the song, the song we all want to dance to tonight, his song. Crystal plays to the floor crowd, refusing to look to the second level, ignoring the window we’re watching her through, you can either be starstruck or you can pretend he isn’t here. I’m with Crystal – I’d rather act like everything’s normal, as normal as the VIP Suite can be, just like oil money or software money or Cowboys money, only it’s famous money. In the end, what matters is that it’s money.

He’s telling me about his wife, he misses her, it’s hard being on tour without her, she couldn’t come this time. I have seen their wedding picture. She’s in a red dress, on horseback, the lead rope falling to his hand, both laughing. He is at this moment unfamous to me, one of many, working on Topic #2, My Significant Other, after a quick slip through Topic #1, My Job. There are only three topics. I pray for the sake of being able to listen to his music forever after this that he will not get to #3, Will You Go Home With Me. As Sassy says, why would you leave the bar for a hundred-dollar blowjob when you could stay here and make six to eight? I do not know if he would offer money or expect fame to pay, but I also do not know if I cost enough to say no.

“Would you like to dance?” he asks, and it takes a moment to realize that that means for him, not with him, because my brain is remembering the Prom and thinking, yeah, you fuckers, look at me now. “Next song, so you get a whole song?” I say, realizing, I am rationing out pleasure to the face from my poster.

The DJ is psychic, or perhaps Sierra has blown him in the booth because as she walks on stage he puts it on, the song, his song. The guitar is laying down the rhythm and every girl on the floor is up, arms overhead for good breast position or hands on the parts we want to emphasize, never bending over past the ninety degree limit set out in the training video that also showed us where the line was and how not to fellate our drinking straws.

I drop my appropriate-for-street-wear dress to the floor around my ankles and give the eye to a hanger-on, who turns away. It is just us. I would like to pretend that it is just us, that we are alone in the suite, alone in the club, alone in the world. What rock star would you like to be on a desert island with? I turn away, I arch my back, I brush him with my hair, I turn back. He is mouthing the words. His eyes are closed. So I dance for twenty bucks, and for me.

History

The accompanying photo has its own story. Another time...

This is what I remember about Jim.

Two false front teeth. Guitarist. I seem to have a thing for guitarists. This one was a street musician, we saw each other every day when I left my obligated-to-have-a-job job at the shoe store and went to my actually-makes-money-job reading tarot on the street. Another city. I carried a cardboard sign, the first summer it said "Fortunes Told $2", the next year "$3", the year I got smart, there was no price and I said "whatever you think it's worth". I wore a gauzy blue broomstick skirt and a brown velvet vest from Salvation Army, no shirt, no bra. This started the year I hated my parents. Fifteen.

I don't really believe in fortune-telling the way I don't really believe in astrology. That is, I ask people their birthdays in their new-hire interview. Squatting by a hot dog stand, it's easy to look at a teenage girl:

"Your parents don't understand you. You're ready for more responsibility but they just won't give it to you."

"OHMIGOD! BECKI! SHE IS SO RIGHT!!!!"

He comes up to me as I'm walking past his pitch, by the deep-fried stuff outdoor cafe corner, headed back to the bus. Pulls a coin out of the open guitar case.

"Tell my fortune."

I don't remember most of it, I always did past, present, future, the first two setting credibility for the payoff. What I do remember:

"You're going to jail tonight."

He laughed. I laughed. I saw him again the next summer, he'd been busted for heroin. That night.

Future, future, mumbo-jumbo, yeah, whatever.

I flirted with him all the next summer. Or rather, I did my subtle-as-a-brick version of letting him know I was interested. I wasn't smooth. He was perhaps 25. Maybe older. One night, we ended up in an apartment, garret really, the view was the roof of the museum. He was squatting at a friend's. He pulled my hair. That's all I remember. It must have been while kissing, but I don't remember that part. I asked him to pull harder. The tender parts of my scalp occupied me on the bus for days.

The next year, I gave him a book, 9 1/2 Weeks. Let's just say the movie has a more...sensual...take. In the book, there's blood. We went to his apartment, probably actually his, it was morning, I don't know why it was so early in the day. He tied me to the bed, beat my breasts with a hairbrush, fucked me with it, left it in me and left me there while he went out. I think it was my hairbrush. Perhaps he asked me to bring it.

Half an hour later, he returned. I said, "It would have been scarier if you hadn't left the radio on." I had bruises for days, black, then purple, then greeny-yellow that took forever to fade. The sheets were white. The radio was a clock radio. There was a window by the bed.

We finally fucked when I was eighteen, living in that city for a few weeks. He came over to my rented room, the house adjoined a wild area. We rolled on the hill under the trees, needles in our backs. His hand ran down my ear, found my hoops.

"Can I pull out your earrings?"

"No."

"Someday you'll ask me to."

I don't remember anything else.

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.

First time for everything

So J met me - 30 minutes late after he moved our meeting time up an hour - at a coffee shop. I decided in about five minutes that he wasn't a psycho, was struck by his height (6'4") and his amazing brown eyes - I know, I know, brown is boring, but his were amazing.

We adjourned to a local suites hotel - bad neighborhood, but a nice room - and I couldn't help but think about a comment I heard when sharing a hotel room with a platonic roommate a few years ago - "Always take the bedspread off first thing, it's covered in hooker juice." We did not remove the bedspread. I had phoned in J's car make and license plate number to my Safety Friend along the way.

We made out a bit, J cautiously touching my ribcage, then getting bolder. His lips were soft, and he'd thoughtfully popped a mint prior. I asked for one, too - my first Altoid (no shit). He fingered me a little and I briefly wondered if he was having a hard time finding my clitoris - it's pretty small, and past lovers have had to exercise more than due diligence. He asked how this all worked, since it was his first time with a... I told him I didn't collect until the end. We both used careful don't-arrest-me language.

Off came most of my clothes - I kept the garter belt and panties on on the theory of gradually unwrapping the gift, and headed downhill. He was soft and gentle and his cock was not too big to take completely into my mouth. After about a minute, he had me stop so he wouldn't come right away, and asked about how much he was entitled to - I said, it's not a certain amount of time, it's not a certain number of acts, I'm happy to hang out and enjoy chatting until you're ready for round 2 and in the meantime would you like to come in my mouth? Or on my body?

3 minutes later, the marines landed. He tasted fine, so I swallowed. I hadn't planned to, but he seemed so sweet, and probably under-satisfied at home. He was pleased with the quality of the service.

10 minutes later, he got up and put his pants on. Didn't want a backrub, didn't want to wait for another shot - "I honestly don't think I have another one in me". I suspected that the guilt reflex was kicking in - either oh god, my wife, oh god, my kids, or oh god, this girl is surprisingly sweet and nice and I feel all weird about it. He told me I'd definitely been worth while, which I think he meant.

So - 275 in 45 minutes. When you factor in hotel, he paid about $100/minute for head.

I'd like to think I'm worth it.

Slogging Onward

Have sent off two more emails - both responded later that night - seems so far that almost everyone gets back to me on round one, but not sure what's happening in round two, after I respond. I've sent pics to two. Sent a price to two. Am trying to follow a plan of "let's meet for coffee first and then see ifyou want to go further" but perhaps this is just letting them chicken out?

I don't feel very professional. I feel a little desparate.

I'm tempted to put up an ad - so far the Craigslist in my (small) town has erotic services for only one girl, who posts repeatedly. Still, I think there's something to be said for an initial screening process.

How About Now?

So after much toying with the idea for many years, including a brief fling with a not-so-legit agency where we "disappointed" all the clients, I've made up my mind.

I'm gonna be a whore.

I don't know, maybe "I'm exploring the world of prostitution" sounds classier, but that feels like it should have "Mumsy dear" tacked to the end of the sentence.

Why blog about it? Well, apparently all the other ho's have blogs, so why not me?

The process has gone something like this:

Reason against: I live in a smallish town in which there is a high probability of being recognized by a client, either upon arrival at the appointment, or in the context of my other career.

Reason for: I'm tired of being broke.

Against: I'm married. And not in a 'well, this one'll do' way, but in a 'when I said death do us part I really meant it' way. That last was a surprising little discovery a few years ago during a trial separation which mercifully did not take.

For: I'm tired of being broke.

Against: I'm already busy with my other job, there's no agency in my town, I'm not willing to post my pictures on the net, I don't have any good pictures with this hair color and me looking sexy, I'll need to get another phone.

For: I'm really, really tired of being broke.
















So I've started on a small scale - screening Craigslist for men who:

1) Can spell and punctuate with near-total accuracy.
2) Do not post photographs of their erect member alongside an urgent plea for a lady to join them right now in their hotel.
3) Do not begin with a challenge about "are you hot enough for me".

I tell them I'm a professional in the first line - delete if you will, mates - and add on a kicky little message hopefully demonstrating I'm fun, have a sense of humor, and worth every penny of the $275/hour I plan to charge them.

I sent four messages - three "looking for a lady" and one looking for a dominatrix. Three replies (the first three) right off the bat, two requesting a pic (I sent) and one requesting lunch right away (I delayed until after the day celebrating the Birth of Our Let's Ignore the Jewish Bit Lord and Savior).

I'll keep you posted...