Whore Diaries II: Adventures in Independent Escorting (3 page)

He goes down on me.  He wants me to cum.  He wants to make me cum.  He wants to have that power.  I tell him I'm saving it, that I want to cum with him inside me.  He can't find my clit.  Finally, he crawls up and I roll a condom on his cock and he fucks me missionary.  That's the best part.  I like penii more and more these days.  After a while, I reach down and rub my clit a couple times and cum.

“You came!” he announces.  “I made you cum!  Well, you had to use your fingers, but I understand I'm an old man and things don't work like they used to...”

After a while, he rolls off and tells me that he actually can't cum.  It's a medication he takes.  He can stay hard all day long but never get off.

Oh, no problem, no pressure, I tell him, and he tells me some more about how I'm perfect and he loves me.  We kiss a little more and he tells me to open my mouth, let him give me more tongue.

“No,” I say, “I don't like that.”

“Well, just try it.”

“No.  I don't do things I don't like.”  I've had great success with men setting hard boundaries in soft voices.

“Well, how do you know?  Just try it.”

“I know what I don't like.”

“Just try it.  You'll like it.”

“No, I won't.  You don't want me to do things I don't like for money, do you?”

“Well,” he announces, “that's the only thing that isn't perfect.  You're so perfect, except for the tongue.  And you used your hand to get off.  But other than that, you're perfect.”

He must be so old that women had to put up with that kind of bullshit when he was young.  I think about throwing a fit and making him leave, but there's only six minutes left and I feel kind of sorry for him. 

“Next time you come to my town, you can come see me at my house,” he says.

“Oh, do you live alone?” I ask.  Google said he lived with a woman.

He explains that his wife died.  Cancer.  It took 5 years and the last part was the worst.  I say I'm sorry, but he says it wasn't that bad and repeats that I can come to his house next time.  Right, so he can lock me in the basement, I almost say but don't.  I think maybe he killed his wife.  Maybe he took 5 years to do it.  He seems like someone who would do that kind of thing.  He is petting my hair again and telling me he loves me and I'm so perfect except for the tongue thing and hand. 

“Hey,” I tell him, “it's getting to be about time.”  Usually I don't do that.  Usually I give everyone an extra 15 minutes and most of them respect my time and leave without having to be told.

“Okay,” he says, “well will you at least suck my cock a little more?  Maybe I can come.”

Okay.  There is the 15-minute thing and it also seems very important not to have a direct conflict with this guy.  So I go down until my jaw hurts and then I come up and snuggle a little, and he says again how he loves me and I'm perfect except for the tongue thing and hand.  He says he's going, but he doesn't, so after a minute I sit up.  He stands up and puts his pants on, but then he sits down and starts kissing me again. 

There's this thing you can do.  To the armpit, right where the blood goes into the heart.  It stuns them for a second and they fall over.  I'm sitting on the right side to do it, but I don't.  I have a lot more patience now than when I was younger.  Instead, I get up, put my clothes on, and sit in a chair.  He puts on all his shirts, one at a time, and then his suspenders.  He tries to sit on me on the chair and kiss me some more, but I squeeze out from under him and say I have an appointment I need to get to.  He looks angry, but then my phone starts ringing and he says, “Next time you'll come to my place, ya hear?”  I nod and shut the door behind him.

The next guy, Ryan, is supposed to be good.  He has nine positive vouches on one screening site and one on another.  He's in a wheelchair and came all the way to the big city from a faraway island to see me, but he only wants an hour.  The other guy only wanted an hour, too.  I hate this because usually all my clients get two hours, which means two clients earns me a thousand dollars.  With one-hour appointments I need four clients to get past a grand.  

I go to him.  Normally I don't do outcalls on the first meeting, but I figure it's reasonable in this case.

The problem with outcalls is you have to have clean pretty city girl clothes to wear to them.  I have a hippie skirt my friend found for me in the dumpster.  It doubles as a sort of dress, but it falls down, so I wear it as a skirt with a pretty beaded brown tank top that has white stains on the front.  A girl needs pockets for her keys, condoms, lube, and money, though, so I wear a beautiful wool jacket I found in the dumpster.  It's been kicking around the van, covered in dog hair.  So right when I come in his door, I ditch the jacket and tank top with my shoes and go to greet him in my skirt and bra.  I lean over to hug him and right away he shoves his tongue in my mouth.  It's fast and aggressive, a way of declaring his dominance immediately.  What surprises me, though, is the taste of his spit makes me want to gag.  Instant incompatibility.  I pull his head back by the hair and bite him on the neck a little hard.  I'll be in charge of this encounter. 

It feels a little ridiculous, though.  Maybe I should ignore his efforts at tongue aggression since he can't move most of his body, the way I let this one old lady say mean things to me when I was a caregiver because she couldn't get out of bed or even roll over on her own.  I think this is a little different, and I don't let things in my mouth that I don't want there.  Some evaluation is needed.  I step back and sit on the bed and we talk about boats, oceans, and the land.  He came here back in the day to survey the land, to cut it to pieces to be turned into parks and oil fields, but now he's stuck in this wheelchair.  When I decide to go ahead with the appointment, it's because I need the money.

Ryan tells me he's been tested and he's clean.  I tell him I've also been tested and I'm clean.  He says condoms make him soft, he wants to fuck me bareback, and he can pull up his test results on the computer to show me, but I say no.  He's into licking pussy.  Inflicting pleasure.  I help him transfer to the bed and sit on his face.  Every time I look at the clock, it hasn't been long enough.  Finally it's been 40 minutes and I climb off and start playing with him.  He wants to cum inside me and then lick it out, he says.  Also, he doesn't have a lot of sensation in his dick. 

It's hard, though, so I play with it for a while and then start sucking it.  When I'm not sitting on his face, he's very verbal. 

“Yeah, baby.  Yeah.  You like being a fucking whore, don't you?”

“Yes.”  I sit up.  “I want to be a hooker forever!  It's my favorite business I've ever had, way better than stripping.  I love making so much money to enjoy myself with nice respectful gentlemen.  My whoring clients are so much more respectful than guys in strip clubs!  I just love it!  Like, my friend and I were talking about this the other day actually and she said...”

While I ramble on, trying not to laugh, he rolls his eyes and jerks himself off.  I throw him a wet washcloth before I leave him helpless on the bed, taking the money from the counter by the door.

The first client didn't show up, so it is just my slave today.  I've told him he's not my slave yet, that he would have to earn that privilege and it doesn't come lightly, but I still think of him as my slave.  That's what he's auditioning for.  He's a female supremacist, and a couple times he's tried to use that male privilege he wishes he didn't have to lecture me about my superiority and his inferiority. 

“What you have to understand, Goddess...” he would start out.  I have, at least, broken him of that habit.

This time in town I was going to take long ritual baths and meditate before each client.  I've been instructing my slave in sex magick and he has gone and read a bunch of Crowley, and now I'm worried that he might have picked up terminology and ideas I don't know.  Last week, in response to his emails, I told him that although Crowley had many good things to say, he was also a racist and sexist who sold out to the zillionaires, and I didn't want him reading things that might confuse him.  Of course, Goddess, he'd responded.  He's a programmer who spends his time at work on Google Books reading books I allow him to put into his brain.

My slave has a funny-looking face.  He looks like Goofy, a caricature of hope and dejection.  That's what I always remember when I open the door to him, his face.  He stoops, nods, bows, and leaves the money on the table. 

“Take your clothes off,” I tell him, and he does, hunching over to pull his pants off.  He has long, stringy muscles. 

He sits at my feet and I tell him to tell me what he's learned.  He uses big concept words -- sex magick, energy, and massage. 

“What did you learn about sex magick?”  I asked him.

“I didn't really understand it, Goddess.  I think I'm too simpleminded.”

Last month, I told him to study massage books or videos so he could worship me better, and now I tell him to show me what he learned.  It's rather impressive.  I want it to go on forever, so I don't tell him to stop, and then when I finally do order him to stop, there are only 15 minutes left. 

“May I worship your ass now, Goddess?”

“You'll do what I say now, silly.  Stop thinking about what you want and focus on what I want.”

“Yes, Goddess.”

I tell him to sit and pay attention to the way the energy moves in his body while I go pee and answer the phone to tell a friend about the pathetic man in my room.  Then I stand him up and test to see if he's polarized.  This is something I learned in college, a bastardization of Chinese meridians and psychology.  Of course he isn't polarized.  The simple breathing doesn't work for him – it's not just his body that's unpolarized, but his brain, too.  We do a complicated sequence of tapping and breathing and then he's polarized.  I don't tell him what I'm doing next, but it's a test of general mental health.  I want to be happy or I want to be miserable, which is true?  It makes a difference. 

“I want to be happy.”  Test.  False. 

“I want to be miserable.”  True.  I kind of thought so.  What now?  I know you can think instead of talking for the test, but you're supposed to talk for the remedy.  I try it with me thinking instead of him talking, though.  There is a sore spot in your armpit near your heart, and I rub his and think, “I love myself, I love all of me, with all of my problems and limitations.”

Retest.  I want to be happy.  True.  I want to be miserable.  False.  Good. 

“Sit,” I tell him.  “Do you feel the difference?”

“Yes,” he says.  “Colors look different.”

“Feel the way the energy is moving through you that makes it different.”

“Yes, Goddess.”

“It's very important that when you project any energy to me, your own energy is correct.  Like this.  Do you understand?”

“Yes Goddess.”

Good.  I tell him to masturbate the way he does at home when he thinks of me.  Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, I tell him, and I watch his energy build.  There is a sort of flutter as something comes to life in his sternum, and I put my hand there.  “Feel the energy building right here.”

“Oh my Goddess,” he gasps.  “Oh my Goddess.”  And he cums all over himself.  “Goddess, you are incredible.  It's never been like that before.  It felt like an explosion in my heart.”

This is what I want to always be doing.  I love this strange overlapping and balancing of money, power, ethics, and healing.

I'm not a morning person, so when the alarm goes off at 5:15 I just lie in bed waking up.  He's supposed to call at 5:30, and I figure if he doesn't, I can roll over and go right back to sleep.  He does, so I get up and run through the shower.  That's my hairstyle strategy this time: “oh, my hair's wet.  I just got out of the shower.  Sorry.”  My hair's at it's best that way anyway.  Also, I lost my coconut oil and my skin is dry like sandpaper, and the shower helps that, too.  Though I probably should have gotten up at 4 a.m. and gone to the 24-hour store for coconut oil.  To counteract the shower thing, I put on exotic eyeshadow and dark eye liner and shiny lip gloss.  Do you remember the time before lip gloss?  I do, and when it first came out, I called it the blow job lips effect, because it looked like rubbing shiny semen on your lips.