Whore Diaries II: Adventures in Independent Escorting (4 page)

He calls from the parking lot just as I'm ready and I give him the room number.  That's the way I always do it.  I hear people in the hall, and dammit housekeeping was out in the hall yesterday afternoon when my other guy showed up.  How fucked up is it that I'm only seeing two guys and housekeeping will watch them both knock on my door and walk out an hour later?  If I weren't so tarted up, I'd stick my head out and see for myself.

Instead I watch through the peephole and open the door before he knocks.  He's a big guy with a Mountain Dew wearing button-up shirt and dress pants.  I misread him and turn from the door and wrap my arms around him.  He stiffens.

“Uh, hi,” he says.

Whoops.  Whoring, not stripping, I remind myself.  Ironically, sometimes whoring is a lot less slutty than stripping and you shouldn't just throw your half naked body onto someone you just met.

“Hi,” I laugh nervously and back up a step.  “How are you this morning?”  

We exchange some good pleasantries before we kiss.  He's a good kisser, too.  I think I'm strangely adapted to be attracted to people like him, the kinds of people I grew up around. 

I pull away and lie on the bed.  It's my cue, a little cooling off period for them to remember to take the money out of their pocket and put it on the table.  He doesn't, though.  He unbuttons his shirt and pants very slowly and we talk about how he works in sales.  Him and his wife work and volunteer together, so he only has this two hours in the morning to himself before she gets up.  Suddenly I worry that my hands are too rough, so I stroke them against each other softly.  Oh, my ring.  I roll over and put it on the little bedside table. 

“Good idea,” he says, and takes his ring off, too.

He starts to get in the bed and I make the little money sign with my hand.  “Are you forgetting something?”

It's not illegal to give me money, and it's not illegal to have sex, but it's probably illegal to ask for money before sex. 

“Oh!” he says, “Sorry, I'm used to paying at the end.”  He reaches into his pocket and leaves a pile of folded bills among my tangle of sex toys.  “Damn,” he looks at them, “you're prepared.”

“Yeah.  I used to be a sex toy reviewer.”

He lies next to me and touches my side.  “I like to go slow.”

“Mmm...me too.”

We touch each other everywhere and then he goes down, spreads my labia apart, and stares. 

“You have a beautiful vagina.”

“Thank you.”

“Show me how you touch yourself.” 

Holy shit, a guy who knows what the fuck he's doing!  I dip two fingers in my wetness and bring them up to my clit, circling and then back and forth, back and forth.  He rubs my calves and stares at my pussy.

“Is that your favorite toy?”  He nods at the Iris vibrating dildo next to the bed.

“Yeah.”  I reach for it and show him how I use it.

“I like the way you cum,” he says as he moves up my body, kissing me.  Fuck, I like this guy.

He lays next to me again and I lube my hands up and start one of my amazing hand jobs.  His moan vibrates over my lips, and I lick my way down his throat, down his chest, over a nipple that he asks me to bite.  His hips quiver and thrust as I lick and bite his nipples, and soon I'm slipping a condom on his cock and going down while I reach up to pinch his nipples.  He's going crazy, and soon he pulls me up to sit on top of him.

I lean over and flick my tongue back and forth, hard, over his left nipple while we push ourselves together and apart.  Together and apart.  It's so good that I can't concentrate and he asks to be on top.

We roll over and I reach up to pull on his nipples.  “You like the oneness, don't you?” he asks, and I nod.  I can feel my pulse in my pussy wrapped around his cock and every little bit he moves is amazing.

He cums right when I think that there is no way to go on being contained in my skin, that I will dissolve into the whole world, a million molecules of ecstasy.  We lie there, him still inside me, until we both stop twitching.

He sits up on the side of the bed and I lie next to him.  He rubs my back with one hand, and he's really good at it.  It's a nice silence that I hope will go on, with back rubbing, forever. 

“I love my wife.”  He just announces it.  What is with men in this town and their wife confessions lately?

“I'm sure you do,” I tell him, and I pull out my line about how sometimes you have the perfect life with the perfect person and there's just that one thing that isn't perfect, or whatever.

“Oh, we have good sex,” he says.  “It's just that my wife is a big woman.  400 pounds.  And sometimes I just need... you know.”  He gestures at my body.  “Damn though, you should see her cum.”  I imagine 400 pounds of quivering woman flesh.

“You should bring her to me,” I say.

“Oh, she wouldn't be into it,” he says.  Apparently she likes to have threesomes and foursomes, but only with people she picks off craigslist and definitely not sex workers.  Huh.  They are apparently some kind of prominent around here, so they have to be super careful with their reputation. 

We talk about the river and the fish and I'm just about to pitch him on my naked wilderness guide idea when he says he's thinking about taking his sons down my river this summer on an inflatable raft.  It's not my real river.  It's my cover river, which is a river I used to live on. 

“A raft,” I say, “you should use a canoe.”

“Yeah, but rafts are easier,” he says. 

“Yeah, but it's a rocky bottomed river and they pop,” I say.

He's been here for 10 years and we talk about how much the town has changed.  I still boycott the new road; he just thinks it's funny that they call it an expressway.  I once lived in a sweet little cabin on a sweet little slough that was torn down for that road, and now the slough is full of old couches, tires, and junk.

“Do you like doggy style?” he asks.

“Of course,” I wink, toss a condom at him, and assume the position with a vibe on my clit.  I love my life.

It is summer and the tourists have the hotel front desk all backed up, but as soon as I get through the line I check in.  Five minutes later, I'm in the bathtub.  I've got a lot of layers of dirt to wash off.  This process fascinates me.  I totally want to videotape myself for my favorite porn site walking into the hotel in the dirty Carhartts I've been wearing for a month and a smelly T-shirt with crazy hair that hasn't been brushed in weeks and then going through the whole process of becoming a soft, freshly groomed whore.  In the end, I still look like a woodsy nature whore who didn't just spend hours getting ready, but I guess it's because I start from so far behind.

First my skin has to marinate.  For a while.  But before I start marinating, before anything, I unpack my shower bag.  Exfoliate-y thingies, shave-y thingies, soapy thingies.  I line them up.  I untangle my hair and brush avocado oil into it.  Then I take a book into the tub.  After marinating, shaving, and soaping, I start scraping off layers of dead skin.  There are many tools for this.  The best ever was a lava rock that I lost, so now it's pumice and stuff.  There is a lot of skin to rub and scrape off, and it's kind of exhausting.  I can see why rich people go to spas and pay someone to do this for them, and I wonder if I could do that, too.

After an appropriate amount of scrubbing, I drain the tub, turn the shower on, finger douche, and sniff my secretions.  This is something I wonder about – I know the white stretchy stuff indicates fertility, but what about the clear stretchy stuff, or the white stuff that's not stretchy?  I dump vinegar over my hair.  Then I  trim my cuticles, paint my nails, and smother all my skin in coconut oil.  Then what?  The first client is a new guy.  I don't know anything about him, except that he's more literate than my average client.  It's pathetic when following instructions and providing all the required information in the first email is a shining point of literacy, but...well, I have doctors, lawyers, teachers, and preachers that can't seem to manage it.

It's daytime though, plus my marketing is all woodswhore, and that must count for something.  So I just do the eye liner and lip gloss thing, and pull on that black teddy that I found in pile of trash in a hotel hallway in Canada the morning after Valentine's Day.  It's still the best outfit I have, and today I add fishnet thigh highs to cover the big purple knot on my leg where I fell on my ass in the mud and slipped into the boat.

He calls from the parking lot, right on schedule.  Joe Brown or Mike Jones or some crap.  I can't keep them straight when they screen with references.  I give him the room number, and there is that last minute panic.  What if he's a cop?  I wait in front of the peephole so I can watch him come around the corner and see if he does anything a cop would obviously do, but then I remember that I forgot to turn the clock so I could see it from the bed without looking like one of those stingy clock watching bitches clients bitch about on the review boards.  He knocks while I'm turning the clock.

He's the same height as me.  Thin.  The bones in his head are too big for the rest of him.  I'm pretty confident that this dude couldn't ever make it through cop training.  I let him in and hug him after the hellos.  He pushes his tongue into my mouth aggressively, but then he just leaves it there, a confused blob of tongue.  Interesting.  I pull back and kiss his neck.  This is my secret weapon for yucky kissers: kiss elsewhere.  He pulls away and shoves his tongue in my mouth again.  It's just aggressive enough to make me wonder if I really want to see him, and just strange enough to sort of intrigue me. 

“Come in,” I tell him.  I run through the bathroom and spit his spit into a towel.  “Take your clothes off,” I announce. 

He nods and undresses.  This is a common screening technique used by people who don't know any better.  The superstition is that a cop won't take their clothes off first, won't touch you first, won't touch your breasts first, or maybe it's only your cunt.  The truth is that cops fuck women and then arrest them all the time.  He pulls his clothes off, efficient and silent, and places three hundred dollar bills on the counter next to his clothes. 

I smile and start to pull my top down, but he dives between my legs without noticing my strip tease.  His tongue is like  a machine.  It's a little hard to get into.  After a minute he stands up, abruptly, and asks what position I like.  He has one of those big cocks that make me nervous, so I'm thinking, anything but doggy style.  How about the side of the bed, I suggest, but he suggests me on top.  Perfect.  I smother that big cock in lube and climb on, and strangely it doesn't bang against my cervix at all.  Maybe because it's kind of bent.  I grind down into him, slow and sensual, and he bangs back with robotic jackhammer gyrations. 

After a minute he asks for a change, and we roll over so he's on top.  Now he's even more like a jack hammer.  Whenever he sees me looking at him, he forms his mouth into a sort of growl, but the rest of the time he just looks sort of confused.  I want to ask how old he is, but it seems rude and strange.  Suddenly I realize: This is what women are talking about when they complain about men who've watched too much mainstream porn. 

He signals for another change, doggy style.  This jackhammer thing could get old.  I start squeezing him with my cunt and he reaches down to grab my hair, but doesn't pull it. 

“You can pull,” I say.  “Just take a big handful.”

“That's okay,” he says.

“Fuck, this is hot,” I gasp, one of my stock porntastic lines.

He comes in grunts, and then stands up.  I pull him back down onto the bed, ask about his summer.  He says he has to get back to work.  I shrug.  What do you do?

“I'm a physician's assistant.”  Interesting.  That makes two.  I can't imagine what kind of bedside manner he has, but maybe he's one of those administrative sort of assistants.  I think about showing him the huge bump on my leg and feigning helplessness.  Sometimes that's the only way men and women know how to connect. 

But by now he is half-dressed.  He must not like me, I assume, and he's making this work excuse to leave after 17 minutes instead of having his whole hour with me.