Sadly, still no business on this end. Just lots of flaky johns and irritating encounters. The DJ hasn't emailed me (surprise!) and none of my regulars are calling.
Could this be the August doldrums or is it time for me to find a new venue for peddling my naughty wares?
On a much happier front, I'm getting laid like crazy for free from several different new people. Being a slut is so glamorous!
All is quiet on the hooker front. There has been some extensive drama on the craigslist boards that seems to have lessened the traffic of men posting ads. I'm interested in searching other avenues, but I don't want to go anywhere where I will be reviewed. Not because i think my clients will say bad things about me, but because I am incredibly hesitant about having my face on a semi-public forum declaring my whoredom. Who knows which people with big mouths I know cruise those websites?
I'm getting quite sick with the leeches that keep trying to get shit for free from me. One prospective client, claiming to have been robbed of his ATM card, asked me if there was any way to make our meeting "fun time" so that it would be free. I was much nicer to him than he probably deserved. Another guy, who I had never seen before asked me repeatedly if I would shit on him. Trying very hard not to be judgmental, I kept on saying "No, I don't do that" in the kindest tone I could muster and hoped he would get the message. "Can you make an exception?" he asked in one final desperate attempt. How laughable is that? Not only have I never met or seen the guy (who flaked out in the end, natch), but he wasn't even offering me any sort of extra incentive for showering him with my innards. The nerve of some of these guys is amazing. I can't help but think it's some sort of (white, male, and/or upper class) entitlement thing. Like, they are so convinced that they *deserve* a hot girl to fulfill all of their fantasies that they try to bargain you down to absurdly low prices. Well, I ain't no effin flea market, gentlemen.
I'm probably sounding pretty hateful. I don't hate my clients. Quite the contrary. I don't judge them for paying for sex just as I expect not to be judged by them for what I do. But I do get quite angry and annoyed when clients try and make themselves out to be anything other than clients. If you want a sugar baby or a trophy wife, then say it. Or if you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend, then pay me more. But everything that occurs between us is a transaction, which I may make you forget when we're together because I'm a nice girl who has lots of empathy, but trying to cheat me out of money or getting me to do shit for free? Don't even fucking go there, motherfucker.
You see, we had an appointment, our third, last week. Now, because the DC is somewhat enamored with me (In fact, he's mentioned marriage more than once in passing, which, in case you were curious, is not and will NEVER be on my agenda with him, but if it earns me more money and keeps him calling me, I will happily play along.), I bend my rules ever so slightly. If the clock runs over 10 or so minutes, I don't complain. I let him pay me at the end and we kiss (for extra money of course). So last week, we saw each other for a session that probably lasted more like 1 hour and 20 minutes than it did the standard hour. After we were finally done, I kept on waiting for him to pay me and was almost out of the door before I had to gently remind him. And then, when I got in my car, I drove halfway down the block, counted my money and realized that he had shorted me $40! I circled around and he was still in his front yard smoking a cigarette. I mentioned very sweetly and apologetically that he had shorted me. He looked at me funny, stuttered for a second, said "Let me take care of that," and ran into the house. When he came out, he had a $50 bill in his hand. "Keep that," he told me.
During our session, he had mentioned that he wanted to see me again this week, so I sent him a friendly email today asking when he'd like to get together. This is the email I got back from him
From: DJ To: Lusty Lusty, I must say that I have not written because I am a bit concerned about our time from last week. Our time was wonderful. It always is. However in 19 years of running a business, I have never forgotten an amount that I owe someone or that someone owes me. You can ask me how much someone paid me for a nightclub gig I did in 1990 and I would remember like it was yesterday. I can tell you how much each of my clients owes me for this weekend... without looking at their files. I guess my point is that I do not forget numbers. You mentioned that we agreed on $[the amount he paid me the last two times we saw each other]. I paid it because I am not one to argue #'s. But in no way, shape or form do I recall a conversation between you and I, that involved the amount of $[that amount]. You and I were on an agreement of $[my base price that never includes kissing], I would swear to it. So how did we get to $[the amount he paid me the last two times, dammit!]?
This is not at all to say that you are a cheat. I am just saying that I do not at all remember, an agreement for $[that amount]... and that bothers me.
Now, I am not mad, pissed or otherwise bothered... just annoyed and not knowing what to think. DJ
Oh, he's annoyed is he? Well, I am livid. I don't know if he is lying, trying to cheat me, or has just simply forgotten, but I despise being accused of things that I am not guilty of (just ask me about the time my mom accused me of leaving toothpaste stains in the sink as a kid) and had a *really* hard time not being a total bitch in my response. He is otherwise a "nice guy" after all, and I'd like to continue seeing him. I wrote him back right away, explained how we got to that figure and even forwarded him an email where I had quoted him my base price and said that kissing was extra. He hasn't written me back. Of fucking course. People hate to be proved wrong, especially when they act like condescending accusatory assholes who brag that they have a knack for remembering figures, but then realize that maybe they're going senile and they're only in their mid 30s and jesuschrist that fucking sucks, doesn't it now cupcake?
Even though I am right and never fucking try to cheat my clients and even gave him 20 motherfucking extra minutes for FREE (never doing that again, by the way because I've learned my lesson), I am almost positive he will never call me again. Because he is a sore loser who got caught trying to cheat me out of my hard earned money.
Ok, so maybe I haven't gotten any fan or hate mail (yet), but that won't stop me from answering viewer questions from my imaginary mail sack. It's got rhinestones on it, dontcha know?Dear Lusty,I was wondering whether or not you're able to have an orgasm with your clients. Do you ever even come close?
Signed, Curious in Connecticut
Dear Curious,
Good question! It's one that I get fairly frequently, actually. To date, I have not yet orgasmed with a customer or really even come close. As much as I'd love to be a wildly orgasmic girl, my body just doens't respond in situations like those. Sometimes I do enjoy being fucked by clients (last night, for example), but to be honest, most of my clients don't even last even 5 minutes before they come themselves. Occasionally they offer to get me off, but I know it'd never happen, so I usually decline or fake it if they're insistent.
Dear Lusty,
I just had to know if you're one of those hookers who does it because of being unloved and abused in the past. No disrespect, but I just don't understand how someone would ever choose to do something like this.
Regards, Doubtful in Detroit
Hi Doubtful,
Despite popular mythology about who sex workers are, there are a lot of us who have never been abused and come from (relatively) functional homes, like me. Of course, the scourge of the white supremacist capitalist heteropatriarchy often affects some women's decisions to go into sex work, but it is also that same system that forces women into other (much lower paying) unsafe jobs like factory work. I definitely have privilege to be able to operate as an independent escort, and part of that has to do with possessing a college education and being raised with relative material comfort. I am fortunate enough to not be an abuse survivor, but being abused alone is not something that "causes" someone to go into sex work. There are plenty of abuse survivors out there who would never even dream of trading sex for gain.
Dear Lusty,
I'm a long time reader, first time commenter and I just LOVE your blog [Gee thanks, sugar!]. I wanted to know if you'd share what some of your interests are outside of the biz?
Signed, Lola Wants
Hi Lola!
What a great question! And in the tradition, I will do this Manolo-style. What Lusty is:
If any of you secret readers actually do have questions, you're welcome to mail them to me. But for now, I'm get my 8 hours of princess sleep because I have a (not-for-profit) date tomorrow evening. Goodnight!
Bad, bad me. I've been off pursuing other Very Important Things* instead of maintaining this blog.
I also haven't had business since the Unexpected Hottie that I mentioned in this post. And he is the one about whom I wish to write.
Unexpected Hottie (Whew, that's quite long. Let's call him UH.) posted a short ad requesting that a busty girl to give him a massage and a happy ending of the oral variety. Heartened by the fact that I am indeed quite busty and that he listed himself in very close proximity to my home, I answered the ad at about midnight. He wrote back quickly expressing his interest and gave me his number to call, which I did.
UH: Hello? Me: Hi, it's Lusty. You posted an ad in craigslist? UH: Yes, hi Lusty. So, tell me what you're all about. Me: I'm sorry, what? UH: You know, what you're into. Me: [Stumbling badly over the unexpected question, giving him a few vague answers about what "I'm about."] UH: Cool, I'm at work on the second floor of X building.
I hung up the phone after getting directions and quickly finished primping. I hopped into the car and arrived at his workplace, a two story square brick building in a strip mall on a major road. The bottom floor was occupied by a popular mattress store whose jingle never fails to stick in my head whenever I see its logo. He worked on the top floor for a startup computer repair company. Actually, he owned it. I walked into the high-ceilinged, wide-windowed modern space and rounded the corner to see a handsome caramel colored 20-something with his flip-flopped feet propped up onto a wide computer desk. His laptop was in his lap and he wore gray tracksuit pants and a t-shirt. As his name suggests, UH was hot. And that made menervous.
I greeted him hello and we chatted for a few minutes. UH's company touts themselves as a 24 hour repair service, so it was already 1:00 a.m., but UH was slated for an all-nighter. He came off as extremely laid back and didn't seem super eager or nervous or sketchy like some of the other men I see who come off as jonesing badly for pussy. I asked him a little bit about his budding business and even gave him a few decorating tips that he seemed to like.
Pulling the massage oil out of my bag, I asked UH if he wanted a massage. He seemed almost surprised and said sure. I felt self-conscious for a moment, wondering whether or not I was supposed to skip the massage and get straight to the blowjob. But since he had already laid an hour's worth of cash out on the table, I figured that I would give him a massage anyway. He took off his shirt and laid down on the clean wooden floor. I straddled him by sitting on his ass and began to massage him. Although I'm not a certified body worker in any sort of way, I still pride myself on giving a pretty damn good massage and UH seemed to agree. We chatted some of the time, a large portion of the conversation consisting of me asking about his business and hinting around the fact that I needed a new computer. The rest of the massage was spent in silence. After my back began to ache from the hunching, I asked him to turn over and inquired about whether or not he wanted a massage on his legs or feet. How about between my legs and feet?, he asked. To the point, I thought, and grinned. He asked me if I was shy and I lied and said no because shyness doesn't seem to be an asset in this business.
At this point, I began to get more nervous about whether or not he was going to enjoy it and whether or not he'd become a repeat customer. Normally, I don't care about such things, but the prospect of having a cute and handsome repeat customer seemed like hooker gold to me. The minute details of the blowjob I don't remember much of except for the fact that he sucked hard on my nipples and liked it when I had both balls in my mouth. The actual sucking took maybe about 10 minutes and I let him come on my tits, though most of it landed on the hair on his stomach.
Normally, I stay for a moment and faux-cuddle with the client post orgasm, but because I am the kind who gets nervous around attractive people, I immediately jumped up and put on my clothes. But I didn't want to go. I asked UH if he wanted me to stay for the rest of the hour and he answered indifferently. I stayed.
I heard The Faint come on his stereo and I mentioned that I liked them. That led into a 20 minute discussion about music, mostly electroclash and other indie stuff. We found that we had very similar tastes in music, which clearly pleased us both. I tried to casually suggest that we barter for a new computer, but UH didn't seem too eager to trade sex for expensive electronics. I changed the subject and asked UH if he had a girlfriend. He answered that his work was his partner. He also mentioned never having solicited a sex worker before. After I expressed surprise, he told me that it was nice, but that he considered paying for sex "cheating." I like the chase, he explained. I understood.
Finally, I made an excuse to go and got up from my chair. I pushed into my heels and walked to the door, UH trailing behind me. We hugged goodnight and I told him to get some rest if he could. I drove the two miles home and decided that I probably wouldn't hear from him again. I still haven't.
I was in pain. I had made the poor choice of wearing impractical shoes and was rewarded with a bad parking space. Each step towards the car was punctuated with an expletive burst of pain in the ball of each foot, and I was grateful.
Every searing exclamation point detoured me into one highly focused, singular stream of thought. I didn't have to think about the tender and sorrowful way you looked at me when I said goodbye. I could ignore the rising lump in my stomach and forget about how I had held you in my arms while you cried silently just a few days before. The pain was enough to distract me from remembering how much I crave tenderness and how little of it I let into my life.
A man on a pay phone asked me how I was. How do you think I am, motherfucker? I didn't answer him. I came very close to going barefoot the last two blocks, but I knew I would start crying on the city street if I didn't have that urgent reminder of my physical self.
It seems that all pain in my life can be distilled into an Aimee Mann lyric. Don't pick on me when one act of kindness could be deathly. If only the sex had been casual. If only you hadn't looked at me when I was naked and told me how beautiful you thought I was. If only you hadn't begged me to let you come again and again and again while I grabbed your hips and buried my face into you.
We said goodbye and I wished you a safe trip home. We both wanted to say more, I could tell you were on the verge of tears too, and I nearly lost it when I told you I'd mail you the mix cd you had asked for after we fucked. You said you wanted to come visit, but I can't expect that. Our lives met for a brief moment and I can't fool myself into thinking that I could be so selfish as to wish for more than that.
I have to say that it's fairly frustrating trying to maintain a (relatively) anonymous blog when I enjoy being (semi) public. Today, I posted something in the Other Blog that I'd love to re-post here, but I'm too damn paranoid about someone making the connection between the two and having my guise of anonymity blown.
Anyway, business has been off and on. I was supposed to see a client yesterday, but the jerk cancelled. Being a very responsible person by nature, I am always irritated when people cancel on me for a reason that I don't deem "worthy" in my book, but it seems that frequent cancellations and flakiness in general are the norm in this business. Or at least mine anyway.
One of my clients has been requesting a service from me that I have happily provided to other clients, but for some reason I'm not comfortable bestowing on him. I find it interesting that giving Client A a blow job feels easy-breezy, but doing the same act with Client B seems like a chore. Of course, I have the right to decide what my boundaries are for particular clients in each moment, but I find it thought-provoking that my standards for each client vary so widely. Another client who is perpetually trying to push my boundaries tried to get me to find another sex worker to join us for a session, but scouring through the literally hundreds of other craigslist ads, I could only find *one* other girl I even found remotely attractive. Funnily enough, her look (kind of post-punky) is very very similar to mine. So even though I was frustrated with the searching process (and the client) it made me happy that I still get to be a niche market in this area. I thought about how hard it'd be to find work in an area populated with more "alternative" appearing sex workers like San Francisco, for example, where the market seems to be flooded with strippers earning their M.A.s and tattooed girls trying to get paid for fucking their butch girlfriends in front of you.
Ok, sorry for letting this post tangent off in far too many directions. I have lots of amorphous thoughts floating around and I hope to get them organized enough to be able to post something with a bit more meat in it the next time around.
