I was tired of pirating this icon, so I decided to make one of my own. Like it?
I even made myself a cute little icon! I'm not completely sure about the fonts yet, but those can always be altered. I like the tinting, though. The original image is here if any of you photo editing mavens want to take a gander. I'm also up for different image suggestions as this one is nice, but it isn't yet perfect.
And then there is the complicated issue of Sexuality.
Some people call it Sexual Orientation. Some people's labels are limited to the narrow categories of Gay and Straight. Others may expand to include Bisexual and yet others may include the seeming catch-all Queer.
Yet, what single-word label would you give to someone who identifies as Femme* and girl, but not necessarily as Woman? To that same person who sleeps with masculine-presenting people who were labeled female at birth who may identify themselves as FTM, butches or fags or metrosexuals or genderqueers or None/All of the Above, and who occasionally romps with girly girls such as herself, and who even more occasionally sleeps with men with penises that came attached as babies for sport?
Did you get all that?
Queer, as in Not-Straight, seems to mostly encompass that, and it's what I use to describe myself, but how does one explain something like that to an unsuspecting acquaintance without getting into TMI-land? And how do you explain such things to the medical health professional who asks you if you're sexually active, and if so, with whom? What about to well-meaning co-workers who ask if you're dating anyone? And to your parents?
And of course, my venture into sex work land has complicated that as well. Though my sleeping with men for money doesn't usually at all resemble the kind of recreational sex that I engage in, it doesn't mean that desire never plays a role in the interactions. Sometimes I get wet when I'm having sex with clients, occasionally, I fantasize about what I've done with clients in bed on a later date, and sometimes I make up fantasies about the kind of client I secretly wish I would have. Further still, I am a creature largely motivated by desire. A large portion of my sexuality has less to do with the sex or gender of my crush than it does with the knowledge of being desirable/desired. Someone could be my ideal partner in terms of looks or personality, but if they never show a modicum of lust for me, consider my girl boner soft.
Sometimes I annoy even myself with how complicated my desires are. It'd be so much easier (on everyone else) if I were able to answer that big question with a simple answer. But, you know, what are you gonna do but live with yourself? Fortunately, for the most part, I've stopped giving a damn that most people in the world (including some other queer people) refuse to see complexity and automatically assume that I'm a straight girl. To them, the sexuality equation is simple: 1 girly-appearing girl + 1 manly-appearing man = 1 happy hetero couple. And though I am under no illusion that because my partners and I have different parts than your average boy-girl couple or because of the kinky shit we do in bed, our sex is somehow inherently revolutionary. However, it can still be quite amusing for the both of us to be so utterly different than whatever it is the general public assumes of us.
*I'm providing those handy dandy little links not because I think the sources linked are at all a definitive definition/explanation of the concepts I list that may or may not be foreign to you, but because I think that they could be useful places to start learning about them.
For all of you out there who have no idea what in the heck that is, it just means that people who have livejournals can read my blog on their regular friends page versus having to visit the website periodically to check and see whether or not I've updated. And someone (who is not me) made this possible. How flattering!
Sadly, livejournal doesn't seem to let you have the ability to see just how many people are reading your syndication, but I suppose that means I can fantasize about a gargantuan readership, the thought of which cheers up my otherwise blue day.
I haven't seen a client for over two weeks now. I have no desire to see any clients at all, in fact.
This morning I had a morbid fantasy that I had gotten pregnant by my last trick and had to hook to raise money for the abortion. In my head, I had decided which of my friends I would take with me to the clinic and just how tragic and horrifying it'd be to have to fuck a couple of men so that I could afford to get some cells sucked out of my uterus.
I think this means I need a break from it all, but my financial situation is still the same as when I began. My day job just barely covers my living expenses, and though one of my super kind readers (thanks again, Jesse!) sent me a budget template to use, if I stop seeing clients, it won't be very usable. I mean, you can't wring blood from a stone.
I can feel myself sinking into a depression, similar to the one I went through last spring after a terrible, heartrending breakup that filled my days with breath-stealing panic attacks and constant attempts to stifle sobs at work. Nothing that serious has spurned it this go 'round, but I slept almost the entire day away yesterday and find myself wanting to isolate again. In depressive episodes like these, I find myself craving a storybook-style True Love. Because, you know, in fairy tales, that kind of love fills all gaps and solves all problems. Princesses never have to deal with mundanities like oil changes and credit card bills, right? When I feel myself start to sink like this is when I usually renew my personal ad subscriptions and long for exes who are exes for good reason.
But, in times like these especially, I have do the hard work to remind myself that the only True Love I need is myself.
In response to an email a friend sent me about my scoffing at clients' so-called desire to get to know me:
From: Landon To: Lusty
The faux-desire to get to know the real you isn't faux at all. As a man who has both given and received sex for compensation, let me tell you that a significant percentage of men who patronize sex workers have the fantasy or desire that the woman they are with actually likes them. On the plainest level, they are aware that they are paying for your services. But on some emotional, sub-rational level, they hope against sense or logic that you might be just a little surprised at how sweet, or clever, or handsome they are. They hope that they might be the on single client that you would see out at a bar, and walk up to and chat with. Not for hope of payment, but because you actually think them a decent person. Or, perish the thought, that you might actually be attracted to them on some level, and that if the situation were different... That if you met them in the grocery store on a Sunday afternoon in jeans in a T-Shirt, that you might offer your phone number if asked.
With all due respect, Landon honey, I disagree.
Do you think they want to see me at 4 a.m. when my breath smells stale and mascara stains line the bottoms of my eyes? Does he want to know the "real me" when I'm off my anti-anxiety meds and have day-long panic attacks? Is he really interested in taking me to the doctor's when I've come down with another UTI and have to scream when I pee it hurts so bad? Does he want to see me on a fat day? When I'm sweating and smelly? When my heart is broken from yet another failed relationship and I can't bear the thought of ever loving another human being?
See, I don't think that my clients would care to see any of that. I think they want to know the "real me" if that person is someone who stays beautiful 24/7 and never shits, overeats, gets depressed, cries, or gets angry.
But I do agree with you in a way. I do think that clients want to feel "special" and "different" from all the other johns that come and go. That I can understand and believe. Who doesn't want to feel special and loved and cared for? Unfortunately for them, that is not something that can be bought from me for any amount of money. I may give you my time and my body, but that is where the giving stops.
And just like that, in a little over one week, I blew all the money I earned from the overnight with Jason.
Current and former sex workers will warn you over and over again to save your money, to put a portion of it away so that you don't blow it on stupid shit like eating out, little trinkets, getting your nails done, and playing sugar mama to your friends and loved ones. Apparently I am really shitty at heeding that advice, because the previously stated are exactly what I blew my big chunk of money on last week. No huge purchases or anything, just an excessively free hand with the fat wad of twenties filling my wallet.
*sigh*
My friend, a former sex worker, recently lent me this book in an attempt to give me some sound financial advice on how to, you know, not do stupid things like spend all my damn money in a week. The problem, however, is that the book assumes that one already has that kind of willpower and know-how. See, I was never taught in the first place how to save. This thing is telling you to put your already-saved money here and there and there.
Anyone on here have any tips on how to learn willpower?
My current home computer is a hulk of a dinosaur. I saved up for it many summers ago with a grueling job at a big electronics store selling computers and computer accessories solely on commission. In case you were wondering, no one likes buying a computer from a young girl when the rest of your department consists of men in their thirties or older, so sometime in late August, I proudly wrote the check and toted that huge thing home. Six years and hundreds of dollars in upgrades later, I was ready for a new computer but broke and without the discipline to save up again for the large purchase.
However, I am now the owner of a brand new laptop. Well, brand new to me. It's all fancy in a way I've never experienced before on a computer that I own, complete with CD burner, DVD player, wireless card and a shitload of software.
How is this related to my adventures as Lusty, you ask? Well, my friends, a client gave it to me.
Gerard posted an ad saying that he wanted to trade at least two hours of service for a nearly brand new laptop. How could I resist? I emailed him right away and he was very very interested. We worked out the details and I drove over to his workplace late in the evening out in the deep suburbs. It was about 11:00 by then, so nothing was in the parking lot but his car and mine. Dress in sweats so you aren't conspicuous, he told me. But if he was worried about being caught rendezvousing at work, I doubt that showing up to a suburban business complex that late at night in my pajamas would rouse less suspicion. But I digress.
Gerard led me up to his smallish office on the third floor and we began to chat. You look bigger than in your pictures. Have you gained some weight?, he asked me. I smiled sweetly. It's called angling, honey. He informed me that he liked bigger girls anyway and that he almost hadn't booked an appointment with me because I looked too thin in the pictures I had sent. I began to feel incredibly self-conscious about my body, but tried to push it away. He had complimented me (even if in a kind of fucked up way), afterall.
Gerard decided that he wanted to take a shower in the company's locker room before we got started. We creeped down the empty silent hallway and he tried the door's code several times before it beeped to let us in. Undressing quickly, Gerard turned on the water and stepped into the shower. I followed him in. Almost immediately, he began kissing me in a firm, but gentle way. I lathered him up with the soap he had run out to buy for our tryst and he already had begun to get hard. Gerard was a well-endowed man, just like he had mentioned via email earlier in the evening. His skin was a light cocoa color and his chest was dusted with short black curly hairs that I lathered with body wash. Even though he hadn't specifically asked for a GFE, I knew he wanted it that way.
We showered for a few minutes, kissing and touching, before we were ready to leave the shower. We dried off silently in the dressing room and he led me back down the corridor to his office. We chatted some more, him asking me about my personal life and telling me a lot about his. His wife, he told me, he was no longer in love with. He claimed to be staying for the sake of their two young boys, but that I didn't quite understand. I think parents often forget just how perceptive children are. And having to live in a strained household where daddy stays at work late patronizing hookers and mommy obviously resents daddy seems way worse than divorce to me. But then again, my parents are still married, so who am I to say what is or isn't best for their family?
I placed a towel on the floor and Gerard laid down so that I could massage him. I started with his back, heaping a generous portion of the lavender-scented gel onto my hands. Massaging is something I enjoy doing on most anyone, clients and friends alike. He had fiddled with the playlist on his laptop for awhile before laying down, finally settling on a downtempo jazz mix he had made. The overhead neon lights were off and the only light in the room was a cranberry-scented candle, for mood I suppose. It wasn't not nice. I massaged him for what seemed like an hour, working every part of his body, his back, legs, thighs, chest, arms and feet. His cock was erect and stood at about 7 inches thick. I began to caress it with my hands and then lowered my head to go down on him. He quite enjoyed the head, as most men seem to, stopping me several times so that he wouldn't orgasm prematurely.
We kissed for another few minutes while I stroked his cock. I was on my period, so we placed a black towel underneath my ass. Gerard began to reach for a condom and then turned back to me. How uncomfortable would you feel if we had sex without a condom? I raised an eyebrow. Extremely so, I replied. He nodded and unwrapped the small square. I resisted the urge to lecture him on how taking those kinds of risks with his body were dumbfoundingly stupid.
We began to fuck and it wasn't that bad. Like I had said, Gerard's dick was nice and large, so the sensation was almost pleasurable. What ruined it for me, however, was the fact that Gerard was so obviously enamored with me. I had asked him several times beforehand if he had wanted something or not and his answer was always Just do whatever you would do normally. *Insert eye roll* Ok, whatever, sure. As I mentioned in my last post, the faux-desire to get to know the "real" me is so very annoying. And so very fake. I don't think any client actually wants to know who the real Lusty is. Because the real Lusty wouldn't be hanging out with their asses except for the fact that they've have something she wants: money (or in this case, a laptop). Anyway, we fucked for a mercifully short time and then cuddled for a bit. Gerard decided that another shower was in order, so shower we did. He moved in for several soft post-coital kisses while I soaped his chest and cock.
I left a short time later, around 1:30 in the morning, Gerard walking behind me to his car that was parked next to mine. He put the laptop in my backseat for me, so as not to arouse suspicion, which, again, seemed a might ridiculous. If he was going to get caught for giving me a work computer, then whether or not he or I put it in my car seems almost inconsequential.
Anyway, though Gerard claimed that he would be seeing me again, I still haven't heard from him almost two weeks later. I suspect that he doesn't have a lot of extra cash to trade. But really, I don't mind. My new laptop and I are really very happy together.
Blogging seems to be one of those things that, if I don't do daily, then I don't do at all. Sadly, y'all have witnessed that fact firsthand.
I even have another post in my Drafts folder waiting to be finished, but as an Aries, I am notoriously bad at finishing projects that I've started. I either do it all at once or not at all.
Anyway, I have another fun story to tell y'all about my recent adventures in the land of Pussy for Pay. A new client, I'll call him Jason, posted an ad looking for an all night companion. The amount of money he offered wasn't great for that amount of time, but my bank account numbers were dangerously approaching zero, so I answered it anyway. Jason and I bargained back and forth over several emails and I finally told him no. I wasn't going to sleep over with him for that amount of money.
The next day, however, I balanced my checkbook and was horrified. I was going out of town and needed at least enough money to buy me a tank of gas, not to mention food and other trip-taking expenses. I pondered for several minutes, swallowed my pride and contacted Jason. He was ecstatic, of course, having had sent me several ridiculous emails telling me how hot I was and asking if I'd consider dating him (for free) if we hit it off. I managed to skirt around that question politely, though the temptation to ream him out for suggesting something so preposterous was very very high.
When I finally got to the hotel, it was already late in the evening. I had decided to take the next day off of work because I knew we wouldn't be getting much sleep. I'm really horny, Jason had told me over email. I waited outside the hotel entrance, the air beginning to cool with the onset of Fall, and wondered if other people knew why I was there. In fact, every time I see a client at his hotel, I always wonder if everyone who passes me on my way there Knows. It's not a scary paranoid feeling, per se, but kind of like one I sometimes get when I wonder if the person sitting across from me on the subway knows what I'm thinking at that very moment.
Jason greeted me with a hug and paid for our room at the Econo Lodge, the only thing available to us that late at night. When we stepped into the Jacuzzi Suite, it was like stepping into a movie set from the '70s. Or maybe even a hotel room from the actual 70s. I can't say for sure, however, since I wasn't born until the decade after. But I have to describe this room to you. The jacuzzi in the main room was heart shaped. And cherry red. There was recessed lighting all over the lover's suite. The bed in the adjoining room was circle-shaped. With a maroon velvet canopy and columns upholstered in maroon, olive and beige. Mirrors lined the top of the canopy and the back wall. We both searched the bed for a coin machine to make it vibrate. The most hilarious part of that relic, however, was the AM-FM radio/cassette player installed IN THE BED. Being a child of the 80s and thus also being able to appreciate the anachronism, Jason and I laughed for a long time about being in the presence of such a throwback.
I filled up the heart-shaped tub and we both climbed in. Jason marveled over my body and told me how beautiful I was. We discovered that we had gone to the same university as undergraduates and talked about that for a long time. Jason was an agreeable guy, that was for sure, but contrary to his prediction that I would want to date him for free after I met him, I was there for the money, not the company. We left the tub and dried ourselves off in the bedroom. Jason began to kiss me and stuck his slimy pointed tongue deep into my mouth. Now, most things sex-related don't gross me out, but bad kissers are at the top of that short list. I've refused to sleep with really hot people because their kissing style squicked me out. Thankfully, I managed to (mostly) steer the kissing away from a face-sucking fest and got Jason onto the bed. He went down on me for several minutes and I did a great job of faking both pleasure and an orgasm. Jason, I could tell, was already enamored with me. He called me Baby constantly and stopped every few minutes to tell me how much he liked me, how hot I was, how good I was in bed, etc. I'd like to say that I was flattered, but mostly it annoyed me. Maybe that sounds callous or haughty, but the compliments feel so fake. After all, these men don't know a damn thing about the real me. And I constantly wonder how it is that these men I see are so easily convinced that I'm there because of them and not the money.
Anyway, after that, we had some mediocre sex and cuddled for an hour or so. By that time, it was creeping into the wee hours of the morning and Jason had set his alarm for 5:30 a.m. Still, he decided that he wanted another go and went down on me again. After another faked orgasm, he began to fuck me. But this time, he went a lot longer than the first time we had fucked. Sometimes, I really hate seeing younger guys because they are so much more able to get hard more frequently and for longer.
After about 15 minutes of being fucked, my legs started to hurt and Jason could tell something was amiss. What's wrong, my love? he asked, and I almost gagged from him calling me that. Trying desperately to think of a lie, I decided to pump his ego and I claimed that my pussy was sore. Jason was not the most well-endowed man in the world, but I thought he might feel flattered to think that my poor pussy was tired from all that pumping. The plan work and Jason apologized profusely for "hurting" me. I told him not to worry about it and grinned to myself. I turned over and Jason spooned me from behind. The faux-intimacy felt less gross than I would have imagined, partly because the air conditioner was on and I was cold.
I slept soundly for the few hours until Jason had to get up for work. He kissed me goodbye and left quietly. When the door shut, I grinned again, stretched out in the mirrored circle bed and counted my thick wad of cash. I may have gotten paid less than what I am worth, but I can't say that I regretted feeling that wad of money slide between my fingertips.
*GFE stands for Girlfriend Experience and usually refers to a sex work act that includes DFK, or Deep French Kissing as well as cuddling and other niceties that allow clients to think that you Actually Like Them.
Even I am cringing at the fact that I haven't written much anything of substance or interest in the amount of time that has lapsed. Like I mentioned, it's been slow.
Until recently, that is.
Two jobs in the span of a week and I am on a sex work high. The first job was with a mild-mannered computer consultant who was in town on business. I'll call him Ed. He requested mutual showers and mutual massages for a decent sum of money. I found his place and he told me that I was exactly what he was looking for. We chatted for a minute, undressed and hopped into the shower. Thank you so much for coming here, he kept on iterating. I found it a might odd that Ed was so eager to thank me when he was the one paying, but I was happy to be able to please. After our "shower," which mostly consisted of me rubbing soap on his chest and semi-erect cock, I laid out a towel on the massage and whipped out the massage oil.
Ed went first, rubbing the lavender-scented gel on my back, legs, chest, and feet. We chatted throughout, making small talk about travel and vacations and hobbies. While he rubbed my arms, he mentioned recently going to Estonia and began to describe the country to me as if I had never heard of it. I interrupted him. Estonia's near Latvia, right? He stopped the massage, almost shocked. Wow! You're really good at geography! he exclaimed. Sometimes I get really upset when people think I'm dumb because I'm a sex worker, but other times, I delight in being a know it all and surprising people.
Anyway, after the massage, Ed began to rub my dry clit. I don't know what's up with straight men who are so clueless about lube (hello, a juicy pussy = a happy pussy!), but whatever. After a few minutes of rubbing, I "came" and cuddled with him on the bed, fake exhausted. We continued to chat and I got up to massage him, starting with his back and head and working my way down. Of course, we finished with a "happy ending." It took me a bit of jerking and ball-fondling to get him hard, but it ended with a seemingly satisfying orgasm for him.
Ed was incredibly thankful, exclaiming that I was exactly what he had been looking for and that he'd really like to see me again for the same thing. I agreed and counted my cash in the hotel hallway on my way to the elevator. The next day, Ed sent me a rueful email saying that he predicted that his assignment would end and that he'd soon move to a different city for work. There goes the chance for another regular, I sighed to myself as I read the email.
Little did I know who I'd be meeting on my next date.
