Lust Laureate

Boomerang

2012-01-11T13:31:00.001-05:00

I've been gone. My bad.

Life has kind of sucked the last few months, but based on the last week and a half of evidence, I'm thinking that 2012 is going to be a whole lot better.

I had to pop back in to report that I just had some incredibly hot, really tender, super dirty, brain-rattling sex. This was with a former lover, who then became a friend, and who just now became a lover again.

Given that the last time we had had sex was over half a decade ago, I had almost forgotten how intense he was. Both of us are pretty damn perverted, and sometimes his hot buttons rub up against mine in a challenging, did-you-really-just-go-there/I'm-perturbed-but-also-turned-on sort of way.

I had forgotten how switchy he was, and it was like, one minute he's telling me that I'm a good girl and slapping my face, and the next minute, we're doing a quasi-Mommy/boy scene where I stroke his hair and back and tell him how good he is while while he buries his face in my tits and rubs himself.

One of the more notable facts about last night was the length and intensity with which I sucked him off. He came somewhere between 20 and 30 times, my lips wrapped around him as he shuddered into my mouth over and over again. Waking up, we began to touch and caress and kiss each other until I found my mouth on his cock again at 7 in the morning.

And lord, did he fuck me RIGHT. He has incredible stamina and energy, and he fucked me with his hands and cock for what felt like hours. He especially loved it when I squeezed myself tightly around his fist.

Today, I'm positively exhausted and barely keeping it together in order to perform at my day job. I don't know if this return-to-lovers status is something that we'll maintain, or if we'll go back to being just friends, but either way, I have these ridiculously hot memories that'll last me well into the future.

2011-11-02T22:46:00.000-04:00

On a much much happier note, my dating life has begun to thrive.

Married Man and I have seen each other once more, and we have an upcoming third date (an overnight!) planned. In some ways, he baffles me. Never have I experienced a cis man so tender, romantic, and attentive. Granted, my experience in this department is relatively small, but even hearing stories from the trenches of my friends' dating lives leads me to believe this one is an anomaly.

My theory is that his being married and ultimately unavailable means that he is able to be quite straightforward with his interest and affections. Since our romantic encounters will never be more than what they are, what does he have to lose by telling me exactly how much he enjoys me?

I have also begun preliminary conversations with a brand new lust interest. We'll call him Mr. Dapper, because he is. MD and I found each other through a dating site, and were both surprised and delighted to see that we share quite a few interests, sexual and non. We are both writers, and have been enjoying seducing each other with words over email in the lead up to a date that will happen soon.

I am not going to say too much more for fear of hoping for too much before we find out whether or not Good On Paper translates into a more tactile connection, but I am optimistic. And fucking horny as shit.

It's so funny

2011-11-02T22:35:00.000-04:00

How quickly a rejected man's lust can turn to rage.

"picky fat bitch. u gotta be kiddin me."

A response to my non-response to his less-than-appealing pictures accompanied by "love what i read" and an invitation to meet him for drinks and sex later this week.

I am on the receiving end of this kind of entitled rage with regularity. A fat girl like me, their reasoning seems to indicate, should be flattered that they could even entertain the idea of pity fucking me. Or, what I think is really going on - they are embarrassed of their big girl desires and their fragile egos can't handle being rejected by girls who they think no one else would want anyway.

An ignored catcall leads to an order to smile. A refusal to give my number to a strange man on the street is suddenly an indication that I am a nasty bitch. A scowl at his leer leads to a litany of insults and accusations. A non-response to a proposition suddenly renders my formerly sexy fat body ugly. Funny how it can all turn on a dime.

Unrequited lust and frustrated rage; two sides on the same coin of misogyny.

2011-10-29T20:55:00.000-04:00

These days, one of the only thing that soothes me is cooking an elaborate feast, even if only for one.

Going to the market, I look for what's fresh and what's on sale. I look at the counters and shelves and the piles of fruit and meats and vegetables, dreaming up iterations and variations of beautiful meals past. I gauge how much time I have, how much money I'm willing to spend. I thank This Modern Age as I look up recipes in the aisle of the store, trying not to block the bustle of others in search of their next meal.

When I return, I set my groceries on the counter, put away what will be used later and lay out the raw ingredients for what I hope will be a delicious meal. I mentally calculate how much time it will take to make each dish and proceed accordingly. I wash; I chop; I peel; I season; I saute; I roast; I toast; I grill. While my food is cooking, I tidy up and wash the dirty dishes I've made, just like my mother always taught me. I set the table for one, I pour my drink, I lay out my fork and knife. During the last two minutes of cooking time, I am frenzied with the details, trying to time it all so that everything will be warm and delicious all at the same time.

I serve my portion, and set aside the rest for tomorrow's lunch. With fanfare, I carry my plate to the table, admiring the smells and the way the food looks on the plate; the rich browns, the bright greens, the golden oranges. I cut into the first bite and smile to myself, thinking about all the friends and lovers with whom I would love to share this meal. Instead, I tell them about it over email or through pictures. Sometimes, they come over and I cook for them or we cook together.

Tonight, I have a beautiful pot of short ribs braising in the oven. As they approach their second hour of cooking, a pan of butternut squash sits next to them, roasting with sage. I've just finished trimming the green beans, which will get sauteed with garlic and olive oil once the meat and the squash are near done. A dear friend is on her way. I look forward to her oohs and ahhs, the groans of delight and satisfaction that I know she'll make when she eats what I've made. I've spent half my day preparing for and cooking this meal, and every short minute that we eat will be worth all the time, the money, and the dishpan hands I've acquired to put this plate on the table.

2011-10-18T16:50:00.000-04:00

In attempting to set up a casual sex encounter, I exchanged a couple of "this is what I like" emails with a potential suitor. I am compelled to post an excerpt from said suitor's reply, for posterity and for all the internet to witness:

I have to admit that I really don't think I'm into making out as foreplay. A little too emotionally involved for me for something so NSA. If you want to suck me off to get you wet, fine by me, but honestly, all I'm really looking to do is to come over, we say hi, get undressed, you get on all fours, I turn you out for awhile, we both cum, I clean up and leave.

Oh, kind sir. If ONLY other gentlemen were as willing as you to grant me the privilege of putting my mouth on their penises in order to get my vagina good and ready for a poke, I could hang my hat and end my quest for fun, casual, and mutually fulfilling sex.

Don't let anyone tell you that chivalry's dead.

The state of Things

2011-10-13T16:48:00.001-04:00

Lately, I have taken to crying at work at least twice a day.

2011-10-03T22:42:00.000-04:00

Although we haven't seen each other since our first encounter, things have been progressing with MM.

He's an interesting man, that one. Unlike nearly all of the casual hookups I've had, MM is interested in my brain and when we interact, is also kind of sweet and attentive. I guess that those factors mean that this technically isn't in the "casual hookup" category, but the English language doesn't have a term that I like to describe the thing that happens in between casual sex and dating. "Friends with benefits," an annoying and grossly misused term in the land of sex and dating, does not adequately describe this as we were never friends first. My usual standbys, suitor and gentleman caller, to me imply that there is an interest and a trajectory toward something more serious, and that is clearly not the case. Perhaps the old-fashioned "lover" would suffice, but I can't bring myself to say it without a snort and a giggle.

MM and I have been emailing each other every day, often multiple times a day. Sometimes to try and coordinate our ridiculous schedules, sometimes to flirt, and often just to talk about how our days went. We gchat a lot too, sometimes to talk dirty, but often to have actual conversation as well. I had kind of forgotten how nice it is to have that person to whom you report back to about your day, even if it's only to say that not much happened. My close friends serve that function as well, but there's something kind of nice about having that with someone with whom you also flirt.

Despite this daily checking in, we have rarely spoken about his wife, mostly because I haven't inquired. And I actually kind of don't want to know. I know that he's happy in his marriage, that she doesn't know about his affairs, and that he doesn't see a big conflict between his love for her and his extramarital carrying on. The other details I just kind of make up in his head, like what she does for a living, how often they have sex, what kind of sex they have, and how he acts around her when he's thinking about me.

I've mentioned it before, but it's worth repeating that I know that engaging in all of this pseudo-intimate interaction is flirting with danger, but I'm enjoying myself so much that the benefits are still outweighing the risks.

2011-09-25T14:00:00.003-04:00

Several friends of mine have asked whether or not getting involved with MM is going to result in hurt feelings.

My answer? Probably.

Since our encounter last week, MM and I have been emailing and chatting frequently. He's a bit taken with me, and I can't say that I mind the attention. MM has been telling me some of the little things that he can't stop thinking about: the five little freckles that spell an M on my cheek; my soft skin; the dimple in between my mouth and chin; my "achingly perfect back." The attention has been positively intoxicating.

To my surprise, the other day MM proposed a sleepover. The question of how a married man could swing an overnight aside, I was surprised to find myself saying yes. It takes quite a bit of trust and affection for me to want to sleep next to and then wake up to someone, so choosing to build that trust and affection with MM feels like a bit of a dangerous proposition.

I'm headed down a path of multiple and somewhat unknown consequences. On the one hand, I have been given the opportunity to learn more about my ever-evolving sexuality. On the other, if I end up developing more feelings for MM than I intended, I am likely signing up for hurt and disappointment by seeing someone who is ultimately unavailable to me.

Saying yes to being vulnerable is never without risk. And I've decided that whether or not my affair with MM will end up in hurt can't be the measure with which I base my actions, but rather, will the hurt be worth it if I come out of it with new experiences and a renewed understanding about who am and what I want?

I am saying yes to all of it - the hurt, the pleasure, the ambivalence, and the rest of the inevitable unknown.

Last Night

2011-09-20T11:12:00.001-04:00

One too many drinks in a dark, divey bar. Intense flirting over passionate debates about food. MM's hand sliding up the side of my thigh under the table. And then again, in the cab. A "we don't even pretend to be what we're not" pay-by-the-hour hotel room on the West side with its mirrored ceilings, black light, and lip-shaped headboard. MM tracing the curve of my hip from behind, pressing his body into my arching back. Clothes in a pile on the floor. Touching everywhere. MM telling me how incredibly sexy I am over and over and over again. Needy and passionate kissing that turns into sweaty, frantic fucking. Fucking that bangs my head into the headboard and that elicits cursing and moans, in equal measure. His climax on my face, mouth, and hands. Giggling and touching post-orgasm, reflecting on the impulsive recklessness of the evening. Hopping into separate cabs and immediately emailing each other to say thank you and wow. Collapsing into bed and getting myself off before falling asleep with a smile. Waking up and wanting to do it all over again.

2011-09-15T15:10:00.006-04:00

I have taken up with a Married Man. MM is not married in a polyamorous open marriage sort of way, but rather in an I'm-married-and-my-wife-doesn't-know-about-this sense.

To be completely truthful, "taken up" is a bit too premature a declaration, given that we have not (yet) gotten naked. But I believe that it is imminent.

I know. I know. Don't you worry; I am judging me too.

Have you ever been in such a state of mind where your once orderly life begins oozing through the cracks, and the ground below you feels tenuous at best? And as a way of coping, I suppose, you watch yourself do all sorts of questionable things from a studied distance? That is where I'm at right now. I feel myself unraveling at the seams and externalizing the messiness I feel inside. In short, I want to get in trouble.

I know that sooner or later, I will likely get hurt cavorting with MM. I know that I could find healthier ways of working through my fears and uncertainty about my own future than throwing my energy into a reckless, passionate affair. I know that although I question the transitive property of his marital transgressions on my personal culpability, it feels somewhat unsettling to be a participant in some woman's deception.

MM is a bit of a unicorn. Smart, successful, incredibly handsome, and from what I can gather, likely a passionate and generous lover. He kind of pushes all of my buttons. He is also unavailable (obvs), a bit arrogant in the ways that smart and attractive people often are, and perhaps a bit too cavalier with the emotions of the women (yes, plural) with who he cavorts.

For all of those reasons, good and bad, I find myself hopelessly drawn to MM. He is dangerous enough to provide me with a thrill, a distraction, and a heaping dose of self-destruction, but also not so dangerous that his presence in my life would throw me completely off the rails. I suppose it's hard not to sound fatalistic about all of this, but I think there is something to said about choosing from the lesser of several evils. Would it be ideal if I could work through stress with all the nice girl-approved techniques of anxiety quelling like crying, yoga, long baths, and curling up with a good book? Sure, but that shit is not helping me right now. My other dysfunctional coping strategies - shopping and food - come with their own set of self-destructive properties, and I am choosing to lose myself in the rollercoaster of a new affair rather than in the depths of a bowl of food or through the satisfying swipe of my well-used credit card.

Ay, what a shit show I am right now. At least I give good reads.

The Tourist

2011-09-09T22:06:00.004-04:00

It seems that the time for my annual cis-boy romp has come, and inevitably when this time of year comes around, I'm asked by a suitor what the deal is with my sexuality - why I'll fuck cis boys but not date them. And why, even though I have fun fucking them, I don't identify as bisexual.

Forgive me the extended analogy, but it's like this.

I am a New Yorker. I have a lot invested in being a New Yorker: my job is here; my apartment is here; and my friends and community are here. I love being here and don't plan on leaving anytime soon. Yet, I also go on vacation to the Caribbean at least once a year. And when I'm there, I fucking love it. I lay on the beach, drink the tropical drinks, swim in the lovely waters, and sightsee around the island. But when I'm there, I'm a tourist. I don't live there, nor do I want to. As much fun as I have while I'm in the Caribbean, I just couldn't see myself living there long-term. And of course, enjoying the Caribbean while I'm there once or twice a year doesn't make me half Caribbean or a non-New Yorker.

There are many people who are such die-hard New Yorkers that they won't leave the boroughs. Hell, some of them won't even leave Manhattan! But me, I like to venture outside of New York from time to time. Sometimes it's because being here for really long stretches of time makes me feel like I'm kind of trapped on a really small island. Sometimes it's because I need to luxuriate in the sensation of a cold piña colada in my hand and the feeling of warm sand between my toes. And sometimes it's because I want to experience something different, even if only to remind me at the end of the trip why I love New York like I do.

2011-09-06T23:33:00.001-04:00

It happens every time I have high levels of prolonged anxiety in my life; I am fixating on someone I could never have, and moreover, who even passively rejected me by dropping off the face of the earth about a year ago. Unfortunately for me, this person suddenly re-appeared by accident and now I am thinking obsessively about all the fruit I can't have from a tree that I can't even get to.

I tried to stop this in its tracks by writing a "you wronged me email," but I'm still obsessing, so instead I'm writing here with the hopes that I can make the Want go away.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

A Night of Cabiria

2011-09-06T00:10:00.001-04:00

I don't know that I've ever over-identified with a film character before, but after watching this film, I'm feeling pretty heartbroken.

Short plot summary (spoiler alert!): Cabiria is an aging sex worker who constantly feels out of place and like she doesn't belong in polite society. She has built a stable, financially independent life for herself and because so many men have fucked her over, tries to be all tough and shit by putting up a cranky hot-headed exterior. She then meets a man who she doesn't trust at first, but who she eventually believes is the love of her life after he courts her hard. In the end, he fucks her over big time by taking all her money and leaving her.

When I type it out like that, it sounds really cheesy, but it's a really moving film. As y'all can tell, I've been feeling a bit doom and gloom of late. Cabiria's resigned sense that she's damaged goods who has all but given up on finding love kind of hit me hard. During the film, I thought about my relationship with The Bad Ex who never wanted to hear about my sex working past, and who eventually used it against me during our first big fight, calling me a slut and a whore and everything else she could think of to bring me down.

Years later, that sense of shame sometimes finds me, as does the suspicion that there's something wrong with me that I haven't found love yet at 30, and that moreover, there's no guarantee that it will come. Cabiria reminded me of that feeling of waiting for the shoe to drop every time I find someone wonderful who seems too good to be true, because they are. I also thought about my fundamentally broken picker that leads me to looking for fruit on tree branches that are just out of my reach.

During the final scene of the film, Cabiria smiles through her tears as she walks the long road home. I am also trying to grin and bear it during this uncomfortable transition into the next step in my life, and like Cabiria, I don't quite know what lies ahead.

2011-09-04T00:15:00.001-04:00

Well...Scandal arrived, and Scandal was less than fulfilling.

Scandal was a bad kisser, a boring conversationalist, and wanted me to do strange porny things with my tongue. Scandal also bossed me around in a way that made me roll my eyes. Scandal didn't get me off, mostly because I stopped caring about the sex about halfway through it. Scandal slapped me real good, though - just the way I like.

Better luck next time, Lusty!

2011-09-01T00:22:00.000-04:00

There's nothing quite like Being Wanted. More than any drug or alcohol or heavenly food has ever done, the high that follows an intensely focused need for me, my body, and my hands, is fucking intoxicating.

For a girl with a long storied past with an easily shattered self-esteem, I guess it makes some sort of sense. I sometimes hear people write and talk about amazing sex as an experience that empties the mind. But I feel like some of the best sex I've ever had have is when I'm able to leave my body and feed my brain on a richly complex feedback loop of reading them read me, watching my actions register in the nasty part of my lover's reptile brain, watching their verbal and physical reactions to me, and then mirroring back their desire. It's pure fucking unadulterated self-indulgence for a lifelong close reader of people.

Tomorrow, I have a date. And I want me some of that.

2011-08-30T11:37:00.002-04:00

Cariños, escándalo me ha encontrado.

2011-08-28T22:21:00.002-04:00

I was a bad girl and didn't post yesterday. Too riled up from all that hurricane speculation, I suppose.

But today, in the calm aftermath, I'm craving a less terrifying sort of adventure. I have been feeling a little boring lately, so I don't know, maybe it's time to find a sexy stranger and have some ultimately-mediocre-but-situationally-exciting casual sex. Since I've had a steady (non-monogamous) date for awhile now, I haven't had sex with a new person in about 9 months, which is a bit of a record for slutty me. The problem with me and casual sex, though, is that I've realized that 97% of my first-time sexual encounters are less than satisfying. For me, sex is at its best after we've had a few goes at it and have really figured out what works for the other person.

But you know, bad dates are always great blog fodder, so stay tuned. Hopefully there's some kind of intrigue for me and some good reading for you in the cards.

2011-08-26T00:50:00.002-04:00

Like all bodies on earth, mine goes through changes. My brain knows this truism, and usually, I know both the why and the how of its changing. I know why my body has changed of late, and my brain is ok with that. What's hard right now, though, are the unwelcome memories and associations that my body's recent change is bringing up for me.

Several years ago, I was in a relationship with a really bad person. Not only were we terrible for each other, but she also brought out the worst in me. During the year and a half we were together, our dysfunctional relationship and her ever-declining sexual interest in me directly correlated with the weight I gained due to depression and our extreme incompatibility leading to a relationship based almost exclusively on cooking meals together and watching the television.

Horrible Ex manipulated me in many ways, but her all-star tactic was through her withholding of sex and affection. When we first dated, she couldn't get enough of me. Our chemistry was hot, and though I knew our personalities and lifestyles were quite different, I thought that the passion was enough to make a relationship. But just two months into our dating, she pulled a classic bait-and-switch. Suddenly, she didn't want to be creative in bed. She revealed to me that she didn't like lingerie and actually, she also didn't like kissing, so we wouldn't be doing that anymore. Both giving and receiving oral sex were no longer on the table, because oops, she didn't forgot to mention that she didn't like that either. I could forget about having sex more than once a week, and never too early in the morning or before bed, and definitely not if she was tired or hungry or cranky or stressed or whatever excuse was most handy. Eventually, I stopped trying to initiate and waited pathetically for her lukewarm invitations when they came.

I could write a whole separate volume on why I stayed, but I did. And in the last 6 months especially, I was fucking miserable. We'd spend weekends together on the couch, eating in silence and watching some movie that one of us inevitably hated because we could never agree on what to watch anyway. Sex was infrequent and perfunctory on her part, though I was so sexually deprived that I was still hot for it even at our worst. And at the very end, she blamed my weight gain over our relationship on her disinterest, and I was beaten down enough to eat up every word.

It's clear to me now just what a manipulative, lying sack of shit she was, but that terrible 16 months that she spent chipping away at my self esteem, and the way that I learned to blame it on my body's natural response to the awful situation, has been extremely hard to extinguish.

Fast forward several years, and I'm in a much better place emotionally. I've done a shitload of emotional work to heal from that time, but lately, it's been flooding back for me. Over the past several months, I've had some injuries that have limited my mobility and as a result, my body is at about the same size as it was when I was at my unhappiest with Horrible Ex. And though, like I said earlier, I know why my body has changed and my brain is at peace with that, a big part of me can't help but feel the crushing weight of self-hatred and feelings of failure that I felt at that really low point in my life. Combined with my shitty job situation and fear about not knowing what's next for me, I find myself lately in a bit of a depressive funk with more self-doubt about my self worth than I've had in years.

I kicked Horrible Ex out of my life three years ago this fall, but it seems as though she's the gift that keeps on giving. Sometimes I feel as though the residuals are like a fucking case of bed bugs; you can starve them for a year, but they can still bounce right back into your life, wreaking havoc and wrecking the peace if you give them even just a little taste of blood.

Jenna

2011-08-25T17:16:00.008-04:00

During my tender 'tween years, I had a penchant for bible camp, young adult fiction, and strong teacher's pet tendencies. Unsurprisingly, I had never kissed with tongue, had a boyfriend, or any worldly knowledge other than what MTV and the trashy Up All Night (with Gilbert Gottfried) B-Movies taught me.

Then came Jenna. Jenna was a babysitter my parents hired, mostly to take care of my young sister. I thought that I was way too old to be babysat, and after a few times at our house, Jenna agreed. Quickly, our babysitter-babysittee relationship turned into a friendship/mentorship. I hung on Jenna's every word and followed her around like a hungry puppy, because at the age of 16, Jenna had the kinds of experience with boys and sex and dating that I had only fantasized about at night while staring into the dreamy eyes of any one of the 103 Jonathan Brandis posters adorning my wall.

If I'm being honest about the kind of relationship we had, I guess you could call Jenna my slut mentor. A sensuously curvaceous teenager with long brown hair and Wet N Wild-lined blue eyes, I envied her languid pace, killer rack, and overt sex appeal. Jenna had a loose tongue, and we would stay up late into the night while I listened to her long and detailed accounts of blowjobs in playgrounds at night, getting fingerbanged in a car after a movie date, and many epic erotic dreams Jenna claimed she could direct even while asleep.

By word alone, Jenna exposed me to the seedy underground of teenaged exploits that seemed a universe away from the G-rated life of books and church I had been living. With each tale, I felt more and more impatient to grow breasts and hips and exercise what seemed like her free reign to be as sexual as I wanted to be. Awkward and friendless, I saw sexuality as my ticket out and in my post-Jenna years, did everything I could to get myself into the same kinds of trouble (mostly aided by the installation of a home computer).

Jenna and her life weren't perfect, though. God, this one time, she tried to set me up with this kid named Greg. It was all sweet and good for awhile; we met once and took a chaste walk through the woods, and he wrote me hand-written letters and sent me his school photos. But when he drew a picture of a Confederate Flag and wrote "The North shall fall, and the South shall rise again!" (not an uncommon rallying cry for where I grew up) on his last correspondence, that was the end for me. Jenna also dated a series of shitty dudes and ended up going the way of so many working class girls in my hometown. She became a young single mother and moved back into her mom's duplex soon after that. As a teenager, I often babysat her infant daughter while she worked the afternoon shift at Marshall's. She loved her daughter and didn't regret her choices, but Jenna also struggled with trying to create more opportunities for herself and her family. I don't know if she ever got that.

I could certainly make arguments about the impropriety of Jenna's relationship with me as a babysitting charge and fault her influence on my subsequent pursuit of sketchy dudes on the internet, but more than anything, I credit Jenna for seeding my budding pursuit of outlaw sexuality. I don't know if I would have had the bravery to come out as queer at 14 without her influence. I also see our relationship as a lasting lesson I learned about the power of erotic storytelling as a form of friendship bonding, and certainly as a key predecessor for my later desire to start writing about my sexual adventures and mishaps.

So, my hats (and skirts and bras) off to Jenna. This blog is for you.

2011-08-24T15:31:00.000-04:00

Having massive questions about my current employment situation, a friend gave me a tarot reading last week wherein I asked the cards about my future. The first card I drew represented what would happen if I stayed on my current path; the other, what would happen if I went another way.

The "should you stay" card basically depicted a fiery pit of hell. It was the "Oppression" card, showing a burning building with a person buried under a pile of rocks. The "should you go" card showed a person leaping in the air to freedom, filled with creativity and liberation.

We could help but laugh about how strongly the cards felt about what I should do, and I couldn't disagree.

Now what?

2011-08-23T23:58:00.007-04:00

It's a particular kind of disease, chasing those who can't or won't give you what you want.

I find it unnerving, the way that certain flashes of the past clasp their tight fingers around the recesses of my memory and refuse to let go.

She was an amazing lover, and she knew it. I was one in a long line of many women to whom she would dedicate hours to in bed with a singular focus, figuring out all of the vulnerable and tender spots to linger on; all the magical things to say about my body that would relax me into and onto her arms. Fulfilling me sexually while deliberately holding onto her own deepest desires was her way of feeling in control, and the way she maintained her fragile sense of safety. I know the tactic all too well - when you are afraid, it is comforting to be the one with less desire, the person who will hurt less if it all goes away.

I meant to write this as a chronicle of erotic memories, describing the way I smelled and tasted her on me all night after she sat on my mouth and chin, rocking herself into a frenzy. I felt dizzy and intoxicated for hours after that, interacting with the world like a temporary and inconvenient detour on the way back to her body. I think of the way she bent me over the bathroom counter in a dirty hotel room, pushing her fingers into me until I soaked her chest and the floor. The way I suddenly wanted things from her that I had never before found erotic. The way my need for her was so great, I wanted to consume every milliliter of skin and sweat and cum. The way I felt when I realized that she would never want me in quite the same way.

My desire is never so strong as when what I want is just beyond my reach.

2011-08-22T17:16:00.000-04:00

Today I am a timid mouse, whiskers twitching a whisper to the wide open space around me.

The long road home

2011-08-21T19:28:00.000-04:00

"Forget it. Just...don't even try to help. Let me do it."

The clipped contempt with which my dad speaks to my mother for what I've counted is at least the fifth time this weekend brings the slow simmer of anger in my chest to a rolling boil.

Both her and I are silent. As is the case when he corrects her speech. Or when he nearly shouts with anger over some little thing that has made him feel small. In a family of four strong-willed women, my dad does what he can to hold onto power. With my mother, he needs to be right. Any chance to gloat or one-up her he takes with a noisy fanfare. When he tries to make the fool of my mom by rallying the support of one of his girls, he is often met with a silent room. None of us approve of his behavior, but almost all of us have given up that fight.

Twenty years ago, our spars were frequent. I was the first child and so the first to rebel, the first to funnel my anger at them. For a period of a few years, we fought all of the time. Sometimes with my mother, but mostly with my dad. Who can even remember about what now, but what I do remember was the way the red in his face would deepen with rage and how his hazel eyes glittered as my stubborn silence persisted or my angered protests grew louder. Most fights would end with a trip to the kitchen, where either they or I would pick out the wooden spoon with which I was to be punished. Bent over, I learned to stare at a singular point on the wall, breathing through the sharp whacks to the fleshy parts of my behind and forcing the tears to stop until I was sent to my room. I remember the terror I felt the two times that he reached heights of anger that were foreign even to me. Once, a whipping with the belt in front of an audience and another time, a sharp slap to the face in the cool silence of the night, I lived those years with a bitter resentment that I can still taste.

At that age, I was angry all of the time. I had no friends, I hated my school, and I took it out on my family. At school, I tried to be as small and inoffensive as I could to stave off the merciless teasing of my classmates. I was new to that school and just a few pounds shy of being the fattest girl in my grade, so I knew that one wrong step outside of obscurity would make life intolerable.

So, at home, I fought. Those three years before puberty hit were a constant war of wills. Me, fighting nonstop with my parents and sister, and my parents angry, exasperated, and confused about what could possibly have gone wrong with their daughter. But sometime around 13, things just changed and we came to an unspoken truce. I guess like most girls my age, I learned to turn the anger inward, and grew tired of the fighting.

Someone once said to me, "Your family doesn't just push your buttons - they created them." When I see them now, and especially when I return to my hometown, the anger that I seem to have buried surfaces as if it had never disappeared. With just one wayward comment from either of them, my stomach clenches and I become tight and closed. As an adult, my relationship with my family is that of friendly acquaintances. They know the broad sketches of my life - where I live and work, who my friends are, and on occasion, who I'm dating. But beyond that, the yawning chasm between me and what they know about me stretches on. Every interaction are so fraught with memory that their words and actions can't help but be seen through my magnifying glass of resentment and yearning.

But, the question of whether or not we love each other has never actually been a question. We still laugh together, express joy and sadness and concern for each other, speak to each other from time to time and see each other several times a year. I feel their earnest desire to love me for who I've become, even as I also see them struggle to accept some of the fundamental basics of my adult self, just as I struggle to see them as whole, flawed human beings who are trying their best just like me.

Last night, tears rolled hotly down my cheeks as we watched a heartrending scene in a movie where a son is reunited with his parents after years of forced separation. He kneeled before them, his happiness and decades-long desire for them to see him for who he had become as an adult overcoming him. I couldn't help but recognize my own story in that scene, and fraught with longing, I looked at my parents seated next to me in the dark like two waving blots of color on a fading horizon.

2011-08-20T20:00:00.001-04:00

What is there to say about today, other than that home is a painfully fucking complicated place to be.

Things I miss about my hometown

2011-08-19T19:27:00.002-04:00

* Strangers offer you their unused coupons at the store
* No one looks at you funny because we all say it "kew-pawn"
* THE PEACHES
* Stocking up on all the staples that cost twice as much in New York
* Bringing home a suitcase full of dirty laundry and coming home with clean clothes
* Chick-Fil-A
* The screaming symphony of birds and crickets that greet me in the morning and lull me to sleep at night
* Fat people
* Cashiers don't look at you funny when you ask them how they're doing; or
* They ask you first
* Being in a public place does not mean having to be all close and personal with hundreds of strangers
* In fact, I do believe that the sound of light southern lilts kick up my kindness-to-strangers level a few notches

There's no place like (small doses of) home.

One sentence at a time

2011-08-18T14:04:00.003-04:00

A year and a half ago, I quit the internet.

I mean, not in the 12-step tradition where you pledge abstinence and apologize to all you've wronged sense; no, I quit in a no more blog writing/blog reading/social networking sites sort of way. I wrote emails, I occasionally posted pictures of beautiful food on the internet, and called it a day.

The multiple hours a day I spent writing posts (on my other blog), reading others' words, and seeing every interesting person, event, and encounter as a potential post got really old. I felt like I was only as good as my next juicy story. Taking a break was exactly what I needed. I needed the space to live life without feeling the (internal) pressure to repeat it back to an audience.

But damn, after a year and a half, I've started to miss it again. So, I'm back. Sort of.

I no longer have the time to write long posts every day, nor is my life as exciting as it was when I posted here last, but I've decided to try and write one sentence a day. I hope that sometimes it'll be more, but I want to challenge myself to write at least one sentence every day about anything and everything.

Finally, to catch y'all up to speed, I thought you might like to know what happened while I was away.

Since 2007, I: found an awesome job; quit sex work; found a terrible girlfriend and dated her for far longer than I should have; thought that the breakup was the beginning of my Saturn Return; thought about writing a book, chickened out; had a dramatic friend breakup; had a bunch of dates and a lot of casual sex; thought I met the love of my life, but got a best friend instead; became quite enthralled with cooking and the world of foodies; got a pseudo-girlfriend who wouldn't commit and ended it exactly when I needed to; got promoted at work to a fancy position; had more casual sex and got disillusioned by it; went on vacation with friends on an annual basis, loved it; moved into my own apartment; thought about writing a book, chickened out again; realized that what I thought was my Saturn Return in 2008 was only the prequel to what I now believe is my actual Saturn Return; began to prepare myself for lots of bumpy-ass changes ahead.

Well hello there

2007-06-17T23:15:00.000-04:00

You thought I was gone, didn't you?

Yeah, well, me too.

After a horrible experience with a client at the agency I joined last December and a move to another large metropolitan city some 4 and a half hours from my old location, I took a long break. You see, I got a great new day job that didn't pay that well, but that I really loved. And I tried to make it, I really did. I attempted to live on a salary that I knew deep down wouldn't pay my bills and attempted to shuffle things around until I found myself desperately broke, even on pay days.

So here I am again, my jaw in pain after a weekend of seeing clients and sucking cock. My reentry into the business was no surprise to me, but a disappointment nevertheless. I suppose I was being an optimist, reasoning that I'd get by somehow, even though I've never been one to relish living on ramen and a prayer.

I'm finding, however, that finding time to work a 40-something hour work week at a day job, spending time with my friends, maintaining a fairly active dating life, seeing clients on the side and somehow trying to find extra slots of time for mundane things like the gym, laundry and grocery shopping is impossible. Sleep, once my best friend, now seems like this inconvenient needy thing that gets in the way of all the shit I have to do. It's true that I thrive best when I'm busy, but can a girl get a break?

Another new challenge that's been interesting is having to navigate sex work via public transportation. I sold my car last summer, and though this city's public transportation is far superior to my old city's, it's still a pain to get from point A to B. Hence, I am much less likely to take quick jobs that pay less because of the travel time involved. Which inevitably means that I'm providing "full service" (industry terms that usually mean penis-in-vagina sex + blow jobs + any other extras negotiated between client and provider) during every session. Which, oh my lord, is taxing. Sure, it means more money, but it also means more time finding clients, more risk and more emotional energy expended before and during the session. I'm exhausted.

Luckily, friends, I have a fantastic vacation planned for next month. It's a (late) birthday present to myself, as I've been making it a habit to travel every year on my birthday for the last several years. And this year, I'll be traveling to a tropical climate and doing it on a dime. But even dimes have to be earned, and funny how working for a vacation fund feels infinitely easier than working to pay off that mattress you bought last winter. And I've told myself that I'll deal with my less interesting bills once I get back.

It Ain't Easy [Looking For] a Pimp

2006-12-05T22:28:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm still at it.

Despite all my reservations, I'm continuing to see clients. In fact, I contacted a local agency for the first time and they bit right back. In a few days, I'll meet with the guy who runs the agency and maybe start working for them.

PROS
*More clients = more money
*The agency screens clients ahead of time
*The agency provides protection and also transportation
*No more trolling craigslist for shady flakes who will waste my time

CONS
*More clients = higher chance of burnout
*High possibility of seeing several (up to 6, even?) clients a night carries with it a high possibility that I will feel extremely grossed out
*I will, for all intents and purposes, have a pimp
*The dude in charge takes a large percentage of any money earned

I think that, if this meeting with him goes well, I am going to join the agency despite the pretty significant list of cons. I'll go on a bender for a couple of weeks and hopefully by the new year, I'll have a new job and a cozy stack of cash saved up for my impending move. Oh wait, did I mention that to y'all? Not only am I looking for work, but I am also looking to move to The Big City (you can probably guess which one). Whether or not I'll continue my underground career there is to be determined by what kind of job I'll get and what it pays.

But, having a pimp? As a feminist, the idea of having one is pretty appalling. At the same time, I will be thoroughly screening this dude to make sure he's not crazy, abusive, violent or some scary combination of the three. And the pros on the list are pretty tempting. The agency does all of the advertising, all of the scheduling, and even provides an incall location if I want one.

I swear, my involvement in this profession becomes more and more surreal as time goes on. Funnily enough, I still feel really fucking naive about it all. It can be fun to act jaded and worldly when I tell my wide-eyed friends the stories, but deep down, I think I'm still clutching my pearls.

Just a little bit more

2006-11-28T05:19:00.001-05:00

Tonight, I had a super super super creepy experience with a client.

No, he didn't try to take advantage of me. Nor did he try to get me to do stuff that I didn't already agree to. I'm safe, I promise.

It's that Mr. Lovemaker just loved looking deeply into my eyes and murmuring sweet nothings in my ear. When there's chemistry, he whispermumbled, it's more like passion.

I am so very amazed that clients honestly don't seem to realize that I am getting paid to be nice to them. Maybe it's that they want to believe so badly that what they're getting is some sort of "authentic" experience that they'll take any kind gesture to mean that it's "real." I realize that lots of married men see sex workers because their own relationships have long since fizzled into something less than passion. And I realize that it's more pragmatic (not to mention more economically sound) to see a sex worker than it is to sustain an affair, but I really feel that some dudes have incredibly skewed expectations of what we/I can give them. Sure, you can call it a Girlfriend Experience, but I am not your girlfriend. Maybe it's than when they hand me the wad of cash, I have neglected to tell them that I am only willing to rent out my body and my acting skills. My brain, my passion and my genuine self just aren't for sale.

I think this profession is turning me into a man-hating dyke quicker than you can say womyn.

Here's the worst part, though, the part that maybe made it all the more disturbing to me: I had an orgasm with Mr. Lovemaker.

Wow, was that hard to admit. It was the first time I've had a genuine orgasm with a client and one of less than a handful of times that I've had an orgasm with a man born with his penis. You see, I was fantasizing about my current crush, anything to take my mind off of Mr. Lovemaker's ministrations, and I started feeling myself get turned on. I requested that he enter me from behind so that I could bury my head in the pillow and think about this girl while touching myself and, well, I came.

How come I'm ashamed? How many times have I read similar confessions from other sex workers and thought to myself, Honey, no worries! It doesn't have to mean anything! Easier said than done, I know now.

It's become really clear to me and most likely to you by now that this is the wrong profession for me. I'm no Annie Sprinkle, spreading the joy of sex to the world through my sexual gifts to one john at a time. No, loves, I'm just some broke lady who's begrudgingly loaning out her body until things change for the better.

I'd rather be working

2006-11-21T22:30:00.000-05:00

So here's the update. I haven't worked since I injured my back (for obvious reasons) a weekish ago, but now I'm completely and totally broke and have no choice. Like, I need to make $1000 in the next week or so or else I can't pay my bills. Part of that is due to the fact that the unemployment office in this city is decidedly, well, stingy.

This is all also complicated by the fact that I'm leaving tomorrow night for my parents' house and won't be back until Saturday. Fret, fret fret.

I've been trolling the craigslist erotic services section, naturally, but it's so freaking hard to find clients when you're only answering ads. I'm REALLY paranoid about attracting LE (Law Enforcement) that way, so I continue to agonize over whether putting up an ad on craigslist or another escort lister like Eros is worth it.

If I do decide to do it (which I probably eventually will) I came up with the way to advertise myself. The headline will read (in all caps, because that's how they all seem to do it on craigslist): EVER DREAM OF A SUICIDE GIRL WITH MEAT ON HER BONES? Before you spit out your beverage, let me assure you that I hate the Suicide Girls industry as much as the any other person with a politicized brain. But hear me out. You see, the city in which I live is an extremely button-down city. Wait, let me rephrase that. People in this city who can afford escorts are, for the most part, button-down dudez a.k.a. White Guys in Ties. And I have a few qualities (piercings, busty, biracial) that make me "exotic." I could capitalize on the biracial thing, but I have a feeling that dudez looking for some sort of Asian girl would expect a skinny one. By capitalizing on the plus sized and pierced angle, I think I could carve myself out a real niche in this city.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Tonight I found a client that I'll hopefully be seeing on Saturday. He was really sweet and fell all over himself in his email telling me how hot I am and how much he can't wait to see me. I noticed something curious right away, however. Most clients, like most escorts, create a separate email address with which to conduct their naughty business. Mr. Compliments, though, used his work email!

Of course, I went straight to his work website and found out in fairly short order that Mr. Compliments is Senior VP for a big consulting firm in the city. After reading his bio, I was even more stunned to find out that he does tech stuff. I mean seriously, wha??? Even the least tech savvy client in the world knows not to solicit prostitution over work email! After reading even more of his bio, however, I was even more amused to find that Mr. Compliments adjuncts at my alma matter!

The question at hand: will it feel more like shadenfraude or sheer evil delight when I pee in his mouth and then make him lick my asshole?

Another Return

2006-10-23T18:34:00.000-04:00

It's probably the case that any regular readers I once had have long since forgotten about these dusty (e)pages. Maybe you, like me, thought that I was done forever with the sex trade. Or if not done, I/we thought, on an extended break.

Shit, as they say, happens. I got laid off. I have no savings. I am possibly allergic to the idea of temping. My love affair with the city in which I currently reside is coming to an end. The amount of money one can receive on unemployment is shamefully low.

For all of those reasons, a return to quick cash seemed highly necessary. After all, how else would I be able to save up a chunk of change for a big move to a new city?

In the time since I've last written here, I've gotten a few sex work job offers, but turned them all down because the idea of putting on that kind of show seemed like too much for me to handle. Granted, it never feels that way once the cash touches my palm, but there are so many painstaking steps that precede that one satisfying moment in time. This time around, however, I'm doing things a little bit differently. I have successfully recruited a hard-up friend (we'll call her Red) to go into business with me. We sat down together last week and wrote down a laundry list of sex acts that we would and would not do, tentatively priced our services and wrote an ad.

"LUSTY AND RED CAN MAKE YOUR FANTASIES COME TRUE!"

Some of you may have heard about the high number of Craigslist busts that have happened in the time since my hiatus. Because of this, Red and I will have to take extra precautions and be extra dodgy about the meat and potato ($) details of these transactions. Being oblique is part and parcel of this work, but it really makes things so much more difficult to negotiate when you're made to use ridiculous code language like french, russian, roses and greek to describe specific things like price and sex acts.

But I digress. I came here to talk about how things are different for me this time around, and not necessarily in a positive way. My reentry into the biz feels like less of a choice than it did the first time. Because although I wanted/needed the extra cash before, I at least had a straight job to be my bread and butter. But now, unemployed, I've gotta work for my rent and it feels...uncomfortable. Someone asked me if I felt empowered about my choice and I can't say that I particularly do. It's a damn shame that the way our world is built cannot support its citizens who don't have jobs.

We'll see how things develop. Maybe I'll get a fantastic job tomorrow and this will all be for naught. So stay tuned, petunias.

I'm the end of the line

2006-06-09T14:11:00.000-04:00

So, it looks as if my break from the sex industry just may be permanent.

Cops, using the Net, nab five in prostitution ring
Those arrested are accused of using Craigslist.com to push prostitution at motels in Plainview, Jericho

BY MICHAEL FRAZIER
Newsday Staff Writer

June 9, 2006

Millions of online users turn to the popular Craigslist.com Web site in search for a home, tickets or a car, but many also use it to find sex.

Understanding that, Nassau police routinely monitored the site and this week arrested five people accused of using it to advertise prostitution.

Police said they suspect dozens of so-called Johns in recent weeks answered the ads and met for sex at motels in Plainview and Jericho.

"This is an ongoing problem to Nassau County and the metropolitan area ... that the vice squad is attentive to," said Capt. Steven Skrynecki of the Nassau County Vice Squad. "It's a constant battle to keep this under control."

Numerous resident complaints and undercover operations led to the arrests of the five who appeared Thursday in First District Court in Hempstead, authorities said. Police said they all, except a man-and-woman team, acted independently.

Craigslist.com, a site allowing Internet users to peruse and post notices for free, has more than 10 million visitors each month, the site said.

Illegal sex-for-money ads can be found under the site's erotic section. Some are accompanied by lewd or sexually explicit language and pictures.

"We received quite a bit of calls from parents ... and from adults themselves who ... find this to be offensive," Skrynecki said "It's a fine line in promoting prostitution and allowing advertisement."

Craigslist's founder, Craig Newmark, didn't return a call Thursday seeking comment.

On Tuesday, Ebony Gilreath, 21, of Brooklyn, was arrested on a charge of prostitution at a Plainview motel. Shaneesa White, 21, of College Park, Ga., and Keith Cowan, 23, of Riverdale, Ga., were arrested at a Jericho motel.

White had her daughter, 4, with her at the time of her arrest. The child was placed in a Suffolk County foster home, .police said.

When White met customers for sex, she left her daughter alone in the car outside the hotel room, police said. They said Cowan served as White's chauffeur and security guard.

White was charged with prostitution and endangering the welfare of a child. Cowan was charged with promoting .prostitution, endangering the welfare of a child and criminal possession of marijuana.

On Wednesday, police arrested Claudinette Rodriguez, 38, of Miami Beach, and Victoria Finley, 21, of Orlando, Fla., at Plainview motels and charged each of them with prostitution.

Gilreath was released without bond, pending a June 19 court date.

White had a bail set of $2,000 cash or bond. So did Rodriguez.

Cowan was ordered held on a bail of $2,000 bond or $3,000 cash, while Finley's bail was set at $5,000 bond or $2,500 cash.

Craigslist has long been criticized for allowing unmonitored, and in some cases illegal ads, to be posted. Arrests stemming from sex ads posted there are occurring across the country.

Under federal law, Craigslist isn't liable for what appears on its site, said Kurt Opsahl, a staff attorney for the San Francisco, Calif.-based Electronic Frontier Foundation.

Shock and awe

2006-03-27T21:32:00.000-05:00

I am seriously considering having sex with a non-trans man.

For free.

And not because I'm in love.

I just want to get fucked.

It's Not Going to Stop

2006-03-04T23:56:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, it is hard to be a girl in America. No, it is always hard to be a girl in America. It is harder still to be the kind of girl America hates. Sometimes it feels like no matter how hard I pummel my bloodied fists at the people who tell me that I'm wrong, bad, loathsome, ugly, worthless, some of those blows inevitably get through. And I sit here tonight with bruises on my face and neck, just wishing that it would stop, even for a short minute.

I cannot do sex work right now.

My body and I are at war with each other, my mind refusing to believe or accept that it's changed in the way that it has. I don't need to be profound or original to explain all of you who were raised female that specific kind of body hatred that comes with being a Girl in America. It's that special kind of loathing we only reserve only for ourselves. Sometimes we direct it outwards, placing judgment and a narrowed eye at someone who literally embodies what we fear, but it is always about us in the end. It is always about how, every day, we are told we are not enough; not thin, pretty, rich, stylish, smart, resourceful, selfless, beautiful, elegant enough to exist. After all, their riches, their success, their sense of self worth is made from our shame. I shouldn't need to tell you who they are.

Becoming a feminist was both the best and the worst thing I ever did for my body. Finally knowing that being imperfect is ok, beautiful even, was one of my life's eminent lessons. Feminism told me to fuck those societal beauty standards and to express myself however I saw fit. For that, I am eternally grateful to feminism and the feminist role models who brought me down this path. Feminism, however, did not provide me with all the tools I needed to undo these decades of self-hate. But don't hear me wrong: it is not feminism's fault that we don't know how to tell ourselves that we are worthy of love and desire. It is not feminism's fault that we get pummeled, sometimes to death, by those big angry fists. I get that we are all still learning how to exist in this world, and I am among those who have committed themselves to the long hard fight.

Sometimes I lose. Sometimes my body betrays me in ways that make me feel worthless, ugly, unloveable. Sex work is the act of making people think that you are worth enough to be paid. Sex work is about convincing a client that you are beautiful, elegant, sexual and eager to please them. Sex work is about convincing your client that you are hot shit. At the moment, however, I feel like hot shit in the most disgustingly literal sense. These days, compliments bounce off of me like raindrops never soak a duck; they slick the skin and then disappear. The feeling is an ephemeral caress that floats away nearly the instant after its appearance.

I hate that I am so damaged. I hate that I have to fight the feeling to hate myself every day. I want to love my body. I want to love every roll, dimple and pucker. I want the capacity love it if it were twice or half its current size. I want little things like a pound or five not to send me into a veritable panic of body shock. I want it to be ok that I now have two chins in pictures instead of one, that my belly sticks out more than it used to, that I am bigger than I used to be. I hate that such a small thing can make me withdraw from people, friends, and lovers. I hate that it means I can't bear to sell my body, that today, I couldn't even imagine telling a client that I am worth their hard-earned money.

For this, I am sorry. I am sorry that I don't have lurid and exciting tales to tell you. I am sorry that this is affecting my ability to do this thing that I have grown to occasionally enjoy. Mostly, I am sorry that I continue to be so hard on myself and that I have let this affect my life in negative ways. I promise you and myself that I will continue to work diligently and attempt to make peace with the new bits of flesh that have found their way to various parts of my body. I promise that I won't stop shielding myself from the blows and punching back when I can.

I will not lose this fight; you are my witness.

You oughta know

2006-02-16T16:54:00.000-05:00

Hello, buenos días, and buon giorno,

I have nothing to say for my absence save for a wave of lethargy that has plagued me for the last few weeks. To my defense, I've had some really great news in my non-sex work life that has kept me a bit preoccupied, but still.

Since we last met, I've seen two clients who you may recall from before, Jason and Chad. In fact, I saw them both in the same week, securing me a tidy little nest egg to devote to my mewling savings account.

Jason was another overnight, a last minute request that proved to be an incredibly easy date. His car had broken down near my house and instead of getting a late-night tow, he rented a hotel room for the evening, to which he invited me. I arrived at ten past midnight and was greeted with a warm hug. Long time no see, I commented to him. Jason was already in an undershirt and boxer briefs, which he shed quickly. I followed his lead and stripped down to my cute bra and underwear set.

We talked for several minutes, laying in bed side by side, legs barely touching. He complained about work and I listened quietly, lightly touching his arms, shoulders and stomach. During a pause, Jason leaned over and kissed me, the same mediocre style that I remembered from our previous meeting. Soon, he moved down my body and removed my underwear. He went to work and I removed my bra, feigning sighs and yelps of appreciation. After what I felt was a respectable amount of time, I did what I felt was a stellar imitation of an orgasm. There was a build-up, a climax and a come down. He wasn't disappointed. We kissed for another minute or so before I made my way south and began to suck on his very-hard cock. I like working with small cocks when I'm being paid because I can almost deep throat them. I actually have a very sensitive gag reflex, which makes it hard to take a cock into my mouth with any sort of impressive depth.

I had meant for the blowjob to be a prelude to fucking, but Jason made no move for me to stop, so I didn't. A few minutes later, he gasped that he was going to come and I pulled away, sliding my hand up and down his cock as he ejaculated on my hair and his stomach. I smiled at him and excused myself to the bathroom. I washed my hands and brought him a towel.

We layed back down on the bed and he rolled over as if to go to sleep. I couldn't believe my luck! Here I was, getting paid many hundreds of dollars for what had turned out to be an incredibly simple job. I slept well despite the overly stuffed pillow. In the morning, Jason rose before me and I could tell that his gentle grinding against my ass meant that he wanted a morning quickie. Being the stingy girl that I am, however, I pretended to remain asleep and not notice. After a few fruitless minutes, Jason hopped out of bed and got ready for work. He left the room key on the bedside table and asked me to check out. After a quick peck on the lips, he was gone.

Chad was also a pleasant date, but these massage gigs are pretty hard on my body. My back and neck always seem to ache after an hour straight of massaging someone, but the money's good. Nothing of import really happened, but we talked a lot about mundane things such as the weather and traffic. I learned that Chad has three sons, one of whom plays ice hockey. I got lost on the way home.

Mike emailed me last night, but I collapsed in bed way early and didn't receive his message. Perhaps that means I'll see him this weekend, something that my bank account would surely appreciate.

Not Your Usual Virginity

2006-01-28T10:07:00.000-05:00

If the Hooker Academy were giving out awards for Funniest Experience With A Client, I should really start preparing my acceptance speech.

Last night I met up with William, a slight middle-aged man with a nervous laugh. We emailed back and forth several times hammering out the terms and he almost cancelled due to the fact that he suspected that I was a police officer. I reassured him that I wasn't and he finally believed me. I drove the 30 minutes to his luxury condo and had to be buzzed upstairs by the attendant at the front desk. When I rang his buzzer, he let me into his apartment which I thought smelled like pot. I could tell he was extremely nervous by the way he was shifting and avoiding my gaze, but I didn't think much of it. I knew he didn't have much experience with sex workers and nervousness isn't really out of the ordinary. He took my coat and we sat down on the couch. I noticed the ashtray full of cigarette butts and ashes; he had clearly been chain-smoking all night. After shifting in his seat for a minute, William turned to me.

I have a confession to make.

Ok...?

Suddenly, an inkling of what was to come began to sprout in my head.

He blushed and grinned sheepishly. Well...um...I've never, um, been with a woman before. I've never, um, even seen one naked.

I looked around at his beautifully decorated luxury condo, the coasters on the table, the diamond stud in his ear and made the leap. My eyes widened.

So you've only been with men?

Well, there was that one girl in high school, but that didn't go so well.

So there I was. With a bonafide gay man. One who was curious about women and who had hired a hooker to find out. I was living out every fag hag's fantasy.

Can I confess something to you to that might make you feel better?

He nodded and blushed again.

I'm mostly gay myself.

William looked at me with shock. Oh god! I've hired a lesbian!

I tried to assure him, but that particular piece of news seemed to make him even more nervous. He offered me something to drink and I asked for some water. When he sat back down on the couch, I assured him that I would do everything I could to make his first time comfortable. I began to lightly touch his arms and William told me how lately he had "just had a feeling" about wanting to sleep with a woman, a "busty" one in particular.

He began to touch my breasts, but there was a dress and a push-up bra in the way. I asked him if he wanted me to make it easier for him and he nodded. I stripped down to my underwear and took off the bra. William started to touch my breasts for a minute before jerking away and shaking his head.

Oh my god! I'm objectifying you! This isn't right!

I assured him that I was ok with consensual objectification and he continued to feel my breasts. I suggested we go to the bedroom, where William carefully took off each piece of clothing until he was down to a pair of styled white briefs and tube socks. He stepped close and began to grind against me, first touching my breasts and then dipping his hand down to my underwear. Because he had never even seen a woman naked before, I was afraid of what he might try to do with my hoo ha. So William fumbled around down there while I tried to jerk off his obviously soft cock. After a minute I took out a condom and some lube.

What can I do for you?

He looked kind of confused and didn't answer.

Do you want to see it?

He nodded his head and I took off my underwear. William reclined against his headboard and began to try and jerk himself off. I spread my legs and let him get a full look at my pussy while I made slow circles around my clit. He stopped abruptly.

Is that it?

Um, yes.

William buried his head in the pillow and I had to reassure him again before he started back up again. He was still soft. After another 10 seconds, William stopped again.

I'm really sorry, but I just can't do this.

It was inevitable. I had known since the second he had told me he was gay that he wasn't going to be able to fuck me or even get hard.

See, I have 7 sisters and I just feel like a dirty old man!

I assured him again that I didn't think he was a dirty old man and that it was ok if he didn't want to continue.

I do like those, though, he said, gesturing towards my breasts.

I offered to let him play with my breasts for the rest of the hour, but he objected on grounds that I would get bored.

Well how about this, then? Let's go back to the couch and talk. I'll sit there topless and if you feel like you want to touch them, you can.

William agreed and we both put our underwear back on. We began to talk on the couch and William unloaded all his questions about women and female anatomy. I explained to him the anatomy of the clitoris and the location of the g-spot. He was fascinated. He also told me about going to an all-boy school as a kid and getting kicked out of seminary school. After about a half an hour of lively conversation, William told me that he wasn't going to keep me any longer. I apologized for not being able to do more for him.

Well you know, baby steps.

I agreed and told him that if he ever wanted to take another baby step, I'd be more than happy to accommodate him. We hugged goodbye and I waved as I walked out of the door. On the way to the elevator, I looked at the fat wad of twenties in my purse and grinned.

If there was ever an empire to be built on servicing gay men curious about pussy, I'd be the first in line to head it up. Cause y'all, that shit was priceless.

Missed Connection

2006-01-22T11:31:00.000-05:00

It was Friday evening at 2:37 in the morning when my phone bleated to announce that I had a text message.

I cracked an eye open, wondering who it could be so late/early.

Do you want to make [a large dollar amount] cash?

The text was from Mr. Freddie Prinze. Yes...how? I texted back, glancing nervously at the toddler laying next to me in bed. I was babysitting her for friends and crossed my fingers that whatever it was he wanted me to do, it would be tomorrow. My phone bleated again.

Me and a friend.

Yes, but can we do this tomorrow? I can't tonight.

Shit!, I thought. There's no way I can leave her here while I go out whoring. And, like I predicted, Mr. Freddie Prinze wasn't interested in a threesome tomorrow. I texted him back to tell him no, put my phone down and tried to go back to sleep, but all I could think about was a scrolling marquee with that dollar amount flashing in big shiny letters. I needed the money, but I couldn't figure out what to do.

Finally, after about 40 minutes of obsessing, it hit me. For that amount of money, I reasoned, her parents wouldn't be too upset if I dropped their kid off at the hotel room where they were staying. After all, the parents know what I do and are very supportive of me. I figured I'd offer to buy them breakfast or something.

I texted him back. I might be able to work something out. How late are you all going to be up?

This time, he called me back. I explained the situation and he said he'd try to work something out. I'll call you back in 5 minutes.

After 15, I still hadn't heard from him. Are we on?, I texted.

Not 2 night 2 late.

By that time it was almost 3:30 in the morning and I couldn't help but agree.

I'm still kicking myself.

Bewilderedly disappointed

2006-01-11T15:05:00.000-05:00

I haven't heard from Mike yet and I don't think I will.

Why am I kind of sad about that?

Crushing on a client is so very weird

2006-01-09T18:00:00.000-05:00

Oh, what a night. Readers, I'm not sure if I can quite capture the hot insanity of my first date since Chad. But let me try.

Mike and I had arranged a date for Friday evening around 9 or 10 p.m. He invited me out for drinks beforehand, but I declined as I always do for unpaid activities such as that. By 11, Mike still hadn't called and I was quite annoyed, having chucked all plans for the evening only to be stood up. However, at 1:00 in the morning, my phone chirped with the sound of an incoming text message. It was from Mike. Can we still meet? I responded no, but wished him a nice evening. He texted me back immediately, asking why not. I don't tend to make a habit of rescheduling with people who don't call and ruin my plans for the evening, I wrote back. He texted me back, promising to make it "worth [my] while." I asked him for specifics and he wrote me back. But in my half-asleep stupor, I thought he offered me twice as much money. Later, I went back and saw that Mike had instead promised me at least two orgasms. Whoops!

I threw on some clothes and makeup and headed out the door. Mike lives about 45 minutes from me, but I did it in 30 because there was no traffic on the road. I got to his house at about 2:00. I called him to let him know that I was there and he informed me that he'd be there in 20 minutes. He was at a club with friends and told me that he was going to call a cab. That was quite an underestimate, however, because it wasn't until almost an hour later that Mike finally showed up. I was livid and wanted to leave, but I also didn't want to not collect my money.

Mike climbed out of the cab and another guy trailed behind him. I was shocked. Mike was incredibly handsome. Think Freddie Prinze Jr., only not so pretty-boy. I was intrigued. However, when he stepped aside, I saw that his friend had a trail of fresh puke all over the front of his peacoat. He was stumbling drunk. Mike apologized for his drunk friend and promised that he would put him to bed immediately. We got inside his apartment and I sat on the couch while Mike tried to get the friend to sleep in his bed so that him and I could do what I came for. The friend kept on asking who I was and why I was there.

Finally, Mike got his friend into bed. He went over to his kitchen counter and to my shock, he did a nosefull of coke. I thought about saying something, but I decided not to. Mike asked me how we should proceed and I indicated that I needed payment first. We need to go to the ATM, then, he said. I was getting even more annoyed at this point, but I wanted my money and I'm also a sucker for cuteness. I drove Mike to the ATM and he asked me lots of questions about my career as a sex worker. He seemed incredibly fascinated. I also didn't mind answering his questions, since I'd rather talk about the business than where I grew up or what my day job is like.

We got back to his place and the friend was still wandering around. Again, Mike shooed him to his bedroom, but the friend was drunk and wasn't listening very well. After a bit, he finally went into the bedroom and Mike and I got started. I had mentally decided that since he was really cute that I was going to try and enjoy the sex for real and not just because I was getting paid.

Bare-chested, I began to cover his chest and stomach and collarbone with kisses. Slowly, I moved up and we began to kiss. I didn't mind his kissing style, but I wasn't turned on. Mike was in love with my large breasts and played with them frequently, sucking on one nipple while tweaking the other. I took down his jeans and he was soft. However, after some stroking and licking, his cock was fully erect. It was nicely shaped and maybe slightly above average in size. I began to go down on Mike and all of a sudden, the friend walked into the room and started giggling. Mike immediately went soft and yelled at him again to go back to the bedroom and apologized to me profusely for his friend's bad behavior. He did another line of coke and then we began again.

This time, however, Mike could not get hard. No matter how much lube, licking or sucking I ministrated, his cock stayed small and soft, which I'm sure had lots to do with all the alcohol and coke he had consumed. I reassured him that having a friend interrupt me would turn me off instantly as well, but he was quite frustrated. He then decided to fuck me with his hands, which I enjoyed at first because he found my g-spot right away. I really wanted to enjoy the sensation of being fucked by a very handsome man, but I found myself having all sorts of body image issues. So here he is, this traditionally attractive 30-year old dude with a perfect body and me, the fleshy girl with rolls and cellulite. Even though I knew he found me attractive, I couldn't help but feel really uncomfortable in my own skin.

Mike continued to fuck me with his hand until he remembered that he owned a toy. He brought out a short and fat g-spot vibrator. Before he fucked me with it, though, he did another line of coke and poured a tiny bit on my nipple, which he then licked off. Strange, huh? I think he was trying to be glamorous and decadent, but as my friend said, "I think he maybe just read too many Harold Robbins novels." I told Mike to turn the vibrator on high and fuck me hard. That he did. So much that the lube began to wear off and I began to get sore. So since we had used nearly all of my lube trying to get him hard, I faked a convincing orgasm even though he had begged me earlier not to fake it. I was sure that I wasn't going to be able to get him hard, so I thought it'd be some consolation that I had "come."

My predictions were right. We tried for another several minutes, but Mike's cock was as limp as ever. I think he just got too frustrated and stressed about his friend being there and about the pressure to perform, you know? I felt bad that he had just paid me several hundred dollars and hadn't gotten an orgasm, but there wasn't much I could do. Plus, although I didn't have a clock handy, I knew it had been over an hour since we had started. To my chagrin, when I got to my car, it was past 5:00 a.m.! I had been there for over two hours and had only gotten paid for one. But I knew that after not having an orgasm, Mike wasn't going to pay me double. So I drove home without protest (see what I mean about making exceptions for cuteness?).

Now, several days later, I find myself in an odd predicament. Throughout the session, Mike kept on telling me that he wanted to do this again, to which I agreed. I sent him a thank you email on Sunday, as I do for all my clients after our first session, but I haven't received a reply. Despite his bad behavior and the fact that he's kind of a cocky jerk, I think I've developed a sort of crush on Mike. It doesn't mean that I'd see him for free, but I think my feelings might get a little hurt if I never hear from him again.

Now, I'm left wondering how often this happens to other sex workers, or if this even happens at all. It just feels weird that I, a freaky fat queer sex worker, has a crush on a straight white frat-boy type. My only current thought is that the Universe really does have quite a sense of humor.

Happy New Year's Eve, lovelies!

2005-12-31T18:45:00.000-05:00

Well hello there my dear, sweet, neglected readers!

As you may have noticed, I have yet again been absent from this space. And as you may have guessed, that time absent has not been filled with sundry tales of naughty encounters.

Since I last left you, I've lost the girlfriend as quickly as she was obtained, moped and cried over that for some time, spent the holiday with my family and some friends, and just generally frittered away the holiday vacation time given to me by my day job. I have, however, been engaging in the exiting-to-me, yet much less blog-worthy activities such as reading books and playing computer Scrabble (my rating's up to 1300, I believe!).

For this new year's eve, instead of the grand scheme that the ex-girlfriend had planned for us while we were dating (Atlantic City and limo rides), I'll be joining a few friends for a low-key evening of board games and pizza. Not the most scandalous way to ring in a new year, I agree, but I think I'm coming to learn that happiness and fulfillment don't always come coated in glitter and confetti, you know?

The return

2005-12-02T11:41:00.000-05:00

And so commences Lusty's slow ooze back into the sex industry.

At last glance, our unlikely heroine was taking a much-needed break from the world of men and their seemingly insatiable lust for illegal pussy. Since then, I have gained both a girlfriend and more debt, two things that, as a wannabe sugar mama, seem to go hand in hand.

I hopped onto craigslist on Wednesday evening, only to find a message board flooded with ads from girls soliciting clients and virtually no ads from clients soliciting girls. When I last left it, the board was addled with controversy over girls and clients and pricing and manners and all sorts of nastiness was being flung from all sides. If I were to hazard a guess, I'd surmise that many clients left the board for other, calmer venues. Either that or some sort of law enforcement hopped online and busted some folks.

Anyway, I sifted through the shit tons of girl ads to find one or two solicitations by clients not looking for anything that I could possibly provide (someone thin, someone who has anal sex, MILF-types, etc.). Finally, I found a few ads that seemed applicable and emailed 5 or 6 men. Almost immediately, I received an email back from Chad, who was looking for an hour long massage. Simple enough, I thought to myself, and sent him my rates and time availability. Unfortunately, Chad lives over an hour away from me, so I prepared myself for a late night.

I arrived at Chad's place around 11:15 p.m., dressed in loose gray slacks, a tight black long-sleeved shirt, my pointy-toed black pumps, pink scarf and matching pink tweed coat. I realized that I looked very urban professional, but I wasn't about to wear a short skirt in 30-something degree weather. Chad greeted me at the door with a hug and ushered me in. He took my coat and complimented my scent (Ananya from The Body Shop). I called my safe person to check in and we ventured upstairs.

I asked Chad to undress and lay face down on the bed with a towel under him. He had low lighting and candles burning, but no music. I began to rub him down with the lavender-scented massage gel that I own (also from The Body Shop). I genuinely enjoy giving massages and I think that it shows. Every client who I massage compliments my strong hands and asks if I've had professional training. No, I tell them, but I like to touch people the way I liked to be touched.

Chad and I made decent small talk throughout the hour, discussing college and jobs and the alarmingly rapid growth of the area in which we live. He was a pleasant conversationalist, always a refreshing thing when one is trying to pass the time. My own back and neck began to hurt after 30 minutes or so, as massaging someone on their soft bed (as opposed to an actual massage table) can easily leave one with body pain of their own.

So, towards the end of the hour, I had worked over Chad's back, neck, thighs and feet. I began to touch the crotch of his white briefs gently to assess whether or not he was expecting a happy ending (something he had not specifically requested). But Chad did not recoil and I continued, noticing the quickly stiffening flesh beneath the white cotton. I smiled at him and asked him to remove his briefs. He did and I grasped his thick short cock in my right hand, slowly massaging his full balls with my left. He leaned back on the bedpost and sighed softly. I asked him if there was anything in particular that he wanted me to do and he asked me to surprise him. So I continued with the stroking and the fondling, pausing for a minute to squirt some lubrication on him. I told him that he had a nice cock (because he did) and he seemed to like that. After a few more minutes of firm, slow stroking and ball-caressing, Chad came, almost softly, on my hand and his abdomen. I smiled at him and he touched my hand to stop the ministrations.

I left the bed and washed my hands in the bathroom, returning to the bed with a towel so that he could clean himself up. Since we still had several minutes on the clock, I offered to continue massaging Chad and he accepted. I worked on his neck and shoulders for a few minutes before I became tired and eager to leave. I asked him if it was ok that I stopped and he acquiesced. He gave me quick directions back to the highway and thanked me for my time. I thanked him too, for being such a gentleman and an easy to please client. We hugged goodbye and I left.

On the way home, I checked in with my safe person and my girlfriend. She asked me how it had felt to get back into sex work after dreading the return for several weeks. And I told her, honestly, that as far as clients go, he really was the best I could ask for. Now that the holiday season is upon us and that I have many gifts to buy, you may expect more frequent updates here.

The kindness of strangers

2005-11-18T18:31:00.000-05:00

When I came home today, there was a small package waiting for me on the stoop. It was light, I shook it. Then, I eagerly tore into it like a little girl-princess on her birthday. I opened it to find...a frothing pitcher.

At first, I was very confused. I don't own an espresso maker! I thought, "why would Jesse only buy me a frothing pitcher?" (background: Jesse, one of the most fabulous people ever decided to surprise me with something because it was HER birthday!) Then, I realized that the espresso maker just might not have made it to my house yet. I squealed, ran upstairs and immediately logged into my Amazon wishlist. And sure enough, there under "Bought Items" was the espresso maker I had been drooling over for months! ALSO, my wishlist informed me that she had bought me a David Sedaris book I had been eyeing as well!

My readership may be small, but goddamn do I love all of you.

Thank you, Jesse. You are beyond kind.

Lusty Lust

2005-11-17T19:00:00.000-05:00

Oh, how I adore vintage lingerie. A friend of mine was recently kind (and evil) enough to share this website with me, a vintage-inspired lingerie boutique that carries both regular AND plus sizes. Now that's something I can get behind! Of course, my wish list is long. Wanna see a sample?

Ostrich Feather Kimono (in Pink, a color they don't show on the website)

Crinoline/Contrast Trim Petticoat

Dita von Teese Glamour French Heel

Pink/Black Nanette Open Bottom Girdle

Sleeping with the frenemy

2005-11-17T15:44:00.000-05:00

Overnight dates really are a whole different experience.

There's the time thing, of course. Spending 8+ hours curled into the arms of a near-stranger can be odd-making for everyone involved. Though sex work has taught me a lot about how much people crave intimacy, so much that they will pay for it, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof, I am still at a loss as for how one can forget that the woman you are paying to be there only likes you for that very reason.

But then again, maybe they don't know that. On more than one occasion (maybe even most), clients who want a "GFE" want to know if I would date them for free. They're convinced that they are the men for me and that we could really get along and so maybe we could go on a "real" date or could I at least give them a discount? Those are the times when I want to shit-talk about my clients. I get insulted and angry that they would even dare to think that I am in this just for fun or because I'm looking for a boyfriend or even if I was, that I am looking for them specifically. It's presumptuous and arrogant and disrespectful, three of my least favorite attitudes to experience. But then I remember that it's not about me. They want to be close with someone. Most of all, they want me to be "real" with them, to have real romantic feelings about them and to not fake the kisses, the caresses, the compliments, the orgasms, the post-sex cuddling.

Having been single for most of my adult life, I can understand the longing. Sometimes when it's cold at night and I am stretched out in my double bed, alone again, I wish for the warm body of a loved one next to me, someone to snuggle me to sleep, kiss my hair and tell me that I am a princess. Sometimes on those nights, I want to give my lonely clients a long, comforting hug and tell them that I understand. Completely.

An administrative note:

2005-11-07T18:07:00.000-05:00

I'll be deleting all the annoying spam that plagues my journal from now on. So, no need to surmise that I'm trashing hate mail from my readers.

Lusty grabs another from the mailbox

2005-11-07T17:54:00.000-05:00

From: Apadravia
To: Lusty

How do you become a part time sex worker?

Great question, Apadravia! It's quite easy, as a matter of fact. Here's a an easy step-by-step guide to help you along on this journey:

1. Start off by deciding in college that you'd like to become a humanities major, preferably earning your B.A. in something incredibly non-marketable like English, Philosophy, or Women's Studies. Even something like Communications or Art History will do.
2. Post-graduation, search frantically for a job, any job, that pays over $10 an hour and that has health insurance.
3. Once you realize that this is impossible in the post-9/11 economy, settle for a retail job that pays you nearly the same hourly wage you were making before you spent tens of thousands of dollars on a college education.
4. Get depressed about #3, gain weight, watch lots of cable.
5. Over the course of a few months, deplete your savings, rack up credit card debt, repeat #3.
6. Ruefully move back in with parents, take another crappy job with a terror of a boss, continue to repeat #3.
7. After a year of enduring this special kind of hell, get fed up with living at home and current crappy jobs, look for jobs in another city, find one, and move out.
8. Take new job that pays a lot better and has health insurance, but realize that you still can't pay your damn bills.
9. Rack your brains for get-rich quick schemes. Play lotto several times before realizing that this is not an acceptable nor realistic way to pay off credit card debt.
10. Browse Craigslist one day, find the "Erotic Services" section, realize that you can make staggering amounts of cash in relatively short amounts of time for spreading your legs.
11. Answer emails of men looking for sex, screen clients, meet them, do the deed, and collect your cash. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Hope that helps!*

*But if you're actually serious about this, there are countless other web and print resources out there for would-be sex workers, Apadravia.

Enough

2005-10-24T21:49:00.000-04:00

Originally, I had meant for this blog to be a space where I detailed the sordids of my sex work life. And thusfar, that is what it has primarily been.

However, due to the dearth of sex work jobs in my life right now (by choice), there has consequently been a dearth of, well, anything on this space. And I think it'd be really sad to abandon this blog altogether save for the occasional update when I see a client for cash, so I'm thinking about expanding. Or, at least, I had a post marinating in my head that seemed not quite right for the Other Blog, and what better place to deposit my thoughts than into the pseudo-anonymous void of cyberspace? So here we go, straight from my brain to your eyes.

I left work late tonight, it was mostly my choice. The rain was coming down hard when I stepped out of the door and a chill had begun to grasp at the air in a way that it hadn't this morning. No more short sleeves to work, I noted. When I turned on the car, the radio was playing a beautiful selection, jazz, interrupted only a few times to encourage its members to pledge money. I wish I had the cash, but anything extra these days would only come from sex work. And giving hooking money to public radio seems...wrong, somehow.

The streets were slick and dark, like tar, and my windshield wipers were the off-beat metronome to the soft piano warming my car. The music was so beautiful, and it reminded me of my father, the man who loves me as much as he can, but even in his late 50's, isn't an adult, not yet. I think I sighed, maybe out loud, trying to figure out where dinner would come from. I realized that I was happy. I realized that I was going home tonight, to dinner from a drive-thru window and my soft grey pajamas and my tiny room, and no warm body to snuggle or to kiss goodnight, I would be happy about it.

Ever since I have self-consciously vowed against monogamy, I've known that no single person could ever be enough. I want every single relationship in my life, even those of the smallest intimacies, because they nourish me, invigorate me. But I remember thinking, my foot slowing on the accelerator, I am enough. Yes, that cheesy self-help mantra that never really means anything to anyone until it needs to. And god knows that I long for romance and connection and passion in my life just as much as the next person. But I still think, even if I never found that, even if I never found a person or persons to share my life with, I could be enough. So maybe it isn't my time to really know that I am enough to make myself so incredibly happy and fulfilled, it was in those moments, there in the car in the rain on the street on the drive that I make every Monday through Friday evening, I knew that someday I will be enough for myself. More than enough.

clears throat

2005-10-11T16:37:00.000-04:00

I'd like to take a break from my regularly scheduled non-posting to say this:

For those of you not already playing along with the Lusty game, you should know that I am as queer as a tap-dancing $3 bill.

Happy National Coming Out Day!

A quick update

2005-10-06T18:42:00.000-04:00

Again, my sincerest apologies for the absence.

Two reasons:

1. Until I am broke again, I will be taking a break from sex work. However, since I will be going out of town this weekend, I assume that the hooking will start up again soon. Exciting news, however! The break itself is in part due to an exciting new addition to my non-profit dating life. In fact, my non-sex work love life is surprisingly bustling at the moment. And as such, sex for money doesn't ever seem as appealing when you're moon-eyed over a new person.

2. Slowly, but surely, I am working on a contribution to a sex work anthology about my thoughts on and experiences in the sex industry. I have to say that I have a lot of hesitation going public, even though this is a relatively quiet corner of the internet and the liklihood of people connecting my real life persona with this one is fairly slim, but the potential for damage as outing myself as a sex worker could jeopardize both my job and my good relationship with my family.

In the meantime, in the style of Manolo, I give you the short list of what Lusty is:

Reading

Listening to

Watching

Amusing herself at work with

Coveting

Time for a change

2005-09-27T22:53:00.000-04:00

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.

Until then, chickadees, sweet dreams!

There are easy things, like sex...

2005-09-27T15:41:00.000-04:00

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.

In other, unrelated, much more uplifting news...

2005-09-26T16:45:00.000-04:00

...I discovered today that my blog now has a Livejournal Syndication!

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.

2005-09-26T14:21:00.000-04:00

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.

Lusty answers a real one from the mail bag

2005-09-21T13:35:00.000-04:00

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.

Easy Come, Easy Go

2005-09-19T16:22:00.000-04:00

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?

Pussy for Hardware, a new kind of deal

2005-09-16T15:58:00.000-04:00

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.

Another GFE*, Another Dollar

2005-09-14T16:17:00.000-04:00

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.

Finally, something to report!

2005-09-06T15:16:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-22T19:50:00.000-04:00

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!

A mini dry spell

2005-08-17T16:19:00.000-04:00

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.

Writing off some steam

2005-08-15T20:15:00.000-04:00

The DJ really pissed me off today.

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.

From the Virtual Mailbag

2005-08-10T22:05:00.000-04:00

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:

Reading...

Reading...

Listening to...

Lusting after...

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!

Lusty gets a case of The Nerves

2005-08-09T15:49:00.000-04:00

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 me nervous.

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.

*Surfing the interweb

That's how I knew this story would break my heart

2005-08-04T01:05:00.000-04:00

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.

Flakiness, standards, and blowjobs

2005-08-03T16:03:00.000-04:00

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.

Until then, darlings!

Surprise!

2005-07-31T01:59:00.000-04:00

Wow.

I just saw a client to whom I was very attracted.

I think I would have done that for free.

Big Black Dick

2005-07-27T16:45:00.000-04:00

How's that for a sensationalistic subject line? I promise it's related (central, even!) to today's tale.

So, how predictable is it that after receiving unexpected comments from other bloggers, I am inspired/encouraged to post more stories? I suppose I've always been an attention craver. And also an exhibitionist who gets a little thrill out of the knowledge that complete strangers know some intimate details of her life.

This past weekend, I had an appointment with a gentleman I'll call BigBlackDick (or BBD, for short). You'll see why in a second.

On Sunday,BBD posted an ad on craigslist requesting the company of a lady who would pee on him and also do some light humiliation. No problem, I thought, and wrote him a response. BBD wrote back quickly and asked if I could meet him in a hotel room about 45 minutes from my house wearing stilettos and no stockings. I like bare legs, he explained. Considering for a few seconds the nice chunk of change I'd be earning, I consented and primped for a few minutes before dashing out of the door. BBD called me on my way there to tell me the hotel room number and his voice was inflected with a deep, rich Southern accent. I asked him to buy me a big bottle of water and he asked me to call when I arrived at the hotel so that he could direct me to the room.

When I arrived at the hotel, I put my car in park, threw the flip flops I had been wearing into the passenger seat, and removed my favorite pair of beautiful black stilettos from a bag. Just as the left shoe slipped over my heel, his car came into sight. He gave me a little wave and I put my car in drive to follow him. We pulled around the back of the hotel and parked in adjoining spaces. BBD stepped out of the car and appeared to be in his late 50s or early 60s, a slight white man with graying hair, khaki shorts and a polo shirt. He looked like he'd rather be driving a Titleist.

I followed him and he opened the door to a slightly sleazy hotel room with two double beds. We said an official hello and I kissed him on the cheek. I found the stack of money already laid out on a table and stuck it in my bag of sex goodies. He immediately began taking off his clothes, so I smiled and followed suit. I should take an aside here and mention that I was slightly nervous about this meeting because I've never done any sort of humiliation play before. I've been the recipient of it, so I had at least an idea of what was supposed to be coming out of my mouth, but I wasn't completely sure of how to start off.

Luckily, BBD didn't expect trash talking right off the bat. He was laying on the bed, naked, and motioned for me to come over to him. I did, positioning myself next to him on the bed and he requested the left breast to suck on. I let him for a minute and then ordered him to scoot down on the bed so I could sit on his face. He did. For a few minutes, I rode his face, making moans I hoped weren't too ostentatiously fake and feeling lucky that I didn't yet have to call him a pussy faggot or anything like that. I did, however, interject and made him tell me just how good I tasted and just how much I loved having my pussy eaten.

After I tired of that, I suggested that I piss on him. Like my previous engagements, I had expected that we would go to the bathroom, but BBD had laid a thin white hotel room towel down on the ground and ordered me to squat over him there and aim for his mouth. I have to say that I was feeling bad for the cleaning staff that would have to clean up the mess, but I complied. I crouched over him and was able to relax my bladder almost immediately (hurrah!). As I had been downing lots of liquid, there was a lot of piss. He drank every single drop, only choking once on the quantity, and not even a bit of liquid reached the towel. I was impressed!

BBD asked if he could "clean me up" by going down on me again and I consented. After a few minutes of that, I told him that I was going to fuck his ass and prepare for it by using my hands first. I snapped on a latex glove, poured on some lube, and went to town. BBD had a disgustingly large skin tag (the size of a gumdrop) on his ass that I prayed was not a genital wart. I stuck one finger in and then two, asking BBD whether he preferred an in and out motion or a wiggling motion with my fingers staying inside. He indicated the former. BBD began to tell me about all of the anonymous cocks he had sucked and how much anonymous cum he had swallowed. He encouraged me to talk dirty to him, so I began to talk about just how much I wanted to take him to a back alley and watch him suck off a gaggle of huge anonymous cocks, how I would like to take him to a porn store booth and wait there, exposed and hard, until a random man found him and fed him a piece of his sausage, and how I would like to take him to the bathroom and force him to get fucked up the ass by strangers. After every lewd suggestion I made, BBD would mutter "mmmhmm" or "yep" as an affirmative in an incredibly matter-of-fact way, just like someone might respond absentmindedly if you asked them if they had had a good day that day.

After I made up several stories about all the cocks and cum I was going to make him swallow, BBD began to ask me if I knew any "built black men" with huge cocks that he could suck off. I said that I did and told him all about how I was going to bring my friends over and make him suck Big Black Dick (hence, his nickname) to his heart's content. We continued like this for several minutes and I began to feel nervous about my ability to come up with some new and grandiose fantasy that would appeal to him. Of course, in retrospect, I realize that people who want you to talk dirty to them don't necessarily need to hear something new to get off. What they want is slight variations on their most favorite and cherished fantasy, which in his case, was the idea of the Big Black Dick.

Several times during the ass-fucking/dirty talking, BBD requested that I spit in his mouth. I wasn't sure whether he wanted plain old fashioned spittle or a little loogie (sp?) mixed in, but the former was easier to conjure so that's what I gave him.

While I was trash talking, I had managed to get three fingers into BBD's ass and caressed his balls with my other hand. I decided that he was probably ready for my big (and coincidentally, black) rubber dick, so I went to the bathroom and put it on. Unfortunately, I hadn't worn my harness in awhile, so it was slightly small on my hips. The dick was also much too large to fit in the right way, so I had to turn it upside down, balls up. I came out of the bathroom feeling a bit ridiculous and BBD pointed out to me that my dick was upside down. I apologized and ordered him to suck my dick, which he did quite eagerly, stroking his own penis while his mouth enveloped mine. After a few minutes of that, I slipped on a condom and some lube and got between his legs. We tried for several minutes to get it in, but the cock was just too big. It seems that BBD's ass can't really handle a Big Black Dick after all.

BBD didn't care and asked me to begin jerking him off with my hand, which I did. After about 30 seconds of more Big Black Dick talk and penis stroking, BBD asked me to take the cum in my mouth and spit it back into his. Considering all of the anonymous cock I had heard about just minutes before, I politely declined. That's ok, he said, catch it in your hand and feed it to me, then, he asked. Not 15 seconds later, he erupted halfway in my hand and the rest on his hairy stomach. I moved my hand up to his mouth and he shook his head to refuse it. I guess the idea of his cum in his own mouth didn't seem that appealing post-orgasm after all.

I excused myself to the bathroom to clean up and washed my hands for several minutes under scalding hot tap water. I have no intention of accidentally contracting an unfortunate STD via dirty hands. I came out of the bathroom and BBD was still laying on the bed. He asked me if I had always been dominant and I lied and told him yes. (It seems that sex work is helping me to improve upon my piss-poor lying on the spot skills.) He asked me how long I had been doing this and I told him over 7 months, on and off. You should be careful, he warned, there are lots of perverts...I mean, crazies...out there.

Thanks, BBD. I'll try and heed that advice.

Lusty goes to Scot-land

2005-07-26T20:32:00.000-04:00

The nice thing about having an audience that, like h, is continuously approaching zero (I know my calculus, bitches) is that I don't feel so guilty about being neglectful posting regularly, unlike in my main journal where less than daily posting is highly abnormal.

I think I need to change the title of this journal to "the anonymous tales of a part-time sex worker" instead of occasional, since this has become a much more regular gig for me than it was even just a month ago. I've been spending nearly every free night trolling craigslist for lucrative jobs with more or less success. There are a lot of fucking flaky men out there, but about 1 out of every 10 ads answered yields a job. This means that I now have my own tiny arsenal of stories in the reservoir just waiting to be translated into blog-speak for your lascivious work shirking purposes.

As such, I present to you the story of Scot.

Of Scottish birth (hence the moniker), Scot now lives in the continental U.S. and works nights for the government. He placed an ad on craigslist seeking a sugar baby to dominate and despite my hesitations due to my previous sour experience with a so-called sugar daddy wannabe, I emailed him. He pleaded with me for a daytime appointment and I refused on the grounds that I work days and that I don't get paid time off (the first is true, the latter is not). However, he begged and pleaded some more, offering me more money as an incentive. And, just having received a large surprise bill in the mail for car taxes, I took the morning off and consented.

Scot was a very persistent and eager fellow, asking me very personal questions about what I had done before sexually and revealing to me some of the more...interesting parts of his own sexual past. Among those experiences were things like having been a participant in large orgies and a witness to "pony shows." I had no intention of dabbling into such adventurous and morally questionable territory, but I did concede to let him bring a third party to our encounter. He had pleaded for me to fuck him and his large-dicked friend, but I refused. He reluctantly conceded and promised to bring a really pretty girl with "model looks," one whose pussy he was incredibly eager for me to taste.

Two days later, I checked into the hotel just before noon and drove to the room to get ready. I put on the outfit he had requested: thigh highs, sexy underwear, push-up bra and stilettos. I laid my motley crew of dildos, lube, condoms and gloves out onto the nightstand and called him to let him know that I was ready. He said he'd be there in 5 minutes. (As an aside, I have to admit here that having talked to him briefly on the phone the day beforehand, I was slightly turned on. His accent was quite sexy and my body is also naturally turned on by the idea of subbing, regardless of for whom I am doing it.) He knocked on the door and I opened it to the bright mid-day sun, cracking it even wider to find a not un-handsome man in his early 40s, a shaved head, steely blue eyes and a day or two's worth of stubble. Scot closed the door and immediately ordered my to remove my breasts from my bra. I pulled each on out and he began to play with them roughly, alternately sucking and pinching. He ordered me onto the bed so that I could play with my biggest dildo.

Scot had told me beforehand that he wanted me to fuck myself with the dildo without taking my underwear off, pushing the crotch aside so I could move the large piece of rubber in and out. For awhile, he watched me ramming the dildo into myself, telling me that I was a good little slut and a great sugar baby. He told me not to touch him yet and leaned over for a "kiss" which consisted of him wiggling his slimy pointy cigarette-y tongue over mine. I don't know if the Scots say it like this over there, but that "kiss" was bloody gross. Finally, he bent over to jiggle my breasts (And when I say jiggle, I mean he did exactly that. Strange, huh?) and began to fuck me himself with the dildo. Every few seconds, he'd yank it out of my pussy and make me lick the juices off with my mouth. He attempted to put both my vibrator and dildo inside of me at the same time, but his impatient ass wasn't about to fit both of those in just like that, even with the spit he kept showering on my pussy (what is it with straight men who think that spit is a good substitute for lube?). After tiring of the dildo, he stuck a few fingers in me with gusto and fucked me like that for a few minutes. He asked me if I had ever been fisted and I nodded yes. Scot yanked on a glove and stuck his hand into me roughly. It hurt slightly, but I have had bigger hands inside me before, so it wasn't unbearable.

(Another aside: what I've described above might sound awful to you, and in hindsight, I can totally see that, but I was also slightly turned on by just how dominant and rough he was. I'm a kinky little thing, mind you.)

Throughout these interactions, Scot would periodically call up the other girl and ask her where she was. He was very very impatient and I told him so. During the final call, he bragged to her that he had a whole fist in me and urged her to hurry up. Finally, Girlie #2 showed up and my oh my she was not my type. She was tall, very thin with smallish breasts, a brunette and only mildly cute. I like brunettes, but much prefer chubby girls and immediately felt uncomfortable with her presence, especially when she gave a look that combined in belief and disgust when she saw that his whole fist was inside of me.

Immediately, Scot withdrew his hand and ordered me to eat her pussy. I moved down on the bed and she unzipped his jeans and began to suck him to hardness. Scot made me tell him over and over how much I loved eating her out and I had to lie. I don't mind going down on a girl, but I didn't feel so eager about her particular vagina. He then ordered me to suck his dick and then move back down to her pussy. We continued in this vein for a few minutes until he told me to lie on the bed while she jerked him off on my face. I was quite surprised as I hadn't expected as such, but I closed my mouth and eyes just before his hot sticky cum dribbled over my mouth and down the side of my face.

Scot handed me a towel and we all got dressed. He handed us both cash, confirming my suspicions that Girlie was also a sex worker and they both left. I cleaned myself up and tidied the room, pleased to have a large chunk of cash in my wallet to deposit into the bank immediately before my shopaholic ass could spend it.

I returned to work, running into my boss in the hallway just as she was just about to leave the office for the day. She caught me off-guard and I probably jerked my head up and opened my eyes wide just before I bid her both hello and goodbye. In the moment, before my brain was able to take over my thoughts, I was utterly convinced that she knew exactly how I had spent my time off.

A quick (belated) update

2005-07-24T00:18:00.000-04:00

I've been severely negligent in updating this blog. I apologize, cupcakes! It's not for the lack of topics to update about, I promise. It's because I've been busy busy and haven't had the desired time to write.

Business has been booming, relatively speaking, for the last two weeks. I've spent countless hours online trying to recruit new clients and had 3 appointments with 2 different clients, which, for me, is very busy. The money has been great, too, though it goes fast.

DJ has been nowhere to be found this last week, which is sad, since I really wanted to see him again. He's a really nice guy and very into me, so we both have a good time when I come over. I'm assuming that he's just away saving his pennies and trying not to assume worse of him.

My newest client, Scot (named as such because he's Scottish), is a kinky mf-er. For a straight man, anyway. I want to do a whole separate entry about him and the very...interesting experience I had with him last week, but I will tell you now that it was my first time subbing professionally. I'll probably do it again, but not without lingering reservation.

Anyway, I think the porn I'm downloading is ready, so I'm off to give myself a treat before bed. Buenos noches!

More thoughts on boundary setting

2005-07-20T12:40:00.000-04:00

As I negotiate my way further and further into the world of sex for gain, I am the recipient of constant lessons on boundary setting. I think that those of us who were raised as women are continuously bombarded with mixed messages about boundary setting, which often leads to poor skills with the practice as an adult. Can you blame us?

I am no exception. On many an occasion, I have made a definitive statement either to myself or to a larger audience, only to back down later when, for some reason, I began to doubt myself. Sometimes this is a positive thing. Getting your boundaries pushed in good ways can be challenging and rewarding experiences that I think we should all try. Bad boundary pushing, however, is a big no no.

I've found that in this line of work, clients are always trying to push my boundaries. Always. Either they want to see me for cheaper, they want more for less, they want to do something I feel sketchy about, and the list goes on. Whenever I accept a job, I have to be extremely clear with the both of us about what my own personal rules and stipulations will be. An outsider might look at what I've just wrote and tell me to dump all those asshole clients who participate in such behaviors and to only take on ones that respect my every wishes, but I am going to make a controversial statement and say that I don't think all of these guys are inherently bad. After all, don't we all want the most for our money? Who can blame a guy for trying to live out his sexual fantasies for as little as possible?

So this has been a lesson in firm, but gentle boundary setting. It's kind of like the way you might talk to an unruly child. Make sure you know that they are not bad people, but that what they've done is wrong and firmly tell them to not do it again. I did it just a few minutes ago, in fact. A client I'm seeing tomorrow really wants to have a threesome with another guy. I told him I'd do it, but not during our first meeting. I feel very set in this decision. He kept on trying to push me and finally I stopped playing Miss Coy and told him in no uncertain terms that no, it would not happen tomorrow and thank you for respecting my boundaries. He wrote back, apologetic, and told me that he would not bring his friend after all. No hurt feelings and no misunderstanding about where I stood.

So, in a way, dealing with pushy dudes has been really great for me. I have begun to feel more self-assured in my non-sex work life and more confident that I do, in fact, have the right to live my life on my own damn terms.

Oops

2005-07-18T14:19:00.000-04:00

His wife caught him.

Trying not to let the dollar signs in my eyes blind me

2005-07-14T13:22:00.000-04:00

More developments on potential Sugar Daddy #2, J.

We talked on email all evening and as I sent him more and more pictures of me (snapshots, professional shots, sexy, tame -- a fetish of sorts for him, I believe), he asked very tentatively if I would be open to the possibility of a sexual relationship. I'll make it worth your while, he wrote. For the custom shot I plan to do tonight with a friend, J has promised a undisclosed amount of money to be handed to me in a plain envelope on our lunch date this Monday.

This morning we talked over IM and he jerked himself off while I sent him a flood of pictures from my archive and told him what I do with other women. It turns out that he's a closet bisexual and loves the idea of me being with butch women. Interesting!

The problem is that because J is married, he can't host any of the proposed trysts. I am very wary about hosting at my place for many obvious and other not-so-obvious reasons, but we'll try to figure it out. He told me that he didn't want to meet at a hotel because he thinks it's creepy, but then he proposed that we go to a glory hole. Um, what?!? How does one find a hotel with (relatively) clean sheets, towels and a sink creepy but not an effin' glory hole where I'd be kneeling in some dude's sperm? We'll see.

Like I was with John, I am trying to be very wary of J and his intentions. I will say, however, that he is a LOT less creepy and demanding than John ever was. He seems genuinely interested in me and more than willing to pay me, regardless of what we do or do not do.

I'll be going away this weekend, so I can't promise any posts, but I definitely intend to write about my lunch date with J on Monday. Wish me luck, darlings!

Seems too good to be true...

2005-07-13T21:13:00.000-04:00

Right now, as I type this, I am emailing back and forth with a man who -- get this -- is interested in giving me around $500 a month or more in exchange for virtually nothing! He isn't particularly interested in a sexual encounter and only wants to meet once a month. We have a lunch date on Monday.

The text of the ad he placed:

Progressive Political Woman: Let me Subsidize You - m4w - 44

Hi, I'm a relatively well-heeled executive who makes money doing PR and advocacy work for the "bad" guys. I'd like to give some of that money to a bright, engaging progressive woman to help her fight the good fight. This is serious. Email me if you are interested in exploring it. I am open to how to do this, but I want to do it! Thank you, J

A-fucking-mazing. My first assignment is to take a picture of myself topless, but wearing jeans and glasses, hair down and barefoot. For this, he will pay me handsomely.

I promise to keep you all updated.

And sometimes the work is rewarding

2005-07-12T13:29:00.000-04:00

Let’s all shout a collective Hurrah! for one of my most positive sex work experiences to date.

Urged on by the very low two digit number showing on my bank account, I trolled for dates last night. I corresponded with a few gentlemen (including another piss-hound, imagine that) and at about quarter to 10:00, I saw an ad looking for a woman with big breasts. Since I fit that bill quite nicely, I responded and got an immediate reply. We wrote back and forth a few times and he called me to relay his address. Though I knew I’d be out several hours past my bedtime, the price we had negotiated was far too tantalizing to turn down.

I drove to his place, and was greeted at the door by a friendly looking man in his early 30s, bald, black, a little chubby with a huge grin (we’ll call him DJ). We hugged and I kissed him on the cheek. He told me that I was far more beautiful than my pictures. I may have blushed a little bit.

After I made the call to my safe person to let her know I was there, I sat on the bed while he finished up some things in the other room. He walked in, the deep red terrycloth robe he was wearing cinched tightly around his waist. DJ asked how long I could stay and reminded him that we had talked about an hour long session. Fully expecting him to disrobe and get to the naughty business immediately, I was quite surprised when he flopped onto the bed, belly down, and said “So, Lusty, tell me about the beautiful woman that has just walked into my room.” I made some silly joke and told him a few carefully chosen things about me. Now, even just writing that line, I kind of cringe. It sounds ridiculously pat, doesn’t it? But I don’t know…something about his mannerism made me believe that he was truly interested in getting to know me. Or at least he was really good at faking it. Of course, I wasn’t about to spill my life story (or my real name), but I was more than willing to wile the time away with some chat.

And so we did, for about 20 minutes before he took up my offer for a massage. We talked a bit more as I massaged his chest and back, conspicuously avoiding his semi-hard cock for the moment. After a bit of that, DJ said that he wanted to spend the extra money so that he could kiss me (something not a part of my normal shtick, but something I offered to him in exchange for more money). We kissed and it wasn’t bad. Not just that he wasn't a bad kisser, but also that I wasn’t grossed out. Not turned on, mind you, but it didn’t feel so odd after all having a stranger’s mouth on mine.

DJ was very very into me. And he told me so many times. A few times, I tried to compliment what I could (you have a nice cock, you smell nice, you’re very kind, etc.) but mostly, I just thanked him. After a bit of teasing interspersed with some talk, DJ exclaimed, “I don’t even care about the sex anymore, Lusty! You’re just such a cool person who I want to talk to more!” It was very sweet. We fucked for maybe 4 minutes before he came while fucking me from behind. “We have to do this again.” I agreed.

After several more minutes of chatting, I got dressed and he walked me out, wearing his red robe once again. This morning, he emailed me a note of enthusiastic thanks and asked if we could meet again soon. Maybe even tonight, he proposed. I smiled. Absolutely.

I think I may have found my first regular.

It's in the details

2005-07-11T20:50:00.000-04:00

Anyone out there with the time and tech savvy up for making a Lusty banner? I like bright colors (especially pinks, reds, and aquas) and would prefer a PG or PG-13 image.

I can thank you by writing a blog entry on the topic of your choice!

Pissed

2005-07-11T14:25:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I wonder if being a friendly person, or at least being someone able to put up a relatively convincing front of interest, attracts a certain type of person to me.

I'm being gentle.

On Saturday, I spent a fruitless afternoon trying to solicit some work through the internet, only to get my hopes for a quick, well-paying job dashed by the countless fucking flakes trolling craigslist's erotic services. Everyone wants something for nothing, everyone wants to know how they can get the most for the least, and that's me included. And I, the worst haggler, the most awkward seller-upper probably in existence, have a hard time trying to be diplomatic about telling dudes that they better pony up lest I take my wares elsewhere.

I did at least score some potential jobs for this week. Of the three or four guys I chatted with that afternoon, all of them (I repeat, ALL of them) wanted me to pee on them. One of them, in addition to delighting in the occasional golden shower, also wanted to pee on me. A pissing switch, you might call him. Let's rent a hotel room and piss and fuck the afternoon away!, he proposed.

Not that I particularly mind earning money by unloading my bladder's contents. As far as actual work goes, once you get past the taboo of it, it's not that bad. Because really, who am to give a shit (har-dee-har) if some random dude enjoys drinking my pee? The lines that I don't want people to cross, however, have slowly been inching backwards. I declared in a recent post that I would not ever shit on someone. And I won't. That won't change. But one of my clients wants me to watch him jerk off. That's easy enough. The easiest of all jobs, in my very unprofessional opinion. But then (isn't there always a but?) he emailed to ask whether or not I minded if he shat in his pants while he masturbated. Sigh. I guess not. Will he pay me extra for having to endure the stench? Probably not, but such are the compromises one makes when one is dead broke.

Lusty reviews celebrity sex tapes

2005-07-10T02:45:00.000-04:00

As is the case with most of popular culture, I'm about two years late in finally viewing the Paris Hilton sex tape. I had heard all of the major details from Paris-obsessed friends of mine including the one about the infamous cell phone pick-up, which I haven't yet seen because I'm watching it as I type (oh how I love computers for enabling my love of multitasking). But I'm not impressed yet.

The things that do not surprise me thusfar are: her continual boredom with the whole affair (and nothing wilts my girl hard-on faster than one or more disinterested parties in a sex act), the way her naked body looks like an adolescent girls's, and the size of her companion's penis. I had heard many talk about how big it was, but c'mon people! It's just long, and we all know that though the vagina has a very finite depth, its capacity for width expansion is quite astounding. To borrow Michael Kors's famous phrase: "I am underwhelmed." One thing that has me clutching my pearls, however, is the conclusion I have come to that they are not using a condom. Maybe it's the poor lighting, but I nearly had a heart attack when I saw his bratwurst spearing her shaved hoo-hoo sans casing! Call me old-fashioned, but WHAT ARE THE KIDS DOING TO THEMSELVES NOWADAYS?!!?

I also got myself a bootlegged copy of the Pam and Tommy porn tape (natch), and that one was a little more entertaining, though shorter. In the throes of newlywedhood, there is obvious interest and attraction between the two of them. It's actually kind of cute that Pam is all shy about her husband taking pussy shots with the video camera, though sad if you think about it a little more. I mean, if one of this popular culture's most well-known sex icons is ashamed of her vagina, what does that say? I will say, however, that Pam gives a much better blowjob than Paris. Again, Paris seems bored and gets distracted easily (which really seems to be her life's M.O.) when she's going down on the guy she's with. Pam seems to get into the fucking bit more than does Paris, and Tommy's not as much of an ass as is Paris's boy toy. I mean, what the hell is up with that persistent Show me your pussy! business? Obnoxious, is what it is.

In general, I'm not a big celebrity fan (hence me taking 2+ years to get around to downloading the videos). In fact, I haven't been one since the sixth grade, when I literally covered my bedroom wall with posters of my teenybopper crush. But I feel clued in after having seen these and am having that slightly smug sensation I always get when I finally see some bit of zeitgeist and am able to sneer/jeer/cheer/queer like the rest of the country has been doing for a long ass time before me.

Isms and the Industry

2005-07-09T02:03:00.000-04:00

So I lied. While reading one of my favorite blogs, a little glowing light popped on in my head, and I decided to hop over here to share some of my thoughts with you. The internet is glutted with sex and sex worker blogs (did you know that the internet is 83% porn?), but I've been realizing that my perspective is unique and important for two important reasons: 1. I am not white, 2. I am not straight. Because these two parts of my identity are vital to how I interact with and experience the sex trade industry, I thought I'd delve a bit.

Race Matters
I am going to disclose something about myself to you, my trusted readers. I am biracial. There is a huge niche market for non-white people in the sex trade industry, but I can't always take advantage of that fact because my specific race isn't always obvious at first. In fact, I am often mistaken for white. To some, it's obvious that I'm not, but unless I ask someone directly, I can't usually read how a person is reading me. But even if I were to make myself more phenotypically non-white, I think I would feel ill playing on those stereotypes to gather new business. Even when I bill myself as "exotic," I begin to feel the bile rise. But, if you know anything about desire, you probably know that people's tastes are usually very specific. In fact, most of the sex industry markets itself and is dependent upon stereotypes that are not considered acceptable to repeat in polite society (anymore). It's so strange, because I am usually able to reconcile my feminism with my sex work, but I'd feel like some sort of "traitor" if I was forced to play up my race or racial ambiguity for johns.

Queering the Sex Trade
There are many brilliant queer sex workers who write. Michelle Tea, Annie Sprinkle and Scarlot Harlot are the names of a very few, but to my knowledge, none of them have public blogs (probably because they don't need to; they're published authors!). However, the large majority of e-famous sex worker blogs I've read feature heterosexual women. Sure, most of them dabble in girl-on-girl, but I pretty much only sleep with biological men for money (though I've known to make exception on occasion). A friend of mine recently asked me how this affects my sex work. Very much, is my answer. I'm not sure how straight sex workers do it, but being able to make that very distinct separation between my sex life at home and at work is vital for my emotional well-being. I never thought that high school would prepare me for anything useful, but it seems that sleeping with men to whom I have no emotional interest in or attachment to was great preparation for avoiding the large majority of emotional messiness that I imagine could plague some in this industry. I also feel extremely grateful, because there seems to be a rich and supportive network of queer-identified sex workers out there in the world. I usually see them every year at dyke marches and pride parades, holding their fierce signs high, receiving cheers and whistles from the crowd of progressive queers who support them.

You are sure to hear more from me regarding these subjects in the future, but I'm also inviting my readers to share their stories of how race, sexuality, class, gender variance, etc. have colored their involvement in the sex trade. We aren't all size 2 fake-titted bottle blondes out here, and I want to know what that means for you.

Location, location, location

2005-07-09T00:46:00.000-04:00

Mr. Pee wants to meet again. This much is obvious from all the crazed emails I read yesterday.

The problem is that he can't host anymore. For whatever reason, he must no longer be housesitting at the townhouse. I also am very unwilling to give him the address of my place. Just the thought of a guy who gets frantic with lust knowing where I sleep at night is enough to make me shudder. *Shudder*

A very smart friend of mine suggested I pee on him in the woods, but I have to sheepishly admit that don't know of any forests near me. As you might have gathered, I am no outdoorsy type. Nope. I'm a bonafide priss (albeit a down-to-earth one) who prefers her air bug-free and her temperatures modulated. So, while this idea is still under consideration, I am also wary of it because it means going into some sort of deserted wooded area with a relative stranger. Once again, *shudder*. At this time, I'm open to any and all suggestions from you, my darling readers. Besides a hotel room that one of us has to pay for, where would be a good, mostly or completely private place for us to meet?

Another prospect has thrown itself my way, but it also requires some maneuvering. A new guy, we'll call him Mr. Cum, wants me to watch him jerk off and then have me watch him eat his sperm. The pay isn't panty-wetting, but Mr. Cum claims that he is very quick. The catch is that he can only meet during weekdays, which is when I work. However, considering how cash-strapped I am and considering the fact that I need a little extra money for a trip I'm taking next weekend, I might just have to take a long lunch hour at work and rush over to meet him.

One final note before I leave you to engulf myself in the blog worlds of others, I have to say that I was quite disappointed when I finally got around to reading Washingtonienne's blog. Too short and not enough dirty details, in my opinion. Also, though I've listed "thinly-veiled autobiographies" in my blogspot interests section, hers does not appear to be up my alley, which I'm admitting can be a bit of a lit snob at times. Hey, at least it gives me hope about one day being a published author of my own.

Pee Pee Platter, Part III

2005-07-08T15:11:00.000-04:00

Mr. Pee has this fairly irritating habit of emailing me several times in the course of an evening, always frantic, always begging me to do ridiculous things to/with him. Ok, perhaps I shouldn't judge. I'm sure there are many people out there just aching to point their fingers at me, calling what I do in bed ridiculous, so I should refrain.

Anyway, an example from an email Mr. Pee sent me last night after I didn't respond right away to his request to meet:

Date: Thu, 7 Jul 2005 16:47:32
From: [Mr. Pee]
Subject: Re: are u there
To: [Lusty]

i guess tongiht is bad....but im up for ANYTHING im soooo serious...if you have friends, clients that want to watch...np..if you want to shit on me...np I want you to use me like the piss, shit whore that I am..them tell me to pay for it..even behind a building..in a bathroom..where ever..i dont care..i just want to be your piss and shit slave

Date: Thu, 7 Jul 2005 16:51:21
From: [Mr. Pee]
Subject: Re: are u there
To: [Lusty]

ill be on tonight...ill email you a yes or no if you have something set up...im soo ready for you again...you say it, ill do it so dont worry about that..im up for anything..anyplace whatever..as long as you shit and piss on me...

Several of my immediate observations:

1. I warned you before about his grammar and spelling. 2. Notice how the emails are only three (3) minutes apart. 3. I should tell you that there were five more emails from him, three in between the two I posted above and two more afterwards with single question marks as the sole content. 4. Woah there! Woah, Mr. Pee! Your name is Mr. PEE for a reason, not Mr. PissNShit! I haven't broken the news to him yet that there will be no shitting during our dates, which I'm sure will sadden him greatly. I will do a number of things to fatten my wallet, but unloading the contents of my breakfast will never be one of them.*

Anyway, so I promised you, my readers, that I would tell you about my second and thusfar last meeting with Mr. Pee (though judging from the urgency of last night's email, I'd wager a guess that it won't be our final meeting).

I arrived at the same townhouse directly after work, and instead of leading me to the small bathroom in the living room, Mr. Pee led me up several flights of stairs to a giant master bathroom with a jacuzzi tub. I bet this'd be fun to take a leisurely bath in, I remember thinking before he stripped naked and climbed in. And again, I took my clothes off while he looked at me intently, his surprisingly large cock already erect (surprising because I suppose I usually expect awkward men to have small penises, not from experience, mind you, but from some strange stereotype I've apparently created in my head). I stepped into the tub and squatted in a reverse cowgirl position so that he could get to my pussy. It took some agile maneuvering, but I was finally able to place myself so that I wasn't stepping on him but so that I still had a modicum of comfort in the position I had contorted myself into.

Again, Mr. Pee lapped away eagerly and almost immediately, I began to relax my bladder so that I could piss all over his face. Suddenly, I felt Mr. Pee's tongue dart to my asshole (my first clue!) and I jerked away. I don't like that! I said. He apologized several times and I told him not to worry about it. Sitting here right now, I'm wondering why I let Mr. Licky do that but not Mr. Pee. Perhaps I sensed subconsciously that letting him lick my asshole would lead to him wanting the more nefarious things he begged for in the emails above. But really, I have no idea. I just know that in the moment, I really didn't want him to do that. Anyway, for several minutes, I strained myself, attempting to relax to muscles, but to no end; nothing was coming out, no matter how hard I tried. So, after a respectable time had lapsed (I didn't feel right about trying to piss right away, since he expressedly wanted to go down on me before the peeing), I reversed my position and squatted like I might if I were going behind the bushes. The pee began to flow and I watched Mr. Pee stroke his dick furiously. I've always been fascinated with how people look when they touch themselves, and I had a prime vantage point with which to view him. Suddenly, I remembered that I was curious about whether or not he swallowed my pee. I looked down. To my surprise, Mr. Pee was swallowing as much of my piss as he could stomach, spitting the rest out like he was a professional wine taster.

He didn't come right away like last time, but stroked his dick for about 20 seconds before squirting on his stomach. We both left the bathtub, him dressing quickly and me wiping myself off before putting my clothes on. As I dressed, he dropped the folded money onto the bathroom counter and I noticed a wedding picture of the people who I'm guessing normally occupy the house. There they were, smiling in their dress and tux, oblivious in the photo to the fact that years later, their family friend/brother/housesitter would be hiring me, a part-time hooker, to let her bladder loose in their roomy jacuzzi tub.

*And I promise that I'm not judging any of you who may do that sort of thing for business or pleasure, though I do have one question: how do you not get cholera?

Pee Pee Platter, Part II

2005-07-07T10:50:00.000-04:00

I do most of my john-hunting through craigslist. I look for ads of men seeking women who I think might be interested in someone like me and send them a sort of form letter, altering keywords based on what they ask for, hoping that they will respond and that, eventually, we will set something up. I have hesitated putting an ad up of my own on craigslist for a couple of reasons. 1. I am lazy, and would hate to sift through the many many responses I might get. 2. I am paranoid, and don't want the cops to collect my picture (yes, they actually do this) or email me in hopes of entrapping and eventually arresting me. I probably get less business this way, but at least I have the illusion of security, and don't have to make checking my sex work email a full-time job, ya know?

Anyway, I met Mr. Pee through craigslist. He (you guessed it) wanted a woman to pee on him. No sex, just a long hot golden shower. Easy, right? Though Mr. Pee had very limited skills in the grammar and spelling department, I was able to work out a time and meeting place fairly quickly after I had answered his ad.

After work, I drove over to his place and found the four story townhouse where he was staying. He mentioned quickly that he was house sitting for someone else, which seemed like poor etiquette to me. I think I'd be pretty angry if I found out that my house sitter was paying someone to piss all over them in my expensive digs. Anyway, Mr. Pee was nice enough, if a bit awkward (and thank god for the awkward men, as they are the bread and butter of the sex industry!). He was probably in his early 40s, tall and thin and pasty with greying brown hair and scant facial hair, like an eager adolescent boy might have. He was wearing dark grey sweat pants and a grey t-shirt, which he quickly removed. I also removed my clothes and he made a nice comment about my body.

The main room was adjacent to a small bathroom, where he had laid out a towel on the floor. He laid on the towel and asked me to squat over him. In our email correspondence, he had requested that he go down on me for a few minutes before I was to pee on him, unannounced. So, that he did, licking eagerly at my nether parts while I tried to relax my bladder muscles. Since I had been drinking a lot of liquids and diuretics that day in preparation, I had to pee very badly and assumed that it would be easy. However, in that unfamiliar position and with his tongue baring down on my clit, I wasn't able to pee. Have you ever been under a lot of pressure to relax a muscle? No? Well, let me tell you how difficult that is. My instinct was to try and push out, but when that muscle is clenched, the pee ain't going nowhere, Mister. I apologized to Mr. Pee, who was still below me, going at it eagerly, and he said quite graciously, "You can come if you want." I snorted and stated that that probably wouldn't happen. He asked why and after a pause, I answered him. "For a lot of reasons."

For at least ten minutes more, I tried desperately to unclench my muscles and pee, but the most I got out was a small squirt. Finally, I crouched higher, squatting between the toilet and the wall so that I was in a semi-familiar peeing stance. I had figured out that my bladder was very well-trained to only pee when I was in a certain position, and that it wasn't about to change that just because I wanted it to.

Finally, the pee began to flow, spilling all over his face, neck and chest. I wanted desperately to see whether or not he was drinking it, but I also didn't want to do anything that would disturb my urine stream. He exclaimed many times, encouraging me to give him more, if I could. He began to stroke his hard (and quite large) dick, squirting a small amount of come on his stomach as the last few drops of piss fell from my urethra.

After I finished, he pulled on his t-shirt without cleaning off his face and offered me a fresh towel. I wiped myself off as best I could and quickly got dressed. Being an awkward sort of man, Mr. Pee didn't attempt to make small talk after we were done. I thanked him, gave him a quick hug (trying to avoid getting wet with any residue that might have been left on him) and drove off, still elated that I had an extra wad of cash to use as I wished.

I've seen Mr. Pee once more (story forthcoming), and since then, I haven't been able to use the bathroom without feeling that, both literally and figuratively, I'm flushing liquid gold down the toilet.

Pee Pee Platter, Part I

2005-07-06T16:18:00.000-04:00

Back in the days before my own personal sexual kinkification, I used to make lots of jokes with my high school friends about "bizarre" and, at the time, seemingly hilarious sex acts like salad tossing and golden showers. To us, these were the craziest of crazy things that we thought people might do, and as such, we turned our discomfort into humor. Of course, as karma dictates, since I had made fun of them, I was bound to brush up against (so to speak) these pastimes in my own life.

Entreé Mr. Licky. He was my first real-time client after the long hiatus from sex work post bath-time with Mort. I met him on (where else?) craigslist, answering his ad claiming that he wanted to pay a woman to lick her pussy. I had been browsing the sexual services section for awhile, and this one seemed easy enough as a gentle entry into the industry. I quickly answered his ad and we began to make arrangements to meet at a hotel room nearby both of us. Mr. Licky had plans the afternoon that we were to meet up, so we negotiated the price for a half hour of kitty chowing and I got ready for our meeting. I had also directed Mr. Licky to the website that I pose for so that he could see more pictures of me before our meeting.

I got dressed, unsure of what to wear, being that the meeting was in the late morning at a hotel room. I settled on some sexy black lingerie with a suggestive, but professional outfit overtop. I parked in the hotel parking lot and called my safe person to let her know that I had arrived. As I passed by the cleaning staff on the way to his room from the lot, they gave me the "I know exactly why you're here" look. I ignored them and began up the stairs.

When he answered the door, we greeted each other with a hug and a cheek kiss. Mr. Licky was an average heighted, white man probably in his early 30s with glasses and sandy blonde hair. He had a slight pudge and was thoroughly average-looking. He mentioned that he had gone to the website and exclaimed that I seemed "too cool" for him. Funny, I thought, because he was the one paying me. But I thanked him anyway and walked into the room. He admitted that it was his first time patronizing a lady-for-pay, but I didn't acknowledge that it was my first time too. I didn't want him to prey on my naïveté.

I asked Mr. Licky if he preferred that I undress myself or if he preferred to undress me and he indicated the former. I removed my clothes, attempting to be sexy, but probably failing, and he complimented me on my choice of lingerie. I removed that too and he ordered me to bend over the bed. Now, before I begin to explain what happened next, I should tell you that as I mentioned earlier, Mr. Licky had requested a girl to go down on in his ad. During the course of our email exchanges, he had mentioned that his girlfriend found oral sex "weird" and didn't like to do it. I understand that some women might be uncomfortable with or embarrassed by their partners going down on them (due to lots of cultural myths about women being "smelly" or bad tasting "down there," etc.), but I couldn't fathom of anyone besides a Mormon or a virgin or a Mormon virgin thinking that it was something that out of the ordinary.

Anyway, so here we are, me bent naked over the bed, and Mr. Licky crouched behind me, getting ready to go for the gold. But, instead of placing his tongue on or in or anywhere near my vagina, he went a little farther north and landed in my asshole. I nearly jumped I was so surprised. It was a good thing that he couldn't see my face, because my eyebrows shot up in an A-HA! expression. So that is why his girlfriend was weirded out, I thought. I myself had never been rimmed, but wasn't opposed to receiving it, if that's what he wanted to give. The sensation was nice, though it did nothing to arouse me in any way. After a few minutes of that, Mr. Licky asked if I would suck him off. We hadn't agreed to that, but I didn't mind. For another two or three minutes, I licked his small, but very hard cock. He moaned in approval and told me again how sexy I was. I smiled and thanked him with my eyes and my tongue. Mr. Licky asked if we could fuck. I paused for a moment and said sweetly, "We can do anything you want, but that's not what we agreed to beforehand. It'll be extra for that." He asked me for a price and rushed to his wallet for the money once he consented to the fee I named.

He came quickly, the condom fattening with liquid. The sex was very short; four minutes at most. I stopped, swinging my leg over his so that I could lie beside him. We made attempt at small talk for a few minutes, me stroking his chest and trying to keep up the feigned interest. Finally, he began to get dressed and I followed suit.

I kissed him on the cheek on my way out and walked quickly to my car with a wide grin on my face. On the way out, the cleaning staff gave me another look of judgment, but I didn't care. I couldn't believe how easy it had been. Mr. Licky was polite, kind, paid what I asked him, and extremely appreciative. I was high on how much money I had earned for such easy work. I was hooked. Thus began my truimphant re-entry into the world of pussy for pay.

Rage

2005-07-06T13:44:00.000-04:00

I ended it:

John requested nekkid pictures of me and I said that I didn't have any. It's not the truth, but I am not about to give T&A shots to some dude who could then go sell them on the internet. He then ordered me to take some, and I declined, saying that maybe I would after we met. This is the email I just received with a picture attached of a naked woman:

From: [John]
To: [Lusty]

Let me explain something. This is a picture of someone that I met on friendster as well although we haven't physically met either. She wants to get together with me. Now trying to be objective between creating time for you or her which option should I choose? You can take into account our limited history of hot, then let's go slow, then send me money before we meet, etc. She has simply stayed hot. So what do you think?

From: [Lusty]
To: [John]

Do whatever you want, [John]. I don't care for ultimatums. Perhaps you should go with your new play toy, as it seems you are looking for something for nothing, which I am not apt to give you.

From: [John]
To: [Lusty]

Oh don't get me wrong. She will be costly but she has style and is engaging. Plus she is also bi. And she didn't demand anything before meeting. Insofar as ultimatums, I don't like them either especially when it comes to sending money to someone I haven't met. But I was going to try to arrange a meeting with you and her and see what developed.

From: [Lusty]
To: [John]

No thanks. I have lost any interest in you and your supposed offers. The more we talk, the more I think you are a fake. So I'll just save myself some time and energy and let you go ahead with your new girl.

Good fucking riddance, is all I have to say.

2005-06-30T16:17:00.000-04:00

I am finding that dealing with a steady stream of men who only contact me when their NEEDSEXRIGHTNOW hormones are raging is making me more and more drawn to girly girls in my own personal life, as a sort of reaction/rebellion. I have a history of dating butches and FTMs (actually, not really many of the former, since there aren't a whole lot of them around anymore), but I'm finding lately that ostentatious displays of masculinity are turning me off.

Just today, in fact, an FTM Daddy (which is like, my type to a T [pun intended]) emailed me, singing my praises and possibly wanting to hook up. But, when I went to go check out his pictures, all I could think was Eww! A boy! Of course, I am fairly certain that this is just a temporary thing, but I always think it's interesting to see how sex work affects one's sexuality, and I thought that y'all might like to know as well.

This also means that if there are any hot queer femmes out there reading, now is your chance!

Boundaries

2005-06-29T10:58:00.000-04:00

Boundaries are good. They help keep me sane.

I did a lot of intense processing with myself after a day feeling full of ick about John and realized that I didn't take into consideration the idea that I could assert boundaries and slow this shit down. Just because he might give me some money and gifts doesn't mean I don't have any say in what I do or do not do. So, I emailed him yesterday afternoon and said:

I have to say that I've done some thinking, and I'm worried that things are moving a little fast. This doesn't mean that I'm saying no to your proposal, but that I want to slow things down a little bit. Thanks for understanding, [John].

He replied back immediately and admitted that he might have gotten carried away and that he would be fine with slowing things down. Phew!

I also did a lot of thinking on whether or not this sugar daddy arrangement is really ok with me. Sure, the money is fairly dependable, but I'm beginning to wonder if the amount of time required to upkeep the relationship is worth what I'll get. I suppose I won't know until he starts giving me money, right? I thought about proposing a monthly allowance of about $1000 for a certain amount of hours spent with him so that I don't feel like I'm giving him all of my time. John is under the impression that this is my first time doing this sort of thing, so I don't want to come off as too...savvy, I suppose is the word. But I also don't want to do a lot of work for a relatively small amount (meaning, if I'm only getting paid $1000 a month for spending 40 hours a month with him, that averages out to only $25 an hour!!!).

Anyway, I'm trying not to jump ahead of myself, because he could still be a big faker, but I also don't want to be unprepared and end up screwing myself over.

Guilt

2005-06-28T12:15:00.000-04:00

Things have been progressing with John, the would-be sugar daddy, and what he wants from me is touching places that I'm not sure I want him to have access to. See, I am a terrible liar, so almost by accident, John already knows way more about the "real" me than I'm comfortable with. He knows my real name, I accidentally blabbed and told him where I work, and now, he wants me to call him Daddy. It's all beginning to feel a little too personal.

I laid in my bed last night, unable to sleep because I started freaking out about the possibility of John doing tricky things like calling my job or finding out where I live. He hasn't given me any indications that he'd try anything like that, and in fact, I know his full name and his place of employment, but I still willed myself into a paranoid frenzy. I kept on composing an exit strategy and then kicking myself (rinse, lather, repeat), because jesusfuckingchrist I need that money. I've been living paycheck to paycheck these days, living off of Ramen and leftovers the last few days before payday, and the extra cash would be more than helpful. In fact, I've been wondering whether or not I'd be able to survive financially without the supplemental income that sex work provides. I also began to stress about the mounds and mounds of credit card debt I've gotten myself into (also the result of not making enough money) and how I could probably pay off my credit cards and start in on my college loans if I stuck with John.

To elaborate on what I mentioned above, the whole Daddy thing is squicking me out. Not because I think it's gross or wrong or whatever, but because that is what I love most in my own personal sex life. It's one thing for me to suck dick or fuck some random dude, but to call him Daddy, like I long to do with most of my partners, might be too much for me to handle. And a part of me worries that I might like it. So I thought to myself yesterday, what if I tried to enjoy this? Would that be gross and terrible and disgusting? And over and over again, I came to the conclusion that yes, as a queer feminist, it would be gross and terrible and disgusting if I, even for a second, enjoyed the company of and the sex with my would-be sugar daddy.

I believe that it's impossible to grow up in this terribly misogynistic sex-negative culture without internalizing all of that heinous shit, even when we work tirelessly to counter it with activism, positive self-talk, etc. Still, I always surprise myself when waves of guilt and shame wash over me in unexpected moments.

The Whore Revolution Has Just Begun

2005-06-27T14:01:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, surrounded by my little sex-positive feminist bubble, I forget that not everyone is down with the whole hooker thang. In fact, I would venture to guess that most people think that all sex workers are crack-addicted whores (in a bad way) who are out to wreck happy marriages and coast off the welfare system while they collect beau-coup cash from sucking back-alley dick. Sure, sex workers and feminists have done a lot (A LOT) for advancing the notion that empowered women can (and do) choose sex work for a career and that it's ok, but most of the world hasn't caught up. Even a lot of the leftist community has a skewed vision of the sex trade industry; it seems that the large majority of those folks think that it's made up entirely of agency-less children who have been forced into sex slavery by abusers (which, of course, is the truth in many cases, especially in certain countries abroad, but certainly not all).

So I had this moment sometime last week when I realized that, duh!, I'm going to have to disclose my occasional job to future partners. When the only form of sex work I did was modeling naked for a feminist erotica website, I didn't think it was really anybody's business what I did. After all, looking coyly at a camera in my skivvies for a token sum doesn't really affect my sex partners. And even though I'm safe with the johns in the work that I do now, the fact that I do it for money is something that they probably have a right to know. And, taking that fact into consideration, the chance that I'll get rejected multiplies many fold. I of course knew that this was a possibility in theory, having read lots of sex worker literature, but it didn't quite hit me as reality until I was thinking about some of my current crushes and recoiling in horror when I came to terms with the fact that I might be having to reveal this intimate part of my life with every casual fuck and every potential long-term partner I might come across.

But this is sticky territory. I mean, do I really have an obligation to disclose this to someone if we're having a one-night stand? Because, how is what I do that much different than a person who is very sexually active? And, as my journal title indicates, the sex work I do is an occasional thing. I actually haven't had a ton of clients. So, unless someone is likely to be a long-term partner for whom this information actually matters, am I bound by my own ethics to disclose?

All of this makes me feel very very icky, as I am forced to remember what awful awful things people in our culture think about people who trade sex for gain. It makes me shake with fear that I have no legal protection should my job find out about this, or my parents, or even people that I would have thought to be open-minded, but who would really be willing to condemn me in a hot second. Of course, it doesn't mean that I plan to stop doing what I'm doing, because I have and will continue to be for the whore revolution. Maybe I should choose to be positive and see this as my opportunity to dispel those nasty myths and catch people up to speed.

Sugar Baby Maybe

2005-06-24T12:12:00.000-04:00

Wow. Was that the cheesiest title you've ever seen? Sorry about that, darlings.

Anyway, Mr. Potential Sugar Daddy (let's call him John, for ease of use and for its obvious figurative connotations) and I just got off the phone. We emailed back and forth this morning, inquiring about the basics (Where do you work? Where do you live?) and exchanging pleasantries. John is heading off for Sweden this afternoon -- it'll be a 2-week long business trip -- and he wanted to chat with me before he left.

He claims to be completely serious about this sugar daddy thing and detailed just how he'd like the arrangement to work. John wants to take me out to fancy dinners, take me on extravagant holidays and, of course, give me money. I just about creamed my panties when he uttered the phrase "pay your rent." He even mentioned something about helping me publish a book (!!!). The arrangement will involve sex, of course, but he's not in it just for that. John told me that he'd like to get together after his business trip in two weeks and take me out for a fancy dinner to see whether or not we get along. I plan to be sweet and agreeable no matter how distasteful I find him. Because, you know, I'm just dying to be a sugar baby. Plus, I've seen a picture of him, and while he's not exactly good-looking, he's also not repulsive. I can do this, ladies and gents. I think I really could.

The interesting thing about sugar daddies, if you think about it, is that when you average out the amount you're getting paid over the time spent with the sugar daddy, it's actually a lot less than hooking or other forms of sex work, where one can earn several hundred dollars for an hour or two of work. However, the sugar daddy arrangement is much more dependable than the other kinds of hooking I do. Most of my sex work clients call sporadically and sometimes never call back. I spend hours upon hours trying to score dates over email and phone, usually with little to no return. So, since I am wary of joining an agency, securing a sugar daddy arrangement would be perfect for me. I could cease worrying about the potential dangers of meeting new clients and stick with just one guy.

So, chickadees, I'll keep you updated on the situation, though not much is likely to happen until he comes back from Stockholm in a couple of weeks. Just think, though! If this worked out like I think it might, I could potentially quit my job, write full time, and publish the tell-all memoir everyone in my life has been pushing me to do for years now.

Sugar Baby Dreams

2005-06-23T20:57:00.000-04:00

Mary Cassatt, "Portrait of a Little Girl"

I can't say that I've ever been one to put much serious stock in the whole Protestant work ethic dealie. As a child, what I wanted to be when I "grew up" changed about every five minutes. I could never settle on one dream for longer than a month or a year. Nothing ever held my fancy for long. To this day, my dreams are constantly on rotate, each holding a place of high importance as they come into my mind's eye one, two, even three at a time. I am one of those people who posseses many skills but no specialties. When I was a recent college graduate whose dreams of working in the progressive non-profit world failed, I became depressed and despondent. I sat in my room for almost a month, jobless, watching rented Sex and the City dvds in my room, giving myself makeovers and wondering where my life might go next.

A year or so later, several jobs and a lot of frustration behind me, I came to the realization that I didn't have to put so much stock into what I did for a paycheck. Sure, it'd be great if I was paid to do rich and rewarding work, but the chances of that happening seemed slim. So I decided that what I did for a living didn't have to contribute to my sense of self-worth; rather, I could define that by what I did in my non-work time. There are fates far worse than a boring job, after all.

So here I am today at my current office job. It's fairly dull, but I am much happier now that I've allowed myself to let go of that capitalist notion that one's money earning potential defines one's worth.

All of this background, my dear readers, is to preface my excitement over the possibility of finding a sugar daddy. I would love nothing more than get paid to look pretty and smile. Your knee-jerk reaction might be to recoil in horror. Lusty, I can hear you exclaiming, how in the hell could that be reconciled with your dedication to feminism?! The answer is simple, I tell you: it doesn't have to. I'll spare you any far-reaching rationalizations about taking money from "The Man" (literally or figuratively) as a way to subvert the white supremacist capitalist patriarchy and tell you honestly that what I do for money has nothing to do with what I believe in my other life. I firmly believe that having a job that is always in line with your feminist/progressive/anti-racist/anti-corporate/anti-capitalist principles is damn near impossible. And if you do have one, consider yourself among the fortunate few. Meaningful choices are functions of privilege after all (and I acknowledge that I do have some choices). So while I may believe that acting like a simpering sex toy for money is kinda vomitous, I also know that the pay and the benefits for that position far outweigh the many retail jobs I've had where acting like a simpering corporate pawn is a condition of employment.

Of course, as one might expect, the market for sugar babies is flooded. We are a dime a dozen, us girls and boys who'd love to take Daddy's cash in trade for sex and company. I've always figured that one had to be either extremely attractive or very good at manipulation to score such an arrangement. And since my looks are unconventional, because I am the worst salesperson you'll probably ever meet, and because I am really very shitty at pretending to like someone I don't, I didn't figure myself a very good sugar baby candidate. So, it's not like I'm putting a whole lot of stock into one email sent to me by some random guy who is as likely (if not more so) to be penniless as he is a millionaire, but the unexpected message sent me reeling into a fantasy world where the cash flows freely, leisure time is a staple, and the piña coladas keep on coming.

An enticing offer

2005-06-23T17:48:00.000-04:00

From: [Name Withheld]
Date: June 23, 2005 1:50 PM
Subject: question
Message: would the idea of a sugar daddy interest you?

Oh HELL YES it would!

Cash Cow

2005-06-22T12:38:00.000-04:00

I've been having quite a difficult time making decisions about how many (if any) "real life" friends I want to tell about this journal. You see, I am notoriously terrible at keeping my own secrets. I love being able to have my life as a open book, but obviously the information revealed in this journal doesn't quite facilitate itself to complete transparency. I can only imagine the horror I'd have to go through if people at my day job discovered that I hook on the side.

Anyway, you're not here to read about my personal woes. You want more stories. I can respect that.

Cash Cow advertised himself on the internet as an extremely submissive man looking for a dominating woman to "use him like a human ATM machine." He possessed every broke sex worker's dream fetish: he wanted to be financially dominated. I, of course, jumped on the chance and sent him a stern, but alluring email describing my features and promising him that I could be "the gold digger [he'd] always dreamed of." Cash Cow bit the bait and we began to talk.

There was a slight glitch in my plan, however. Namely being that I had never dominated anyone professionally and only very rarely in private. You see, I'm a kinkster in my not-for-profit bedroom, but I am most often on the submissive side of the kink. So before I'd compose my next commandeering email to Cash Cow, I did research on the web to see how other financial dominatrices (yes, there are such people) worded their webpages. I was actually grateful that Cash Cow hadn't pressured to meet with me right away, because writing out carefully worded emails threatening to suck him dry of all his savings until he was broken, poor and totally at my mercy felt like much-needed preparation for being able to spit out insults and threats at will when we finally met.

For a couple of weeks, Cash Cow sent me emails describing his desire to lavish me with cash and gifts. I told him what size and style of lingerie I preferred and ordered him to give me a token of his appreciation upon our first meeting. He had daily assignments and punishments when he didn't do what I told him. I was clever: because I didn't know what an appropriate punishment would be for someone who wanted to be financially dominated, I made him come up with his own. And oh my how he did. Cash Cow decided that his punishment for not calling me when he had promised one day would be to go downtown during his lunch hour to a porn video booth, wear the lacy panties he so loved, expose himself until another man walked into the booth, and suck him off. So he did it. Twice. Cash Cow sucked cock on his lunch hour and drank a protein shake for dessert. Supposedly, this was for my benefit.

As the days passed by, I got tired of the constant emailing and wanted to finally meet in person so that I could begin to profit off of this venture that was beginning to waste my time. But, surprise surprise, Cash Cow began to act shady when I tried to confirm a date and location. Even though he had advertised himself as financially submissive, Cash Cow didn't seem too eager to part with his money. After sensing my frustration, he sent me a pathetic email telling me that he didn't have a lot of extra money because he had a wife and a kid to support and that he would rather give me gifts of lingerie instead of money. No fucking dice, dude. I sent him a curt reply reminding him that his personal ad had claimed that he wanted to be financially dominated and that I was not pleased with this attempt at backpedaling. He sent me an apology and tried to convince me to come out for a drink with him ("My treat, of course," he simpered, "I think we'd really get along!"). Fat fucking chance, Cash Cow.

A quick note

2005-06-18T12:15:00.000-04:00

I just wanted to mention that little picture I posted is not me. I borrowed it with thanks from subversivegirls.com, a cute lil startup alt erotica site. Anyway, if any of the subversive girls happen to wander over here and have a problem with me using that gorgeous image, let me know and I'll take it down.

Gratzie!

Mort

2005-06-18T01:06:00.000-04:00

My first actual foray into the sex industry was very gentle. To use a ridiculously cheesy simile, it was like a kiddie pool is to a simulated wave pool you might find at a water park. And actually, the kiddie pool metaphor is a fabulous one, because Mort* had a cute lil' fetish. This man in his early 80's just loved taking naughty baths with pretty girls.

But hold on for a second and let me back up. I actually met Mort through an interesting relationship I had with a notorious trans man**. Clint and I had met through a personal ad and he was hell-bent on projecting a bad-ass persona to the ladies. The only photo he sent me of himself showcased him wearing a black leather arm band and kneeling next to a growling dog. And being the bratty little bottom that I am, I ate that shit right up. And so began my odd relationship with Clint. A typical date with him: I'd drive to his house, we'd smoke a little pot and maybe drink a little Grey Goose, I'd sit on his lap while he'd growl nasty things into my ear, and we'd eventually retreat to his bedroom to fuck. Clint, like any good mid-thirties playboy, had mirrors lining the ceiling above his bed. Luckily, he preferred me on all fours, which meant I didn't have to turn my head or shut my eyes to avoid the ridiculous spectre of two people in the midst of enthusiastic fucking.

Clint was a massage therapist, but despite the fact that he only worked a couple of times a week, he seemed to be pretty damn comfortable, money-wise. One day, he called me up and announced that he had just bought a truck on a whim. I was in college at the time, and such an impulse buy seemed scandalous to me. Now, being out of college for several years and continuing to keep company with lots of broke twentysomethings, it still is. But I never questioned the money. I didn't figure it was my business anyway.

In the (new) car on the way to dinner one evening, Clint told me the long and sordid tale of his wealth. I won't get into it here except to say that Mort (remember, tub time fetish dude?) was basically Clint's sugar daddy. In his advanced age, Mort didn't seem to ah, notice that Clint had transitioned from a very butch dyke to a very butch man and still called him "she" and by his birth name. Clint also told me about Mort's sudsy fetish and offered to pay me $75 an hour to bathe with him. After thinking it over for a second, I declared that I was game.

Now, let me digress for a second here and mention that in most of the sex worker blogs I've read, the writer usually goes into some kind of explanation about how it was that s/he came to consider sex work. Up until that moment in the car with Clint, my interest was purely academic. Having dove head first into the world of third wave feminism through the Women's Studies program at my college, I devoured all the feminist sex work literature I could get my hands on. At that point in life, I was even volunteering regularly for a non profit dedicated to sex worker outreach. So really, the opportunity was just a formality. I was already eager to explore the world of sex for trade and Mort was to be the first.

Anyway, the very first time I bathed with Mort, Clint joined me, I suppose to facilitate the process and ease me into the experience. He filled up the kiddie pool in the basement with warm water and the three of us climbed in. Mort rubbed my back and arms with the soap clutched in his shaking hands while Clint chatted casually to no one in particular. Sandwiches were ordered for lunch and I remember eating my veggie sub in the quickly cooling water, watching lettuce and bits of sub bread drop from Mort's mouth as he ate. I really think that that and the film of soap scum on the top of the water disgusted me more than anything else that was taking place. This is so freaking easy! I remember thinking to myself.

After that first time, I bathed with Mort on several other occasions, even recruiting another enterprising friend of mine to join us in the tub. Her and I would chat gaily about our lives while we absentmindedly scrubbed Mort or let him rub the bar of soap along our bodies. Not once did I touch his penis (at his age, he could no longer get erect) and the closest he ever came to touching any of my naughty bits was when he once rested a wrinkled hand on the top of my breast.

Sadly, the arrangement came to an end after a few months. I was spending less and less time with Clint because I began to realize what a major jerk he really was. Also, Clint decided that he wanted to move out West and decided to take Mort with him. And I did feel regret that my sweet deal was packing up and leaving, but I felt even worse about the fact that Mort, a widower, was leaving the only home he had ever known to move cross country with a dude who was exploiting him. Clint was moving him against his will and Mort really had no choice but to go.

I hear that now Mort and Clint are living in a trailer somewhere in Southern California. Clint had mentioned buying Mort a jacuzzi, which I sincerely hope he did. God bless that little old man and his harmless little fetish.

*Not his real name. In fact, none of the names I'll be using here will be real so as to try and keep myself as anonymous as possible.
**If you don't know what this is, google FTM. I don't have time to play schoolteacher right now.

Vamos a empezar

2005-06-18T00:31:00.000-04:00

Hello darlings,

I love the internet. I really do. It gives me many many things like distractions from work, a way to keep in touch with my far-flung friends, and thanks to the blogging boom, it lets me peer into the secret and occasionally fascinating worlds of people I have not met and never will. However, what once seemed to be a vast expanse of loosely connected information has now come to resemble the very enclosed community I have to deal with in "real life." Now, even the 'effin internet is a small world.

I guess this is as good a time as any to admit here, darlings, that I am cheating on my other journal. The first and until now, only. The Other Blog is something I've had and maintained regularly for over 4 years now, which is practically Medicare age in blogger years! But as more and more friends, lovers and work associates discover my blog, the more I find I must censor myself for privacy and propriety's sake. But since I'm somewhat of an exhibitionist, I really really loathe to do such a thing. The whole reason I started a public journal was my desire to write my life to the world, or at least a small subsection of it anyway. But now, for many many reasons, I can no longer freely write about all the juicy shit I used to dish.

So, here I am. As my journal description indicates, this blog will share the anonymous tales of an occasional sex worker. Among other things, I am also queer, chubby, multiracial, and mighty feisty. My name is Lusty (not my real name). Everything you read here is as truthful as my memory serves me, but I consider this blog to be in the style of a biomythography; even if all the details aren't completely accurate, the spirit of what happened is.

I am pleased that you've chosen to read along with my journey. I can't promise that every entry will always be the salacious dish that you might have hoped it to be, but I promise to be authentic and I will do my very best to entertain.

Now onto the storytelling!