free enterprise

The Weirdos,The Creeps and The Rejects

Summer 1994

When you work as an escort, you meet all different types of men.  If you think about it…what type of man pays to have sex with someone?  In my experience, I found that they fell into many different categories.

The Travelers…these men logged more miles in the sky than a Blue Angel.  They were away from the drudgery of their day-to-day lives for extended periods of time.  Travelers commonly worked in sales or management.  They were usually bold in their requests and most of them tipped well, as their expense accounts were as big as their egos.  A typical evening would begin with conversation and would quickly morph into…”I want you on your knees, sucking my cock.  Look me in the eyes while you do it.”  I like a person who knows what they want…

The Nervous Novices…it took every ounce of nerve for them to make the call to the agency.  They don’t really know how to express what they want.  Most of these men are wounded by society, past relationships or their own pitiful opinion of themselves.  For me, these were some of the most challenging clients to predict.  I recall having dinner with a very shy young man who just wanted someone to talk to.  He told me about his life with abusive parents.  He needed someone to listen.  Another client only wanted me to hold him…him fully dressed, me completely nude.  Another one didn’t know how to ask for anything other than missionary style sex.  So I finally asked him…”is this what you really want, or is there something you’re not sharing with me.  Tell me how you want to fuck me and we can make that happen, this is your hour.”  He was a nervous wreck, but turns out…all he wanted was for me to straddle his face while he licked me.  And if memory serves…for a nervous novice…he was pretty damned good at eating pussy.

The Hedonists….I only had a few of these creatures.  But it was party all the time for this group.  Mostly middle-aged and wealthy, these gentlemen liked having instant gratification.  For me, these were usually house (mansion) calls. They wanted to display their opulent lifestyle and decadent ways to those of us hired to serve them.  They wanted to have whatever they desired…they wanted it brought to them, immediately….they wanted lots of it….and afterwards, it was time for the next plaything to arrive.  I recall making a visit to one of these hedonists, seeing 3 other working girls leave with wads of cash in hand…as I was arriving.  And as I left, another escort drove up.  There was nothing remarkable or memorable about the visits…other than their impressive Rolex collection, or the imported marble in the bathroom.  But the return on investment for the minimum time and effort…was always spot on.

The Weirdos, The Creeps and The Rejects…These are the ones I hoped I’d forget.  These are the unfortunates out there who HAVE to pay for sex.  There is no other option.  The weirdos usually request off-the-wall things.  I had one who wanted me to cry when he fucked me.  I couldn’t do it, so I left and had another girl take my place.  She would do anything.  Another fellow asked me to use pliers to torture his nipples as I sat naked on his chest.  It was a stretch for a young 21 year old, but I managed to do it.  He thanked me a million times and tipped me for the experience. (Note, when he called the agency another time and asked for me to come back, I made sure I was “booked” and couldn’t make it).  The Rejects are the assholes of this category.  They are angry at the world.  Angry at women.  Angry at anyone who has ever done them wrong.  They want to take it out on whomever is in front of them.  The sex bordered on violent and they always tried to argue about money.  One even tried to argue about wearing a condom. I won that battle, but he was a real jerk.  Before leaving his hotel room, I dipped his electric razor in the toilet where I’d just peed and put it back on the sink.  I hope it jolted his sorry ass when he plugged it in.

So as much I as enjoyed my time as an escort, there were a handful of clients that were real assholes.  I quickly learned to spot them ahead of time and could usually manufacture a reason to leave and ask for a replacement. Because readers, I may have been working as a call girl, but I was no one’s whore and I refused to be treated as one. Best to just get out of that situation and try my hand (mouth, body) at (on) something (someone) else.

5.0.2

Photo from the movie Belle Du Jour, 1968

 

Picking Up the Tab

Oh no, I insist…let me.

I developed a well-defined clientele while working for Elite Escorts in the summer of ’94.  Most of them were professionals traveling through my area on business…looking for a bit of R & R.  Being a sales person by trade, I found an enigma in this line of business….what should have been a short sales cycle morphed into a long sales cycle. One would think that a sex-for-services transaction would be an “impulse buy” much like retail.  You know what you want and you go in and buy it.  Done.

But in my case, it turned into a long sales cycle…it became relationship sales.  I began to understand each client’s needs on a deeper level and they didn’t want to go in and just buy what they wanted…they wanted me.  I turned each qualified/worthy client (those with the expendable income to invest) into repeat business. It was amazing.

I knew that the 3rd Tuesday night of each month was reserved for Tim, an engineer who worked in research and development for a pharmaceutical company. He was 35, born in Korea, but lived in Canada.  He was married with 2 children. His sexual tastes were basic and he usually asked me to stay the entire night.  The sex was okay and we spent a lot of our time talking.  I learned a lot from him about the pharmaceutical industry.

There was Andy, a sales rep who traveled the world, but lived in my hometown.  He was also married and he and his wife had no sexual connection.  He was probably my favorite regular.  He loved to put a chair in front of the hotel mirror and watch himself fuck me.  He taught me how to control my gag reflex (a skill that I later found to be quite lucrative).  He was always bringing me gifts from Europe.  I still have some of the jewelry he gave me.  And when I put it on in the mirror…I think back to watching him fuck me.  Yum.

There was the good doctor, Robbie.  He was a surgical resident at the local army hospital.  I usually made house calls to see him.  He always wanted me on top, with my legs extended up to his neck.  I remember one night he requested I come see him at the hospital.  I had no idea there were certain hospital rooms designated for physicians on call for 24 hours.  He was able to adjust the bed at an angle that allowed me to ride him, just like he wanted.  And the trapeze (used for traction) was an added bonus.  I could leverage myself while I rode his cock for maximum pleasure for both of us.  I looked him up not too long ago.  He’s a successful orthopedic surgeon in Louisiana, now.  And looks just like he did 20 years ago.

There were a handful of nameless clients who were not memorable to me, but I was obviously memorable to them, as they regularly used my services.  One, that I can’t recall his first name, was an A & R rep from a record company.  He always stayed at a very nice hotel and his room usually had the in-room jacuzzi tub.  He had a fantasy of receiving head underwater.  I didn’t know I had it in me, but I did it.  I could only hold my breath for about a minute before coming up for air.  But I kept diving down to see if I could last longer each time.  Ironically, I think it’s where my interest in breath play began.  Nice guy. Kinky as hell…but nice.  And he always came with concert tickets.

I learned through these experiences that most men are afraid to ask their partners for what they want.  There was an underlying fear of rejection that kept their dirty little fantasies bottled up.  I feel like I did a public service allowing them to have what they really wanted.  To watch themselves fuck me.  To fuck in a hospital bed.  To have someone suck them underwater.

And then there were a handful who were so fucking good in bed, that I considered picking up the tab and paying them.  There was the older Russian gentleman.  I know he was involved in some type of illegal shit because I got this vibe that he could break my neck in a matter of seconds.  But he drank my pussy like a fine vodka and fucked my brains out.  I was a swooning mess, desperately trying to say “thank you” in Russian, each time I left him.  “SPASIBO”

And there was the police detective who was hung like The Secretariat.  Jesus-effing-Christ, the man was huge.  When we fucked I always came.  I used to wonder if the reason he called a service for sex, was because his cock was just too big for the average gal to handle.  And trust me, it was uncomfortable at times…but I loved that feeling of fullness.  And again, at the end of the session, I wanted to tip him.  Years later I saw him at daycare.  He was picking up his daughter and I was picking up my son.  There was a brief moment of recognition and I was a wet mess for the rest of the night.  If memory serves…I went home and fucked the hell out of my (then) husband that night, thinking back to my time with him.  DAMN….

I had some really great times.  I met some great people.  I met some wretched assholes (their stories are for another post) and I learned my craft.  I was a professional, after all.  It was business….but the invaluable lessons I learned about relationships, communication, sexual mechanics and the fine art of listening, has made me the person I am today.  I feel lucky to have had those experiences.

And I wonder where The Secretariat is now….

the mirror

Photo credit from Pinterest

The Calling

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by sex. Most of my early introductions were through cheesy late night cable. By the time I was 10 years old, I had already seen the entire Emmanuelle series, and many other soft-core porn selections.  I enjoyed watching and learned quite a bit about “anatomy” along the way.

In 1987, the TV movie, Mayflower Madam, aired.  I recall watching it with my mother.  I was almost 15 at the time and my mother had no judgement when it came to TV or movies.  (She really didn’t get it…never allow a 7 year old to watch the Exorcist on Halloween night…just sayin’)  We both watched this story of Sydney Biddle Barrows, and how she opened her own  escort service.  I was hooked.  (No pun intended).  How interesting.  How intriguing.  I remember thinking to myself, “I could do that.  I could be an escort, a call-girl.” Even at the tender age of 15, me…a straight-A student, thought being an escort would be a fun career for a fun-loving gal like myself.

Fast-forward to 6 years later.

It was a hazy summer evening in mid-June.  I was sitting on a porch with friends, solving the world’s problems. As usual, I was dishing on some poor loser I’d just dumped.  There was always a story.  I plowed through men like water and I was always on the lookout for my next victim.  I was becoming a bit harsh and bitter, seeing men as a past-time and closely guarding my emotions, as not to get hurt.  I was in the middle of my story about this latest tryst when my friend, Brian, spoke up and said, “As much as you like sex, you should really get paid for it.”  I laughed and said, “Sure.  Wish I could! I’d be rich and famous…or infamous.”  And while the rest of my friends laughed at my comment, Brian was quiet.

“Do you really want to get paid for sex?”  His tone was serious.  I didn’t know if he was about to lecture me, save my soul or offer me money for a fierce blow job.

So for kicks, I said, “Yes, Brian.  I would love to get paid.  Sign me up.”

One week later, I began my journey as an escort.

Brian wasn’t the pimp.  He was not involved in the business at all, but he knew a lesbian couple making a killing working for a service.  They were madly in love with each other, but very short on cash, so they began working as escorts (with men or women) to make ends meet.  One of them was in college and the other worked as a dental assistant by day.  They seemed to enjoy the work and referred me to the Madam.

Her name was Gina and she was a fast-talking woman with an endearing way about her.  Looking back I think she was on some type of drugs, but I was naive to it at the time.  She liked me immediately and hired me on the spot. (The interview was in the parking lot, in her car at a local nightclub.)  She had asked me to bring a copy of my drivers license with me for her records, which I did.  (She kept this in case of emergency).

After the interview and job offer, we discussed pricing, payment and work hours….

Then she looked at me and said, “Are you ready to work tonight?”

I was not expecting that at all.  My first thought was about my underwear…was I wearing the cute ones?  Were they sexy enough?  Was I sexy enough?

And within 3 seconds I answered her, “Yes, Ma’am.  I am ready”

My first call with with a man in his early forties that owned a used car dealership.  He was a heavy drinker who had just divorced his third wife.  He was decent looking and smelled a bit like my father….it was likely the Old Spice he wore.  Gina gave me a “work” name to protect my identity.  I didn’t choose my name…she did.

That night, I was Tiffany.  I wasn’t a fan of it.  I asked her why she chose that name for me.  She replied, “It has a certain innocence and charm.  And you are charming.  And you look like the girl next door….there’s nothing harsh about you.”

So I did it.  I liked this new identity.  I found myself developing a persona around my new name.  I played a bit coy and innocent.  I could tell he liked it.  It made him feel like my mentor, my teacher.

And to be very honest, I was nervous.  I mean how do you have sex with someone within minutes of meeting them?

I quickly realized that this whole thing, sex for money…this  is Sales 101.  It is needs-identification.  Knowing what he wants.  Listening.  Validating the need.  And closing.

For this gentleman…he wanted a “pretty young thing” to help him get over his latest relationship.  He needed someone who would make him feel good, with no strings, that would be out of his life as quickly as they’d arrived. And I fit the bill.  But he ended up wanting me to stay the entire night.  I cleared it with the Madam and they negotiated a set price.  During our rest breaks we talked…we laughed…we noshed on room service…and then we fucked again.  And again.

The Sunday morning sun peeked through the drawn hotel curtains as I was getting dressed to leave.  In the light of day, we were both all business.  One of Gina’s cardinal rules was to call her upon arrival and before departure.  So I called her once he paid me, and she verified that I had been given the proper amount.  Then she asked to speak to him.  He was most complimentary of his time with me and asked her if he could tip me.  And he did.

I walked out to my car that morning with $1300 in my pocket.  I immediately drove to the designated meeting place to give Gina her portion ($400) leaving me with my share, $900…$800 for the evening and the $100 tip.

Not bad for my first time.

I remember going shopping later that day…just as I had the day before.  I didn’t feel any different.  I didn’t feel ashamed.  I didn’t question the morality or the legality of my choice.  For me, it was a job…an assignment.  I accepted it.  I completed it…and I got PAID for it.

It was Father’s Day, 1994.  I had just arrived at my parent’s house when my pager buzzed.  It was Gina.  She had another assignment for me later that evening.  So I had dinner, enjoyed the visit with my parents and excused myself for the night.

By 10:00 pm, I had already completed one assignment as was booked for two more.  I finally returned home around 2:00 am.

The grand net total for my inaugural weekend….

Four assignments and $1600 in my pocket.

Damn, that was easy.  A girl could get used to this….

calling