I Do Not Remember My First Trick

Let me preface this by saying I grew up in a well to do family in [redacted], Texas. By all standards I had more opportunity and privilege than most, but the divorce of my parents in my freshmen year in college would be what ultimately drove me to completely "check out" of society.

In the beginning of my crack addiction I always swore to myself and to anyone that brought up the subject that I would never sell sex for money. Unfortunately, I was very naive and uninformed about the progression of addiction and I did not yet know what desperation felt like.

Initially I was pretty and fresh enough in the crack world that all of the drug dealers wanted to take me home with them. On several occasions I found myself living with dealers who would supply my dope habit just to keep me from running the streets. Eventually the dope supply was not enough for me and I went looking for a way to make
money so that I could be in control of my dope.

I knew one girl who would have me take her to a mexican apartment complex where she would go in one apartment and the men would line up outisde the door and pay her $20 each to have sex. She would knock off 10-15 men in an hour and we would smoke for the rest of the day. I knew that I couldn't bring myself to do that (at least not at the
time....certainly a year or 2 down the road if I could have remembered where that apartment building was I would have been there!!) So I asked her if she knew of any other way. That was the day that I was introduced to the phone chat lines.

I do not remember my first trick but I do remember many. I have had sex with as many as 12 men in a day. The busiest times of day were early in the moring when white men in business suits were on their way to work or during lunch time when they could sneak off for a quickie.

I started out charging $150-200 and being that I was pretty enough and still did not look like a cracked out whore, I could get that much. It was always about the money to me and I was always in a hurry to get it over with. I spent no time talking or even pretending to be interested in the men. I can remember men asking me $200 for how long and I would always tell them that I did not work on a time clock.

This gave them the impression that I might be there all night if things went right, but in truth if I was with them more than 20minutes it was because I was enjoying it!! Eventually I would not even speak to anyone on the chat line that I didn't already know because of the fear of police. I still had enough insight to know that I would not want a prostitution charge on my record should I ever get off drugs. I have had professional football players who paid thousands and I have given $10 hand jobs in the backseat of a car. I am sorry to say that WAY more often than not I had unprotected sex and it is truly the Grace of God that I never caught anything.

I am now 6 years sober and more than the thought of drugs, I am lured to the thought of getting back in to prostitution. Something about the thought of a man paying me to have sex with them really turns me on!! If it were not for the fear of going to jail I would definitely be a working girl right now today.

Instead I have a boring life and a boring job and from time to time to spice things up I tell my husband stories of different johns and how they fucked me and the things they said to me. I still fantasize about that life and wish I could go back--- minus the drugs.

I Wanted Them To Leave Happy

The rooms were small, most had a corner shower but one had a hot tub. In the winter we'd run the hot water a while to warm them up. The guys would come in, pay $25 for a half hour and pick their girl. For $40 they could get laid, or "half and half," a blow job was $30, but some girls would do it for less. The desk didn't care if you took less, but they'd fine you or cut your shifts if they found out you were over charging. The year was 1979 and this was a massage parlor in small town Connecticut. I worked there two years, and I loved it. I had a college degree from a good school, real jobs, no drug problems, no loser boyfriend or pimp. Each girl had a kind of persona--sex kitten, earth mother, grad student, biker chic, victim. I went with preppy girl next door. I gave great blow-jobs, didn't always make them wear a rubber, let some kiss me, faked great orgasms when I wasn't actually having one, listened endlessly, commiserated, told amazing stories, and was very very popular. I usually worked 4 days a week, preferably the day shift, on a good day I'd see 9 or 10 guys, a slow day maybe 3. I had a lot of regulars--lawyers, truck drivers, shrinks, clergy of every kind, a famous writer, old guys, regular guys. I averaged $1200 to $1400 a week. We did not have to kick back any to the desk. I saved my money, and invested it. Remember now, at this time, teachers were making maybe $15,000 a year. Most of my friends from college were making less than $200 a week. I wanted to buy a house, maybe open a restaurant. The two guys who owned the place were easy to get along with, not abusive, mostly just business men. Once in a while they'd hit a girl up for "extras," but overall they were benign. They pretty much left us alone. The girls more or less got along. We could wear what we wanted, some chose lingerie, some leotards or one piece swimsuits, I wore short shorts and heels (remember candies mules?) or in winter, boots. We read magazines, watched soaps, constantly ordered food, talked-talked-talked. If a girl fit in--didn't try to over charge, didn't overtly try to steal customers from other girls or take them "outside," did her share of the work, and didn't shoot drugs, she could stay. If not, we'd push her out. We were mostly in our 20's, but one was at least 50. All sizes, some very cute, some not. Some girls never had more than 1 or 2 guys a shift, some of us would have a lot of appointments and guys lined up, waiting. There were 5 girls on a shift and 4 rooms. The guy would pay for his time out front, come into the lounge and pick who he wanted, we'd put him in any available room and tell him to get undressed and to take a shower. They didn't always want to and that was up to the girl. No talking about "services" or money until they were naked. This was in case they were cops, but in the time I was there, we were never bothered, although I don't know why. I learned real quick to get the money up front. The rooms each had a large, solid massage table, a small table with a lamp, and a radio. There was a TV mounted up high and they could pay $5 extra to have a porn movie on, which most of the girls hated--it almost felt like competition, more than help. Sometimes, especially if it was their first time, we'd start out giving them the massage they were ostensibly there for. If he was a regular they'd just put the money on the table and we'd go from there. Some of the guys were really great--some had great bodies and were young and good looking, some were quick and easy, some wanted to go down on you. I would tolerate it briefly if they weren't so good at it (most), and lay back and enjoy it if they were. I got off a lot. If I didn't, I faked it. Either way, they loved it. For the fucking I liked to be on top--more control, but sometimes I'd let them do it doggy. I did not take it up the ass. Still, I was always in control. I tried to be patient, and would really work hard to get them off, but I would not let them pound me endlessly. I'd use my tits, I'd lick their balls, sometimes I'd end up having to jerk them off, many guys have a hard time coming. I wanted them to leave happy. If they were impossible to please, looking for trouble, drunk, coked up, or hateful, I'd get them out fast and wouldn't see them again. Sometimes, if I could see right from the beginning that we weren't going to get along, I'd try to get another girl to take them, or get them to go for a two-some. Usually in the two girl sessions we'd fake going down on each other, but there were always a few girls you could really do it with. Some guys were not so great. Cheap, grabby, hard to do, demanding, stinky, crude. They would try to get away with things by saying that another girl had done it, so you should too. We all got stuck doing these guys from time to time. I found that there seemed to be less problem guys, more older guys (easier) on the day shifts. Most times we'd finish and lay there talking until their time was up. Some guys were more interested in talking than getting off. Yes, we had the foot fetishists, the slaves, the others. These guys always had to pay extra, so most of us liked doing them. One guy, in particular, we all loved. We called him "park bench." He did not get undressed, he laid face down on the table, and the girl sat on him, naked, reading a magazine, not talking to him. After about 20 minutes he'd say thank-you, and that was it. I had a lot of regulars, and some that I really liked, that maybe not many other girls would. One guy who was in his 90's and couldn't afford much, he was a $20 hand job. He did get off, but not much came out. I worried when I didn't see him for a while. I had a very very fat guy, very smart interesting guy, he was not easy to do, but he was generous, and I liked him. More than one highly neurotic professor, and a very acerbic conductor (symphonies not trains) that was a very smart unhappy man--but fun to talk to. Some guys were almost like real lovers, I liked them, most of course were instantly forgettable. The worst things that happened to me? I got ripped off a couple of times, once by a girl, and I got crabs once which completely freaked me out. No diseases, no violence, no bad dreams. I always liked sex before selling it, and I still do. I have always felt good about myself. It has always seemed to me that it was more like being a therapist, albeit a very intimate one, than something dirty or immoral. I left this place for a trick (what he was as I didn't even like him) who set me up in a condo and gave me money to open a restaurant (I absconded). I worked as a very high end escort in NYC (big money, studio 54, drugs, some well known guys), ran my own service in South Florida for a year (a girl got raped and beat up--I closed the service), got married, got divorced, and am now back in the business. I live in a very hip, alternative, new-agey mountain town, where being 50ish is not the kiss of death for a woman. I'm calling it "intimate touch for healing and well-being." I found I missed it. Also, I grow organic vegetables.

I Feel More Alive

I became a working girl two and a half years ago, when I was twenty-one years old and in my senior year at a very prestigious U.S. university.

Money played a large part, though maybe not in the usual way. I grew up in an immigrant family with a father who had a Ph.D. but difficulty finding work in the States. As a child, I had all the love and intellectual stimulation in the world, but no money and no real sense of money. I went to public school, never ate out and always bought the cheapest clothes, but so did everyone else I knew. Clipping coupons was just what people did.

Then I went to Very Prestigious University. And my peers changed--they were now scions of privilege, people who hailed cabs without a second thought, flew home to their families in first class and thought nothing of dropping a couple hundred dollars on a dress. What I envied was not their material goods (being a daughter of a financially-strapped intellectual, you learn to look down on those who are too flashy with wealth) but their sense of ease. They never thought about money; I worried about money all the time. I didn't quite articulate it to myself at the time, but I wanted that freedom. I wanted to never think about money.

In my personal life, I had been dating an extraordinarily good man for the previous four years. He came from a background very similar to mine and we immediately understood each other. He was beautiful and smart and the sex was mind-blowing; to this day he ranks as one of the two best lovers I've ever had. There was every reason to marry him, and we were very much headed that way. But I was twenty-one, and I was itching to explore other sex partners and other relationships. For a while he put up with this. I wanted to sleep with girls; he let me. I wanted us to date other people; he grudgingly tried to oblige. But it wasn't enough.

So I became an expensive hooker. It wasn't that easy, of course--I did a lot of research by reading blogs and online forums, worked for an agency briefly, contacted a couple of women already in the business and made them my mentors. In retrospect, I was an excellent little aspiring whore. My college career counselor would have been proud.

For the most part, the men have been gentle and shy and they stirred very little feeling in me, either emotional or sexual. Occasionally I'd meet someone with whom I got along like gangbusters. In that way, it's very much like dating in the real world--nine times out of ten there's no spark, and once in a while you make fireworks.

But the experience itself is always, always fun. I love the ritual-like preparations: showering and shaving and smoothing myself with lotion; selecting the evening's lingerie; putting on eyeliner and doing up my hair while admiring my mostly-naked self in the mirror; throwing condoms, lube, and breath mints into my purse; slipping on my clothes and heels and running out the door to hail a cab.

I'm always dressed a little better than I would be for a real-life date. I'm always a little quicker to laugh, a little more patient and empathetic a listener. It's like being on stage, playing a girl who's just a little more seductive and interesting than yourself. I honed my sexual skills and I loved that too, loved being able to make a stranger's toes curl. Sometimes I didn't succeed, sometimes I could tell that he was disappointed in me, but that happened only two or three times.

The whole time I'm with a client, I'm at a heightened state of awareness. I pay more attention to all my senses and do everything with more care, and in the process I feel more alive.

And then I'm in a cab again, driving home with a nice heft of hundred-dollar bills in my purse. I get home, strip, climb into bed, and masturbate. In part this is because I've got leftover lust--I orgasm easily but it takes a lot to fully satisfy me. In part it's because the whole experience turns me on, and in part it's a kind of reclaiming of my body. At the end of the day, my cunt belongs to me and I'm the one who gets to enjoy it. After I'm done, I lie in bed naked and count the cash. It's crazy and surreal and beautiful.

Of all the things I've done in my short life, this may be the one of which I'm most proud. It's because I've done it entirely for the right reasons. Most of the choices I've made in my life--studying hard, going to a good school, getting on a proper career path--have been at least in part to fulfill the expectations of others, and this has been one-hundred-percent for me. I've been successful and now I have enough investments and such that I never have to worry about money again the way I once did. Two and a half years ago, the world of money and privilege still intimidated the hell out of me, despite my pedigreed education. Now I feel like I can traverse that world with ease.

My relationship ended shortly after I started working; I told him and he was appalled. Fortunately, we have since managed to create a strong friendship out of that wreckage. I've told two girlfriends what I do and both have been incredibly supportive. Recently, I've started dating another man who I've also risked telling about my secret life (the other one of the two best lovers I've ever had). His reaction was better than I dared to hope for--a little titillated, a little turned on, mostly very happy that I'm opening up to him. We're still seeing each other.

I am now twenty-three and trying to coax myself into retirement. I worry daily about the fallout to my family and my budding career if this should come out. I am terrified about the possibility of my picture being splashed across the tabloids, a la Ashley Dupré. I worry about the impossibility of ever sustaining a serious relationship as a working girl. But the experience is so seductive, it's hard to leave. I've resolved to retire soon, and I know I'll miss it.

I Felt Like Being Destructive

Just out of college and mad about my loans, I moved in with my sister and her fiancé and started looking for a job. It took me about a week to land three part-time jobs that I hated and did not pay enough. The “bad boy” I had fallen in love with had just stepped out of my life, and I had replaced him by dating an “Average Joe” that I was sure would bore me to death.

In my post-college slump, I felt like my life was in the drain. I had three crappy part-time jobs, my checking account was overdrawn, so I started browsing for “exotic dancer” want ads. In college, I had worked as a stripper in a sort of rinky-dink club for about two months and loved the dancing. The money was great for a part-time job, and it catered to my love for being the center of attention.

Now that I was in a new city, the area strip clubs were more plentiful. I went to one “audition” (which, for a stripper, means taking off all of your clothes on stage and dancing in front of customers so the management can see if you are for real and that you can bring in some cash). The club was so low-brow I was shocked. The girls were snorting coke in the dressing room, and the bouncers seemed more malicious and oversexed than the customers. I did not go back to the place. Instead, I went home and surfed the web in the hopes I would find the job of my dreams: something that required a B.A. in English, did not take up all my time, was fun and paid well.

I remembered a roommate I had in college who signed up as an escort through an online service. She was a pale, mousy thing who often concocted wild schemes but never followed them through. She had set up a date with a guy, got a cash advance and charged him a hundred dollars an hour. She wimped out at the last minute, though, and never showed up to meet him. Remembering this episode, I decided I could and would go through with it.

Quietly, so as not to wake up my sister, in my bedroom in the middle of the night I set up my digital camera and used the timer to take photos of myself in my underwear. I posted them up on an escort website along with my prices (a whopping $200/hour, which I figured was worth asking, since I have real red hair) and called myself Kitty. The next day, I was shocked to get an email from a guy who wanted to meet me at a hotel, then a voice mail from another guy who wanted me to come to his condo. They kept calling me. Apparently, asking $200 an hour was not outrageous. They were figuratively knocking down my door.

My first escort “date” was with a guy who called himself Tim, and I led him to believe that I had done this before. I drove two hours to his house in a snowstorm. I was driving white-knuckled in anticipation of what I was about to do, but I managed to play it pretty cool once I got to his place. He was middle-aged, divorced and had a daughter that he never saw. He was pretty average looking--balding, in OK shape. We didn’t talk for too long and really just got down to it.

I don’t want to seem flippant when I talk about the sex. There was nothing special about it except for the fact that it was the first time in my young life that I was actually literally prostituting myself. In my head, I was constantly waffling between being overly dramatic about the way I was compromising myself, and being blasé about the fact that everyone in the world sluts themselves out for money in some way, shape, or form--therefore, what I was doing was just fine. It was as terrifying an act as it was thrilling and rebellious. I could imagine myself continuing to work in this business just to “get off” on the danger. There are many unknowns, so there is no way that you can feel assured of your safety. In retrospect, my opinion of prostitution is that it is fine if you have straightened it out in your head as to why you are doing it and what you get out of it, but you are risking your safety and your health. Can you charge a price high enough to compensate for that?

And the sex was nothing I remember anything about. He left his television muted on CNN the whole time. I was shocked when he asked me if he could fuck me without using a condom. How can someone even consider not using a condom with a woman who does it for a living? Once we got that issue... covered, we finally got down to having sex. My biggest concern was that I had very little experience and that it would show (I had only had sex a couple other times in my life). It turns out that most men don’t notice. Faking the big orgasm is a must--easy enough; you don’t need to be a prostitute to be good at that. My next worry was that I would not be able to fill in a full two hours of time with sexual entertainment. It was not that hard. Most people are easy enough to talk to, and once the sex is over it is just pillow talk and back rubs. Two hours went by, he actually handed me $400 in cash, and I was on my way.

My first experience not a bad one. Aside from an almost overwhelming sense of danger the whole time, it went well. I got paid and the guy was decently nice. So, I did it again.

The next guy I met with was Bob, who lived just around the corner from the minimum wage job I was working. It was a dumb risk, but at this point I was on my second escort job and feeling confident enough (though still terrified) to consider just quitting my shitty job and selling my snatch to make a living. I could work for two hours and make more money than I could make in a week slinging coffee. Bob was at least four inches shorter than me and had a thing for tall women. Dominatrix sort of stuff. I didn’t really bring any props, but I acted the part and he loved it--a little too much. He came all over his bed only fifteen minutes into our scheduled hour. So, I filled up the rest of the time sitting on his back, giving him a half-assed back rub while I told him fictional tales of my life. Easiest $200 ever! I didn’t even have to have sex with him.

This job being even easier than the first just paved the way, and I continued to land jobs that month. The list of new numbers in my cell phone was getting confusing, so I started organizing all my clients by preceding their names with Jon: JonBrian, JonTim, JonRob... I did not meet with half of the dozens of men who contacted me, but enough jobs panned out that I was doing very well. Most of my clients lived at least an hour away from me, many were divorced, and some were still married. JonPete was a machinist who could not stand his wife and kids. JonTim liked women who acted childlike and naïve and wore black lacy underwear.

After two months of this, I started scheduling dates with men and then not showing up for them. My relationship with Average Joe was getting more serious, and I was really starting to like him. Naturally, I was beginning to feel really bad about fucking men for money while dating a really nice guy who deserved to be treated better. I also was starting to get real about why I was fucking men for money. I had been feeling rejected by a former lover, and I was angry for being in debt and was discovering that my college degree was essentially worthless. I felt like being destructive.

My last job scared me out of it for good. It was something set up with a guy named Carl, who I was meeting in a motel. We first started talking over email, and he spent a lot of time haggling over the price of an hour. He wanted to just get 45 minutes. He wanted me to give him a discount for gas since he had to drive so far to meet me. I should have dropped it as soon as he began to try and get me for a bargain. But, we arranged to meet. We settled on a full hour and I would charge him $175 (to make up for the room he had to rent).

He was a short bald man with a big spare tire around his middle and smelled like cigarettes. I showed up at the door of his motel room in jeans and a tank top and dark sunglasses. It is hard not to imagine myself in a movie scene: a tall beautiful redhead strides up to room number 16 in four-inch black stilettos. A seedy looking Jon opened the door a crack and then let her in...

We started off our meeting by playing a little strip poker. His idea was that since I did not know how to play poker, I would quickly be down to my laceys and we would be on our way to sex. Somehow, though, I managed to kick his butt at Texas Hold ‘Em, and he ended up sitting at the table in his boxers and socks while I had only removed my top. The sight of him sitting there with his belly hanging over his boxers and his hairy chest was less than appealing. After twenty minutes of cards, we decided that it might be a good idea to quit playing poker and just get busy. I pulled off my jeans and left my heels on while he got all heated up watching me while he was touching himself.

There really wasn’t anything odd about what he was doing, but I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable (this was a first for me). I continued to play along, though. He asked if he needed to wear a condom. (I have since discovered that about half of the men I was with would ask this.) I put the rubber on him, and then he spun me around and pushed me up against the dresser. The force of this maneuver was unexpected, but as I was pressed up against the motel mirror, I continued to play along, all the while feeling more freaked out. He tried to get me to let him fuck me in the ass, and I had to struggle to avoid it. It was starting to feel more like a violation than a situation that I was in control of. I was thrown across the bed and he fucked me doggy-style (but at least not in the ass). I was scared, but I didn’t let on, and I continued to play the seductive hooker right up until I left his hotel room with my envelope of cash.

I did not get hurt, I did not get any diseases, and I came out of that experience a little bit shaken, but intact. It was a wake-up call, though. I have always had confidence in my physical strength and my wits to keep myself safe, but just a small taste of how quickly I might get overcome if I wasn’t on my guard was what made me decide to quit. Now it is three years later, and I live with the guy I was dating when I started working as an escort. I did eventually tell him that I had been sleeping with men for money, and our relationship survived that revelation.