I Figured, What The Hell

My introduction to the biz went down like this: I was boning this guy who would come up from Montreal every weekend and eventually I started seeing someone more local and so the last time that he came to see me I told him I didn't want to see him any more and he asked me if I'd considered ever doing it for money. At the time I figured, what the hell, I've already slept with this guy and now he wants to pay me. Works for me. It was such an ego trip. I branched out after that and started posting ads online whenever I needed money for anything. I discovered that I both enjoyed it and it was not what I had expected at all (sometimes it is exactly what I expected). Most of my johns are middle-aged men with beer bellies who are unhappy with their wives, or are out-of-town on business. They are, on the whole, pretty boring to talk to, but that is what they all want. To talk and then be seduced by a sexy twenty-something. And I am exceptionally good at making them believe that I am genuinely interested, that I'm not faking it (sometimes I'm not), that I really love it when you call me "sweetie" (this is probably my least favourite thing to be called during a session, my Dad calls me sweetie, not good associations). I really shouldn't complain, at $200 an hour you can call me whatever you want. My story isn't full of horribly degrading acts done in the desperation of drug addiction. I'm not from a broken home and my parents are still married. I take pride in doing my job well and leaving my clients satisfied. When I was reviewed the first time, for an online escort review forum, I remember being nervous knowing that the guy was going to write one and was thinking of all the possibly negative things he might mention, like that ingrown hair, or my calloused feet. I was totally obsessing over it. But the review was glowing, as were all the ones that came after it. It isn't a great feeling knowing that you are being evaluated sexually and that your looks, hygiene and even your location (of the incall) are up for criticism. I'm not sure my how my ego would react if I was ever reviewed negatively. It'd be a blow to my self-esteem to be sure. But my reviews speak of me as I wish I was (without acting). I often have trouble seeing what others see as positive in me (even in my personal life) and while the reviews do boast of my carnal skills and my good-looks, they also discuss my fun-loving personality and intelligence. Part of me does this to boost a self-esteem that isn't always there and the other part of me enjoys the power in it all. That is, having something that men want and then making them pay for it. Or alternatively, throwing their money in their face. Figuratively-speaking. I call the shots and if you don't like it, go elsewhere. That and I could never bring myself to work a legit, 9-5 job. I'm 25, I figure I'll do it for a few more years, prove to people that it should be decriminalized here, make some bank (so that I have something to show for it, if my parents ever found out) and get out before it eats me up inside.

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 Decided That This Was a Weird Moral Decision to Make Anyway

My story as a working girl is an ongoing one, and somewhat less than textbook, though, to be honest, I have no idea what the textbook case is.

About me: I am nineteen years old, good-looking, with a great figure, enough to do modelling now and again when I feel like it. Guys buy my drinks, drive me home and light my cigarettes. So why oh why, you might wonder, did a girl like me turn to being an escort?

The reason is simple: money. I have a student loan and an overdraft to pay off, along with rather large phone bills (what being a sociable person gets you), and a miserable part-time job in a bar that has, up until now, paid minimum wage. Full-time work is near impossible to find, and there is no way that I can drink, smoke and get around on sixty a week; the taxi home from work costs ten alone. I know that might contradict the previous paragraph, but I do like to be independent sometimes.

Another thing is that since becoming sexually active, I have become somewhat cynical of men and their motives. I’m good in bed, I instinctively know what to do and how to do it, and men love it. And after being used in the past, I have decided that I’m going to use them as well; might as well get something out of it, rather than waiting for the phone to ring!

As well as that, I do not see prostitution as a stigma, like some people do. I have always been for the legalisation of the profession; after all, it is jokingly referred to as ‘the oldest job in the world’, and every joke has a grain of truth to it. If it has existed for so long, wagging your finger at it is not going to make it go away all of a sudden. And what is so bad about it? Why has having casual sex become acceptable, yet charging for it is not? And why consistently put women in danger of mugging, sexually transmitted infections and bodily harm for doing nothing but using their body to earn money? There are far worse ways, like robbery, or conning a charity. And what about trafficking?

But I digress; I am not here to debate the legalisation or to tell you all about the dangers that working girls go through; I am sure you must have heard about it at some point. Moving on to yours truly, I am a fully fledged Internet addict (not much else to do all week), so I registered on a website that is an adult version of personal ads sites, where people register and look for people to have sex with. My profile looks for someone ‘generous’ and ‘non-judgemental’ to ‘help me pay off my overdraft’, and I have no face photos on there – after all, I do know a lot of people, and being seen on there soliciting would do me no good.

I also posted an ad on Craigslist, which is slightly more problematic, because as opposed to being click on the sender and being taken to their profile detailing their location, interests, photos etc, I have to ask people for this before I begin sending photos.

Within days, I’ve had numerous interest from both sites, from old men and guys that were married to their jobs, and guys that wanted webcam fun (no way in hell), and weirdos, and guys whose fantasy was to pay a girl for sex. I spent some time oscillating between telling myself I couldn’t afford to be picky and if they were paying for it then there was no reason to discriminate, and feeling disgusted at the thought of sleeping with some of them. In the end I decided that this was a weird moral decision to make anyway and there was no reason to begin to hate myself in the process by having sex with people that made my skin crawl.

I’ve never done this sort of thing before, so I didn’t really know how to go about the whole safety thing, but I used common sense, suggesting hotels and using my intuition – a useful tool that many women ignore, and better to be safe than sorry! Prices-wise, I looked at the guy and asked for either a hundred, hundred and fifty or two hundred, without a set timeframe though. Most of them wanted to go for a drink or two before the ‘main event’, which was fine by me, as I am generally quite an aloof and standoffish person, and need alcohol to warm up. One person moaned about a hundred and suggested sixty, to which I replied that a) I was not a street walker and b) I did not make deals or negotiate. Others had no problem with two hundred and paying for the hotel.

The only difficult thing for me is to be nice to people who are genuinely stupid, through no fault of their own, just a lack of brain cells, and to be forthcoming to guys in general. My general stance is to be slightly sceptical of them, to be sarcastic and to make them feel slightly insecure; here, I have to laugh at their lame jokes and pretend to find them adorable because I feel like I have to. It’s hard to explain but I guess the basic idea is that I don’t suck up to men, ever, and now I have to be nice to them. It’s a novel way to behave for me!

My first john was a guy called S, that looked a bit stupid but not particularly ugly in his photo; he was from the personals website. He was fine with a hundred and fifty. We arranged to meet in a car park, and I was about half an hour late because I was staying at the house of the guy I was seeing – shock horror, how unprofessional! I know I mentioned staying in a hotel and letting people know where I was, but who could know where I was? Besides, I knew the town I was going to well and could make my way to the train station if anything happened.

We went back to his and had a few drinks (me, as he had to drive), chatted about things and then there was that awkward moment where he clearly wanted to move things on but didn’t want to throw me on the bed and I was at the “oh my god, what am I doing?” stage, but we moved on. The sex was fine, he clearly loved it (the words ‘incredible’ etc featured a lot) and I wasn’t really complaining. He went to take money out of his bank account (should have asked for it up front, I know) and it wouldn’t come out, so he gave me his iPod as something to keep until he got it, and indeed I did get it a few days later.

Now he wants to take me to dinner before going back to his, and I’m thinking, isn’t this not what men do with call girls? It seems a bit formal, and not my thing, and to be honest I don’t want anything to do with him other than getting paid – not because he paid for it the first time round, but because we have nothing in common and he doesn’t particularly entice me as a person.

I’m seeing a guy right now that doesn’t know about this side of my life, and I’m not going to tell him. I want to discuss things with him soon – if he wants a relationship, then I will stop this immediately and try to pay off my overdraft the ‘honest’ way, and if he doesn’t then I will carry on. That way, I have a backup either way…

I'd Settle For Somewhere Between Monogamy And Full Blown Prostitution

I'm not sure how I first got addicted to casual sex ads online. I think I'd been a single lesbian for so long that I was sick of everything – sick of the label "lesbian" and curious about men, and sick of having no sex life.

I started sleeping with fairly safe ordinary vanilla married men that I found on Craigslist and other sites. I screened them carefully – phoning them at work, getting real life details that I passed on to my friends so they always knew whom I was with. It really was a grand experiment. But I loved the thrill of it all and it wasn't long before I was seeing kinkier guys, and engaging in more extreme situations such as partner swapping and threesomes. I came to have a regular lover and we even explored swinging parties.

All of this boosted my self-esteem, my sex drive and my joy in living. I always had a smile on my face. I posed for a lesbian sex magazine as a centrefold – even though I was a size 16. I felt like I'd claimed my body and its sexuality. I started wondering if really I was bisexual.

Most of the time it an amazing journey. On the odd occasion, it was dull-as-dishwater sex with men who really bored me and had no skill in the bedroom. During those moments, I did wonder what the difference was between myself and a prostitute. After all, I was sleeping with men I didn't care for, that I'd met on-line, and would never have emotional attachments to. The only real difference was that I wasn't getting any cash at the end of the hour.

I started to put some of my own ads on-line – seeking dinner and drinks before sex, or even a sugar daddy arrangement. None of this I thought qualified me as a pro. Then I received an interesting offer. $1500 for my "anal virginity."

I considered the offer carefully, and talked to a few trusted friends. I found out that once of my friends did have a secret whoring past, while another admitted to working in a brothel as a "receptionist." I was surprised. I decided they seemed well adjusted enough, and that I'd take the money. I emailed the guy to say I'd be up for it. But he never came through with a time or date, and I eventually figured he was stringing me along in exchange for the few naked photos I'd sent.

Figuring I'd already come so far, I posted ads for my services – marketing myself as a curvy F cup, bisexual prostitute. I asked for an outrageous rate, about $2000 an hour, and planned to book a hotel room in a different city for a few days to see how it all went. The emails flowed thick and fast – but none of my potential johns could match the $2000 an hour – apparently the going rate for a BBW woman was about $200, even if she was bisexual and double-degree educated!

I thought about it. $200 an hour didn't actually seem like a lot of money, considering I was earning about $1000 a week just to work in an office. And working in an office was at least a job I felt I could admit to. So I didn't go through with it. Mostly because I didn't think the money would compensate for the stress of a secret life on the side.

Two years down the track, and I'm in a monogamous relationship with another woman. I do love her, but I'm sexually frustrated, miss sleeping with men, and miss the excitement of online hook-ups. I'm glad I never actually accepted cash-for-sex but wish I could negotiate some middle ground of excitement. I'd settle for somewhere between monogamy and full-blown prostitution.

I Figured This Would Be A Little Psychological Experiment

I did not consider myself as a former sex worker until I began reading these blogs from women just like myself. Actually, I don't know if you would consider me as a former "sex" worker. I sold my voice, imagination, and an image instead of my body. Plus size girls don't exactly have a niche carved out for them in the high-priced escort business. Not that I know of anyway!

I was putting myself through college when a chance meeting with a new friend put me in the phone sex path. She told me all about it, and it sounded so new. I went to a private school my entire life and had always been very interested in sex and the psychology of it. I figured this would be a little psychological experiment. Little did I know that I would end up evaluating why I was fucked in the head instead of strange men who wanted me to talk about fucking them up the ass with a carrot.

My friend was giving me a pep talk before my first night. "Make them feel special." "Keep note cards on what they like." "Stay with the same story about how you lost your virginity so no one knows you are lying." I made $300 my first weekend. $300! For just talking! I could not believe it. I was addicted. Literally.

I could not stop. If I was ever away from that phone, all I would be thinking about was when I would be getting back. The money was my drug. I was with a guy, and he knew what I was doing. He was cool with it, but we never saw each other. I became a shell of myself.

I was hearing things from my Johns that I had no idea existed. From men wanting me to laugh at how small their penises were to men wanting me to talk about them getting fucked by a bunch of black men. Men would talk about beating me. I would get calls from all over the world. Some men just wanted to talk, though.

After a while of doing that I realized I had to stop because I was not living my life for me. I was living for the money.

Then the bomb dropped. It had been happening all along, but I had just noticed it after I quit. I was completely and utterly disgusted with having sex. Whenever my boyfriend touched me, I would push him away. The thought of having sex was revolting. I could not stop thinking about how dirty I felt.

I am not saying that anyone who is or has been a sex worker should feel dirty. I think it comes down to the fact that I, myself, felt cheap, in a way. Maybe if I were making the big bucks in the city, I would feel different... Just kidding.

To this day, I am still very open with talking about sex. I still find sex and the psychology of it interesting. I even toy with the idea of being a sexologist. I am now about to marry to the guy I was dating back then. And, my family has no idea that this was ever a part of my life. And, yes, my fiance can touch me without me trying to kick him in the balls.

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.