I Am A Christian

I am a 37 year old mom with 3 children ages 15,5, and 3. through a recent seperation i found myself in need of a job and no money for daycare. I love my computer and love to "play" online and so i decided what the hell, i could get paid to do this. So a year ago i started my webcam modeling career. The pay is good but not outstanding. The work hours are flexable but i work after the kids are in bed and so i am tired most of the day and have very little time to really enjoy my kids. It is not garenteed work and i spend many hours online just hangin' out in my chat room talking to the guys who beg for free shows or who are drunk and just want to spout off mean stupid stuff to a woman. I am engaged and my fiance' supports me in this job but he is unable to live with me. Many nights i get off work and have been satisfying all these guys with what they want and don't get what i want. It is basically 4 hours of bad sex. After that you are ready for some real physical action with a real person. That being said it ended up putting a stain on my relationship anyway despite all my efforts. Work is consuming my time and therefore i don't have, or don't take the time to persue other intrests. When i do have friends over the conversation ends up turning to sex because that is what i live and breathe. My fantasies are getting more off the wall and i have even resorted to seeking satisfaction from others outside of my relationship. Don't get me wrong, most nights i enjoy what i do and some of the stuff i do is so crazy and funny that i can't wait to tell my fiance' or his friends, but the twist is, do they really want to know about it. The good part of the whole thing is that i have learned a great deal about myself, my limits, my interests, my needs. The bad side is that i have discovered that my needs keeps going up a level the longer i do this. This story has no ending. I am still doing it until something better comes along. Not sure how or even if i should get out of it. I am able to justify the job by telling myself that it is legal and it is safe. That i am saving money in work expenses by not having to leave my home to go to work. I am not sure what the ending is going to be. I am a Christian so i pray to God that it will be a happy one.

I Am Just An Ordinary Woman With The Knack Of Making People Love And Trust Me

I am not terribly good at writing letters, which is strange because my day job is one for which I write constantly. I am a journalist call girl. Or at least I was, until recently. I met someone. I quit before he had a chance to ask me to. It's just easier that way.

I think at this juncture, I should defend the men that came to see me. There was nothing wrong with them, and they were not perverts. Most of my clients were single, unhappily married or married to a person that couldn't understand their needs. One even had a wife with cancer. I know you're probably thinking that he's the worst of all, but sex is important. He needed the comfort and solace of flesh against flesh, and in today's society, the only way to get the flesh against flesh comfort is sex.

I guess my role as a sex worker was to reclaim the human contact that has been lost with our island centric way of living. When was the last time you truly just held a person that wasn't your lover with no thoughts of the sensuality of the situation? Touch used to be a very important thing for people. We want to be touched. We need to be touched. Truth be told, I did more pillow talk snuggling with my clients than anything else. Even the submissive clients, after their fill of their fetish, wanted to be cherished. The older men and the lonely men, which seemed to go hand in hand, raced through coitus and settled down for the rest of their time with my head on their chest to talk about their days. This is not the behaviour of deviants and perverts. This is the behaviour of a person reaching out for affection.

I think our world is in a sad state when a man, in order to get the affection, touch and attention that he requires for his mental well being, has to go to a sex worker. I will concede that some men's fetishes are a little too hot to hold for me, but on the whole, nothing that I consented to was so weird that the asker thereof should have a look of shame and disgust on his face as he asked it. I know you probably think that I'm desensitized to sexual weirdness, but a blow job is not weird. Men were ashamed of blow jobs. That was the taboo activity. Some men were even ashamed to enjoy girl on top coitus. Is our world so upside down that for a man to enjoy a woman in a seat of power is wrong?

I know my thoughts have been all over the place, but it's hard to write about these things without being outraged and a little mixed up. I also realize that I've said very little about me. Well, there's very little to tell. At first I needed the money, then I wanted the money. After the thoughts of the money dried up in my head, I turned myself to analysing my clients. In them I found a rich burial ground of feelings. They felt neglected, used, put upon and some other things that make me wish I went to school for psychiatry instead of journalism.

I am just an ordinary woman with the knack of making people love and trust me. These were just men who needed to love somebody who would let them. It's all so simple. Not complicated in the least. There were no perversions too perverse to get in the way of the trusting bond that was needed. Women suffer out loud, and men suffer in silence. Until we allow men to suffer out loud, many a wife will wonder where her husband is during his lunch hour, and in my opinion, a lot of those wives deserve it. (Not all of those wives.)

Of course, my life as a pampered call girl was a little different than the life of a pimped girl. I had the comfort of working in my own home and the freedom to choose with whom I slept. I wouldn't trade my experience for the world. My life as a hooker taught me all about the many faces of love and truth. Not to mention, I can curl a man's toes without even trying. I am proud of me.

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 Knew Deep In My Teenage Heart That Whores Were Blessed With The Secret Key To True Love

Whores always fascinated me, even as a young woman. They were so gutsy and independent, dark and a little dangerous. They possessed a mysterious sexual knowledge, presumably from the ancient Orient, and got to wear the coolest outfits: thigh-high red vinyl boots and sexy garter belts. They lived in fancy penthouses with white shag carpeting and slept all day. I knew deep in my teenage heart that whores were blessed with the secret key to true love: they could make any man fall in love with them with a single, mind-bending blow-job. Oh god, would I ever be good enough to be a beautiful hooker?

Unfortunately, there weren’t many hookers or pimps in the small college town where I grew up, so I began stealing books on prostitution from the local college library. My panties would get totally wet reading page after page about these cocky women who so easily embraced being sexual criminals. I would fantasize about moving to LA or New York and getting caught by a famous pimp, most likely at a bus stop. He’d romance me with his smooth rap and in no time at all make me his "bottom bitch." I would make one bad-ass hooker.

It wasn’t long before I discovered there actually were hookers and pimps in my hometown, and I began working at a gentleman’s club as a hostess. That lasted a week, and I started turning tricks. It wasn’t quite as I had romanticized it, and I was both thrilled and terrified most of the time. A few months later, I actually did get caught by a pimp passing through town, who took me first to Phoenix to learn how to work the streets and then to Hollywood. It was 1978.

Working the streets in the 70s was a lot of different than it is now. My stable sisters and I would dress like the models we saw in magazines, and my pimp Woody would drop us off on various streets to work long shifts. There were all sorts of rules: never smoke on the stroll (it wasn’t classy, although apparently sucking cock in some random motel room was), never talk to another pimp’s girls, and so on.

Eventually, the glamor wore off and the stress of the job, the weirdo tricks, and the fear and shame took over and I had to stay mildly drunk just to get through the day. I got mugged by another pimp when I broke a cardinal rule about not getting in another pimp’s car. I talked my way out of it and started hiding out in hotel lounges instead of working. Woody threatened to drown me in the Pacific Ocean. By the end of the year, I had had enough, returned home, enrolled in college and got married.

Flash-forward twenty-some years later. Divorced, mid-40s, single mom with two kids in a good career that just didn’t pay the bills. I started going to open mics with my poetry about my days as a hooker and met P. there. She, too, was an ex-hooker, and we became friends. In three years after my divorce, I fucked fifty-seven guys (almost all one-night stands), and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. P. and I started doing a lot of sex worker activism together, and pretty soon all my girlfriends were either former or current hookers, strippers and porn actors. P. decided to start escorting again, even though she was in her 40s like me. She was making money hand over fist, and it took a few more years, but I decided to give it a shot. I made a contract for myself that included such things as, "I will stay sober," "I will process my experience with others," and "I will never sacrifice my safety for money."

I’ve been an internet escort now for almost three years. I’m approaching fifty, am forty pounds overweight, attractive, and am still somewhat surprised by how much money I make. I charge as much as the younger, "hotter" girls do, and I have a total niche. While the young chicks and I share a lot of the same clients, I tend to get the ones who aren’t comfortable with the younger girls, or who want a mature woman with sexual experience. When I’m in bed with a client, I often get a sense of total bliss. I feel so incredibly blessed and lucky. I was born for whoring, it’s my true life’s calling. Working as a whore has been an incredibly empowering experience for me, the money of which is not the least of that, and my only regret is that I struggled financially for so long as a single mom until I started escorting.

I’m currently dating a former client who pays my bills, gives me a steady flow of cash and just bought me a car. He loves the fact that I’m a whore. It’s a turn-on for him. I’ll probably always work to some degree, whether I need the money or not. I just can’t imagine ever being chained to one penis for the rest of my life. It just wouldn’t seem fair.

I Wanted to Fuck Like a Man

I became a "working girl" because an odd confluence of events in my life.

First, my fiance left me, quite abruptly, for a stripper. I was, of course, traumatized. I needed to get my mind off him, and entering a series of forbidden encounters with relatively anonymous men seemed like the only thing immersing enough to do the job. It was perhaps a way to punish him (he knew what I was doing, and felt awful about it), and was also a strange way to remain attached to him. When I started, I'd find an aspect of the men I was seeing that reminded me of him, and focus on it completely. Essentially, I wanted to fuck like a man, but as a woman, I needed an extra constraint so as not to become emotionally involved, particularly so in my delicate state.

Additionally, I was fascinated by the stripper he'd left me for. We'd had lunch. By Western Beauty Standards, she was much less beautiful than I (although her body was pretty fucking fantastic). But there was this certain way that she was sexual: she felt powerful, in control, confidant, like she knew every crevice of her sexual being. She was, quite obviously, a professional. I was an amateur then. I didn't know a thing. I wanted to be a professional too.

My background played a part as well, no doubt. I come from a very wealthy family, and most of the women in my family married, at least in a large part, for the money. I felt pressure to, and yet rebellious at the idea. This seemed the perfect compromise: I'd shatter the rescue fantasy and sell the pieces on the open market.

And, I think what was most important of all is that a good friend of mine had started dating a high-class Manhattan call girl. It normalized the endeavor for me: knowing someone else, not so different than myself, was partaking and enjoying partaking.

My experience: I loved it. I loved every second of it.

My only moments of guilt come from the risk of someday my activities becoming public in a way that would harm my legitimate career that I've worked very hard for and greatly enjoy. Also, I fear that my someday-husband might not be able to tolerate my sordid past. But those are anxieties produced by societies' view of the endeavor.

I did worry about disease too. But I was always safe, and really wasn't all that promiscuous: I did very high-end work, and usually only had about four clients at a time, all in long-term relationships. I would get tested frequently, and never caught a thing. By this point, I think the risk of disease is serious, but inflated: it's probably safer to be a call girl than have a one-night stand. In the industry, there's an economic imperative compelling safe behavior whereas off the clock I think things quite often get sloppy (if my girlfriend's stories are representative).

I did break up one marriage during my time, which I will forever regret (I had been being unprofessional), but I know that I saved at least four marriages, and strengthened many more.

For me, it was just incredible: I met men and woman that I adore and will be lifelong friends; I had lots of exciting sex and interesting conversations; I traveled everywhere; I put myself through graduate school without debt while buying all the expensive lingerie I pleased. Mainly, I just learned a lot about myself: I learned what I really wanted in a relationship; I learned how to set boundaries; I learned to be seductive; I learned how to care less and love more. Most importantly, I learned what type of sex I liked. I learned to have mind-blowing sex almost all the time, with anyone -- turns out it's a skill, not a matter of chemistry. Previously, I thought I'd had good sex, but I was wrong; I didn't have much to compare it too, and I didn't even have a clue about how fantastic sex can be. I learned how to please men, and I learned how to please myself.

Of course, I now know that my ex-fiance was all wrong for me, and I dodged a bullet there. I also have a strange equanimity about my future ability to have a happy marriage. Well, it will be difficult to find someone compatible -- I'm an odd mix of completely conservative and wildly wanton -- but once I do I feel that I have a copious amount of knowledge about the psychic dynamics of imperfect marriages and all the skill needed to avoid one.