I Was A 35 Yr Old Single Mom

I was a 35 yr old single mom who did not receive child support payments the court had ordered. I made money as a personal trainer, a yoga instructor, a bikini bar dancer and a stripper. After being injured and out of work long enough to go through my savings, I found my self in a desperate position. While placing my perishables in my neighbor’s refrigerator and freezer (the power was cut off in my apt. ) I felt desperate & ashamed, but thank goodness, I was pretty.

That night, I left my son with my neighbor and dragged myself into the bikini bar. Once there I got dressed, hit the floor and immediately ran into a good looking, lighter haired, younger version of Richard Gere. He was my age, happily married to a beautiful woman who graduated from the university I dreamed of attending. He was a successful, upper middle class businessman.

We had instant chemistry and an ease you usually reserve for close friends. I told him point blank, “I need $300 to get my electricity turned back on”. He made some silly joking response and told me he would cover it, I went further with him in the VIP than I’d ever gone before, allowing him to touch my breast through my clothing and feeling him up as well. By the end of the night, I had the $300 and his phone number. He left with the knowledge that I enjoyed sex and needed help financially. We started seeing each other about once a week, at my apt. when he was supposed to be on his way to work. He didn’t like to have a set amount, so I would let him know what I needed and for what and he would give me the money. In his mind, I guess that made me a girlfriend or mistress instead of a whore. His wife got pregnant and had a child during our time together. I moved to a better neighborhood and he helped with the move and rent. We talked like really good friends, but, toward the end, I was rude and mean just to get rid of him.

I’m not sure what I was thinking when I finally pushed him out of my life, but, soon enough after that, I was out of money and driving to Vegas after a full year of not stripping, begging the manager to let me work his busy shift. I was driving my broke-assed vehicle and singing along fervently with the song lyrics, “Send me an Angel”.

I changed the lyrics and sang out the window, “Send me an angel that can help me get out of debt! Help me get a safe car to drive my kid to school and back! Help me pay for the tools and classes that I need to get better work as an artist! Help me pay for tutoring for my son and healthy groceries and clothes that don’t smell like the last person who owned them even after we wash them again and again!!!! Help me! Help!!!!”

The first customer I ran into was that angel. He was 58 and I was 36. He was a short, successful businessman who liked to take care of and rescue women.

I didn’t have sex with him that night, or the next, I was playing the good girl that I actually was- in another dimension. I went to a party with him, then to his place, then to breakfast, then shopping for clothes and shoes. He gave me his huge beautiful, shiny new spare SUV to drive home to my son and enough cash to cover my rent for the month. By the time I had sex with him, he had given me a credit card with my name on it, a full wardrobe, I had met his friends and colleagues. I cum easy, so the sex is never bad, but, with him it wasn’t great, just good. Of course he never knew that, especially when I ejaculated (I cum easy). I loved the way he treated me, but, was not in love with him. In fact, I could barely stand him. He was a white republican and I was not. I was infiltrating the world of greedy, white, socially conservative men while fully taking advantage of his adoration for my body. I was his whore, though he would have called me his girlfriend, for 8 months. I once counted up all the things I had him purchase, my rent, the cash and the credit card bill and realized I had earned over 150,000 in that 8 months of companionship and sex with a man I didn’t love or care about. I joined a sort of escort service (really just a rich freak who liked to set up older men with hot women) after that and went on 5 or 6 "dates" for anywhere from $500 $1,000 until the tools I had acquired and the skills I had developed (creative computer software) allowed me to start a career in the new media industry. I'm in my 40's now and single. I miss the sex, the power and the instant money of the days I sold my sexuality.

To this day, I look at housewives and girlfriends who don’t pay their own way and wonder if they realize they are prostitutes.

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 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 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 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 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 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.

I Am 26

I am 26. I'm a grad student in New York. Internet men pay to spank me.

If I don't maintain certain grades, I lose my scholarship, and at the beginning of the semester I was flipping my shit about this one class, insisting I was going to fail and whatnot. I was wondering how I was going to pull three or six thousand dollars out of my ass, depending on how bad I did, and my friend said, "It's too bad you don't live upstate, because my friend Mary has a dude that pays her a fuckton of money to just spank her. No sex." So I had to figure that if Mary can find a dude like this upstate, there HAS to be people like this in NYC I can find. And I have a high tolerance for pain and a passing interest in spanking, so it was on.

I didn't even have to post on CL. In the erotic services section, there were even men that posted stating they were looking for that and would pay for it. So kind of on a whim (with a lot of encouragement from my friend that gave me the idea) I went into Manhattan to meet a southern banker who was in NYC for business. We agreed on half an hour but he seemed nervous and rushed me out after about 25 minutes. I really think he was suddenly feeling guilty about what he just did or I could be making that up because of whatever stereotypes I have in my head about clean-cut married guys from the south.

It's weird though, and I'm not sure if this happens with other types of sex workers... But when he emailed me again to say he'd be back in NYC and wanted to meet again, he was concerned about how HE did. He wanted to know if he spanked too hard, how things were for me, what else I like, what he could do better, etc. I was thinking, "Seriously? You're paying me $360 and YOU want to make sure I am happy?" I really do wonder if that is common, so I hope you get letters from other girls.

Since I don't have sex with these guys, I have convinced myself that it isn't really "sex work" and I am not really a sex worker, but I kind of know that's bullshit. Oh, and of course I ended up getting an A in that class I was so worried about in the first place. But I will probably keep doing this, because getting spanked for money is kind of more of a turn-on than getting spanked in my personal life. In my personal life it always seems so contrived and scripted and set up, and I have a hard time playing along. But a bunch of money is a powerful motivator for me to play along, and it's kind of a thrill.

One problem I have is that I bruise REALLY easily, so after I meet someone for this, I end up with a purple ass for like a week. Which is annoying because it prevents me from having sex during that time, since there's only 2 people that know I do this, and there is no way I am explaining to someone I am about to have sex with that, oh, my ass is all bruised today because a man with several umlauts on his name gave me "the strap".

I know it's dangerous, and I'm not gonna pretend like I'm safe because I only pick "trustworthy" people to meet. You never really know, and no matter how careful I am, there's still a nonzero chance that I'll end up stuffed in a garbage can in Brooklyn and some dude will find me 3 days later when he's walking his dog. Or something.