I Said Yes

I placed a personal ad with the offer to meet a client at a hotel for a private lap-dancing session. I had been a dancer for three years, but had started to hate going to the clubs. I enjoyed the sensuality and intimacy of the job, but hated the crowds, noise, and cigarette smoke. The ad stressed that the sessions would be dancing only. I got many. many replies to the ad. I sent them all a list of "rules" saying that they would not be allowed to touch my breasts or vagina, had to keep their clothes on, etc. I also asked that we meet first in a public place for a cocktail or coffee. I phrased this as "us getting to know each other" but it was basically to give my gut a chance to tell me whether I would be safe with the person. I was polite, but firm about all of my requests. Very few of the initial responders followed up with me after this, but the ones who did sounded respectful and sane.

The first client I met was a guy from out of town, M. He sounded very nervous in the e-mails we exchanged, and I wasn't sure he would actually keep the date we made that evening at an upscale bar downtown, but I dressed up and went anyway. I had sent him a picture, but he had not sent one to me. When I got to the bar, I wasn't sure how to find him. I took a seat at the bar within sighting distance of the door and waited. A few different men were making eye contact with me but it was hard to tell if they were just flirting or if they were expecting me. After a few minutes, a man sitting at a table by himself waved at me. I went and introduced myself, and it was M.

The first thing he told me was that he was not going to go through with our date, but he felt bad about standing me up and would buy me a drink and tip for my time. We had a drink together and I drew him out about what he was looking for. As a dancer, I know lots of ways to set men at their ease and encourage them to open up to me.

He told me a familiar story: his wife, whom he described as "gorgeous" and who he said he still loved, was no longer interested in sex. He, of course, was still interested. I've heard many versions of this story over the years, and it always makes me sad. I have no judgement for either person in the relationship -- I don't enough to judge -- but I feel for anyone who wants intimacy and closeness and isn't getting it. I've been there myself.

He told me that I was too young; I was 28 and he was 53. He said he wasn't looking for a "model type", but rather, a real woman. (Um, models are real women too, for anyone who doesn't know.) He talked about how much he missed touching and holding and looking at a woman. We kept talking about the human need for intimacy, and I could tell he did want the meeting. I asked him he was ready to go the hotel ("assuming the sale" like this is an old technique I always used to sell $250/hr Champagne Room visits at the strip clubs) and he said yes.

I met him at his hotel and we went up to his room together. It was a very nice room, in a nice hotel, but not an ideal situation for lapdancing. There was one big arm-chair and a bed. I would have preferred a sofa or loveseat to dance on, but we made it work. It was much more intimate than dancing in the club, where there are lights and noise and distraction. He closed his eyes and barely looked at me, just wanted to hug me and touch my skin. I took my time getting out of my clothes and down to the nice lingerie I had underneath. We did about an hour of slow, quiet dances, and then he asked if we could stand up and hug. I said yes. He held me like that for several minutes.

Then he asked if we could lie down. I thought it over and decided I was comfortable with it, but when he asked if he could undress I said no. We lay down together and he continued touching my back and legs. He was very gentle and attentive, and it felt good. I got somewhat turned on physically, and made sure to let him see my response, since I could tell that was very important to him. However, I was much too much on my guard to really get into what was happening. For the most part he was very respectful. At one point he tried to kiss me, but stopped when I asked him to. Later, he tried to reach inside my panties, but I moved his hand away and he didn't try again. I appreciated his respect for my boundaries. Because he was so respectful, I was able to relax and enjoy his touching.

We had a pleasant, playful time together, and ended up spending several hours. I was charging $200 an hour, and it added up to a lot of money. He paid me at the end and counting out the money seemed to kill the mood for both of us a little bit. I made a mental note that if I did this again I would ask for the money up front. (I had seen him get the money out of the ATM next to the bar, so I knew how much he had...otherwise I wouldn't have proceeded with the session.)

Afterwards, he offered to drive me back to the bar and I felt safe enough with him to accept. The drive was slightly awkward. He seemed to feel odd about dropping me off back on the street. I wondered if he was having regrets about the session. He was rather cold when he said goodbye, and I was surprised to notice that I felt a little hurt. This was the only time during the session when I felt "dirty" about what I'd done. I felt he was judging me. I made a conscious decision not to let this bother me: I probably wouldn't see him again, and it was just a business transaction, so it doesn't really matter what he thinks about me. I would offer this advice to johns though: be nice to your hooker, even after you pay her. You're not the only one who has feelings about what just happened.

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.