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 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.

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 Was on the Stage

When I was 21, I got a part-time job flinging packages around at UPS, and after a few months, found myself in the best shape of my life. I started looking at myself in the mirror and thinking I was almost hot enough to be a stripper.

My only experience with strip clubs had been a couple of very upscale clubs with good lighting and fresh-faced girls and very strictly enforced "no touching" policies. They were terribly exciting and sexy, and I loved them. I am an introverted tomboy with short hair and no rhythm who never did learn how to put on makeup; I didn't end up in one of those clubs. I tried out at a lot of different clubs, and I ended up in a seedy place in East St. Louis where a "private dance" meant the girl sat on your lap and humped you for four minutes.

I didn't make very good money there; I only stayed for about 3 weeks before deciding that the job would destroy me if I kept at it. I was too shy to really approach the customers, and I was terrified of diseases I might catch if a customer came while I was grinding on his lap, so I mostly only made money when I was on the stage. I think I made about $300 on my best night ever, but most nights were $100 or less. $300 is damn good money for one night's work, though--I can see why so many of the girls kept at it.

My worst night ever was the one I got robbed without even knowing it. The private dance booths had little shelves where the dancers would put their purses, so I put mine up there and started doing my thing. This was about halfway through the night; I'd made almost $100, including the $20 this guy had just given me. After a minute of grinding and gyrating, he stood up, with me still wrapped around him. I was kind of confused by it, but this was maybe my third private dance ever, so I just went with it, and let him push me up against the wall. He kept shifting; I assumed he was trying to get more friction or something. By the end of the song, he'd sat back down, and I finished up with a kiss on his cheek and a "thank you," then took my purse and led him out of the booth. He left a few minutes later. It wasn't until after my next rotation up on stage, when I opened up my purse to put my tips in, that I realized what he'd been doing. My purse was empty. I went home that night with less than $40 for a 10 hour shift.

I guess it was just one of many clues that I wasn't meant for that job. I've long since lost my 21-year-old figure, but I still keep thinking that maybe, someday, I could start working out again and try to get a job at the kind of club I wanted to work at in the first place.