Initially, when I conjured up images of myself undressing - or to be frank - persuing a perfect stranger sexually for money - I had a preconcieved notion it was always going to be more embarrassing than damaging. I was right.
A proud and positive person, the imbalance was of detriment to me. There is, only so many times, you can take being poked and prodded, tweaked and pulled and manipulated into several lusty shapes before becoming a touch " What the hell am I doing with myself ?? ". This sentiment is known as becoming "Jaded". Complacent. Fatigued, Fed up, had it, laid back, mellow, satiated, sick of, spent, surfeited, tired, tired-out, wearied, worn, worn-down,and worn-out.
When I worked at The Agency, they would describe a WG as an affliction of the soul. My Maddam would tut tut about certain girls that had surpassed their honeymoon period and now were not unlike cheap silver tarnished , the glitter but a mere memory of it's brilliance - but the begrime totally expected and part of the trade-off.
Well ! This scared me due to the fact I knew I could never afford to be 'Jaded'. The show must go on. But then again, that is the most common jaded statement I have heard - lol.
Then came the clients and the insummountable level of questions.
They never stopped ! A typical day of answering my own phone ensues......
The Clients. "Do you like fucking/sucking/screwing men/playing with yourself/me/your sister/the neighbour with the pool man watching. Do you have stockings/whips/see through undies/stillettos/red toe polish/cream/vegies/ a whole week that I could boook you for? Can you come to the door and ignore me/answer naked/answer from in the darkness/ drop and give me twenty/put me on a leash/take my wife's/girlfriends/boyfriends/your hand/pull my cock out of my pants and lead me around . Then can I maybe /kiss you ??/pretend to rape you/pretend to be a plumber/touch you/feel you under the miniskirt/call you a slut/whore/cunt/bitch What do you mean you don't do it in near the highway/in your parents house/take it up the ass/do it for the love of it/kiss me/fuck/suck without a condom/do my mate/friend/lady/shemale/do it on credit/multiple orgasm with metake credit cards/have frequent flyers!
Is that your final answer?
Are you sure about that?
HG Will Hang Up.
You have 1oo missed calls.
Thirty are from men who are shopping around for the lunchbreak session. The kind that come in with the newspaper and a pained expression that you will make him wear a condom , even though he just wants to come on your face. Ten are from teenagers or freaks/regular offenders ( that don't spend money) Thirty are from appointments you set yesterday. Ten are from sad saps that don't have any money and just want to hear your spiel again and be reminded why they can't afford you, but hey they can afford a phonecall.
Fifteen are from clients that think you have forgotten about them/lost the directions/got spooked/waiting at the wrong address.
Five are cancellations. More on all this later.
I could never look at myself in the mirror half way through a job without feeling my cheeks flame and tears well up, forming hot and incongruous tears lost in pinprick and vacant eyes.
It wasn't the sex that upset me. It was the fact that I was addicted. I felt like I had careered off an embankment I was hurtling out of control , speeding down an embankment in a car with no brakes, picking up speed and bouncing off tufts of binge and splurge , knowing full well that the only way I was going was down, down, down. Hurtling at breakneck speed with only the Ex's hand to cling to as the windscreen becomes blurred with dirt and then smash, we hit the bottom of the gorge.
Broken and barely alive. Bleeding and hurt. Dazed and Confused. But the car had stopped right?
Tell me the car has stopped. I look to ask The Ex, I think he is dead. Yet he is breathing faintly.
Just another bad dream.
This is part two of this blog post .
It was agreed that StreetWalker would carry the show. This was pimp speak for doing the sex. My job was to play with her and also do a massage and generally make sure nothing got out of hand. It was a lot of smoke of mirrors and in the first few weeks I had it all down pat. I treated clients like kindergarten children. I pushed for more money, promised them secret kisses and then failed to deliver. I was fresh and new and enjoyed a healthy renumeration for being so green and nubile. Lucky I was young and smart enough to never get in trouble, as in I was never assaulted. I was the original hustler. It wasn’t long before I was bringing in enough money for Justin to start asking questions. Did he not want to know how I was suddenly rolling in it? All he fucking cared about was getting fucked up. And fucked up we were.
Flushed with cash and a whole new breed of indignation.
I remember when The Ex came over and busted me, in the middle of facilitating a client. I remember seeing his smile break to a thousand pieces as I tried fruitlessly to cover up my body with a towel. I remember scrambling to the door and thrusting the scarlet money into his hands.
The Ex looked at me like I was the most single repugnant lifeform on the planet. The client gestured between us in bewilderment. I broke the stare, but not the silence. Eventually the client left , and so did the age of innocence.
He never said ok - he never agreed to let other males look at my private intimate areas and then later touch me.
But he took the money and spent every cent.
That said it all.
HG is listening to Cold Hard Bitch by Jet - New obsession darling. The other new obsession is saying darling after everything..damn those socialites to a diamonte encrusted hell , and throw in those horrid fake Louis Vuitton bags after them - darling.
Loved and Loaded
I read Flowers In The Attic when I was seven - I think it definately made me a minx.
That and afraid of those arsenic crackers and grandmothers.
I say this due to the fact the BF has got the DVD.
Do I need to add it looks very B Grade.
Must go and be social.
Started treatment today - very exciting !