A Note From The Writer

Welcome to the archived blog posts (when I was a wee blogger, wet behind the ears and not aware of spell check and various other gramatical structures!) I have kept the writings unedited or reworked as I am in the process of doing a massive rewrite of my entire life, many posts I have yet to publish and this blog was merely writing practise for the massive job of sorting out my emotions whilst retelling the story as cuttingly real and dramatic as the real memory was.. some of the posts contained are raw, streaming emotion.. many posts although painful to write, had a tremendously cathartic effect - cheaper than therapy one would say. I welcome new and old readers to keep in touch via my author email (sensualexplorersatHotmaildotcom) if you have any questions or wish to share the feelings and emotions raised by my work.
I will announce the publish date and title whenever it happens and I have been clean now for three years. It is possible.
But it is never easy. It's a lifelong journey, I will always be an addict, but I must stay one step ahead of myself and protect all that can be ruined in the eternal struggle to be
at ease once again, comfortable in this skin.
Thank you for being a part of my story.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Memoir Deluxe

At 10pm precisely, The Shogun knocked briefly before entering the marble bathroom, making an approving sound whilst he scrutinized my reflection which glittered in the mirror. I turned towards him whilst I fastened a pearl drop earring, so desperate to meet his expectations. I felt so desirable that the bronze powder seemed to tingle on the pales of my inner thighs. I was dripping in precious jewels and the air smelt divine with decadence. My cheekbones could almost cut the silence as I stalked over to him and beyond, never meeting his eyes yet sensing his eyes taking all of my silk inside him.

"Such a beauty - such a lady tonight"
He kissed the top of my hand and my cheeks flamed red, like they always do.

The Madam had spent weeks arranging my debut into the high-bookers and her efforts to transform me from highway hooker to courtesan had to be deemed miraculous at least.
I had a dietican and also a stylist assigned to make me presentable to the "premier clients". Countless appointments to hair salons, manicurists and fashion boutiques had inadvertently made tonight almost a relief to be over and done with. I'd done all the preparation and permitted them to alter anything about my appearance (minus the plastic surgery that was offered as a cherry to get me to stay)

I'd also abstained from using Heroin before the booking, a few valium would keep withdrawals at bay then I could go home and be hit up. I had done a brief refresher in Japanese as the clients required this. Security was tight and I was not given any details of the client or explained his standing in society. I was not alone, a few other girls were also coming along to recline on the lounges like a human selection of glamazon sushi, hoping to be devoured and worshipped for their own unique flavor. I knew that I was the most attractive though, otherwise I wouldn't be here tonight, I would be working at the motel instead.

After The Shogun took his cut from my paypacket, the remaining sum would be enough to provide a week's worth of heroin (at most) for the Ex and I. Still, it was a holiday in my mind. A rare and valuable opportunity to dismount the crazy running wheel that I had somehow been peddling for months now.
I never encouraged promotion of myself for top-end bookings, it required more effort and discipline of me than I was caring to lend. I never took the Art Of Courtesan as something that was my calling, it was merely a means to an end. The idea of spending continual nights with a client is not appealing to me. I like to wake up on my own and not have to deal with "The ArT' before my morning grind.

In most agencies (including this underground one) drugs were not tolerated ( although it did depend on your looks or worth to the Madam) For instance, management knew that I used foundation to conceal my trackmarks and everyone knew that meant you had your drugs prior to work and give it enough time to fade it's effect. They also knew my dependancy on getting money for a hit ensured I was tied to them and would not fail to show to work. In Australia less legal brothels the reasons they oppose junkies working is not entirely health based. It's because we can't be trusted not to steal their clients. It's all about money.

The Agency was a lie within a greater lie, telling the whole world with this double life. I was still a junkie, just in jewels. The fancier things had to be, the more secrets that had to be kept and the more I had to lie.
The bigger clients brought some moral conflict to surface. It was obvious that the price I named for my body and its sexuality was only spare change to a millionaire - I often wonder what I would pay for my body to be left alone if I also had as much money as them? Would I outbid them - definately. I am priceless. Prostitution is not for me because I can never not make this thought run through my mind when they are on top of me. It's a game that is so hard to make sense of and not one I even need to play around with.

Coming from a poor upbringing, it almost seem traitorous to give the "richies" the one thing I had retained for myself. The one thing that I thought they could never have. But they got it - I sold it all and when it was done , so was I. I went back to the Average Joe's and I never regret that for a second. It was an Average Joe that put his feeble career on the line to help me out of the prostitution game , it was never the elite clients I saw.

Reclining into the lush leather recess of the black stretch limousine I admired my new nails, small crescents luminated under a lick of translucent pink now buffed into a perfect oval , it seemed so surreal that I could be so rotten under the polish. My heart was beating so fast I almost felt like the driver would detour to the hospital. Flustered and jittery, I dabbed at perspiration that trickled from my pits with a lace hanky, my breath shallow and shaky. I manage to save it staining the charcoal duchess satin fabric which I wore in a sleeveless, simple yet elegantly designed sheath. Driving into the casino entrance, the neon lights covered the windows with makeshift graffiti that slid off the inky black boot as we dipped into the underground entrance to the Casino. I felt by my side for my gemstone encrusted clutch, tucked it under my arm and smiled as the car door opened. Like a jewel returning to the fold, I reached for the hand that led me, to find my imprint into the velvet case night.

With the muted shades of chandellier dancing across my shoulderblades, I glided across the plush Versace carpet that curled around the hallway to the private elevator. Gold. As far as my watering eyes could see, luminous and towering ornamental structures. In the far distance I could make out the faint strains of a piano competing for soundwaves over the gushing sound of the gigantic waterfall dominating the Hotel Lobby. I felt like everyone was looking at me at whispering that I was the hooker they had seen on the highway, merely five days ago. I pushed this to the back of my mind and resumed my performance as a Courtesan.
I need the money from tonight and I had to believe in myself or they would never buy it either.

For all my modesty was worth, the intense glow from such grand displays of wealth assimulated into an "emotional gold-rush"- a common girl like myself could barely contain her amazement - yet I was required to remain low key to save drawing attention to myself. Flanked by his minders (not mine) I attempted to meet the stockier ones eye and give a warm smile but then realised this was culturally improper. Instead we stared ahead in stony silence as the elevator cruised towards the heavens, the numbers climbing higher as we teleported to the Pleasuredome of a paradise lost.

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