My Sexiest Callgirl Experience (Chapter One)

I’ve been with so many wonderful lovers. It astounds me to think of them all. Most guys do their homework, and they do it very well. They’re determined to learn how to satisfy a woman, and some of them truly succeed.

Even if I’m being true to a lover and therefore, I won’t come for clients, I can see that the best of them have what it takes. They must send their women to heaven. They have the right touch, just the right presence, just the right combo of technique and tenderness.

Some of the others are all thumbs. Their natural touch is an irritating jitter. Or maybe they drink, they feel that they have to. The alcohol makes them insensible, clumsy.

Whatever. No matter how well or how badly they perform, I give most of them A’s for effort. Most of them defer to the clitoris as though it were a five-carat diamond. Most of them search for the G-spot as though it were a sunken treasure.

The guy who’s in bed just to get his own jollies is a relic, a throwback. He’s almost extinct. Men, for the most part, have discovered something big. A way to proud manhood is to make women come. And boy, do they ever try to. Getting us off is a major-league issue. If a guy doesn’t do it, he feels like a loser. And a guy will do all that’s required to win.

And some of them are just being fine human beings. They understand that to make a girl come is nobler than just feeling manly. To be good to a woman is the right thing to do….

….That’s a fanfare, a tribute, I’m making to men. That’s my heartfelt acknowledgement, my sincere declaration, my knighting of the gallantry that men show in bed. Innumerable clients have earned it.

And now, with that said, with good mentions all made, I’ll get on to the winners, the champions. For me, the winners aren’t men. It’s been couples. Bisexual trysts are the sexiest for me.

It’s not that I’m strongly bisexual. I’ve never felt sad without a woman to sleep with. I’ve never had a girlfriend for a lover. What I need is that one special man in my bed, and without him, the blues do their number. But then, I do enjoy breasts. A lot. I love to look at them and touch them and hold them, especially the big ones, big firm ones. But if I never touch another pair of tits again, that will be fine with me. What I need all the time is a big hairy chest. And I totally worship the penis. I’ve got to have a meaningful cock in my life. But I don’t require a pussy.

Gays have told me that means I’m straight. But open, empathetic, just a tad from dead center, able to truly enjoy my own gender, if that’s what’s requested of me.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

I’ve been with a number of couples. Each time, it’s been almost ineffably sweet. I get this big sense of full-circle. And I feel a tremendous respect for the woman. She’s being so strong and enlightened. She’s understanding her man. She’s loosening her grip, she’s letting him play, there’s just one big rule, they’ll do it together. That’s usually the reason they’ve called me. That and her “bi-curiosity.”

The porn actresses who really come make me crazy, so imagine where a real woman coming takes me! And a guy’s right there with us, adding maleness to the mix! I feel something perfect and whole about that, that male and female sexual passion, going on right in front of me. And once, it even got on me…

That brings me around to my favorite sexy story.

One day, a new guy left a message. We talked, and I found out his age, the late fifties. When he mentioned where he lived, I thought yes! He lives in heaven!

It would take me a while to get there, but in this case, I didn’t care. He lived in a beautiful town by the sea, and I knew that his zone was the wealthiest. He was probably close to the water, probably in a magnificent house; if he passed all my tests, I’d be eager to go.

Then he mentioned his girlfriend. She was forty-five, but he said she looked younger. He described her as very pretty. She also wanted to see me. Did I like girls?

“Sure!” I responded.

“You mean that? You’re not just saying that?” It was a very legitimate question. Prospective clients are rightfully afraid that callgirls just “play along” for the money.

“No, I mean it,” I said. And to show my sincerity, I asked about her tits. I really wanted to know if she had big, beautiful tits.

“Oh, yes, they’re very nice,” he said. “All hers. Not huge, but definitely not small. All round and firm. They’re perfect.”

“Ummmm!”

Now he knew I was serious. “You’re gonna love her,” he told me. And what he said next left me spellbound. He lowered his voice, and he murmured with awe:

“She comes all over. All over.”

Oh my God, I thought. She’s a squirter!

This caller and his “squirter” could not have come through at a more perfect time in my life. For the past several months I’d been educating myself about women who can do that. I’d been hearing about them from men who’d been with one, and I’d recently seen them for the first time in porn films, and they drove me out of my mind. I was jealous because I couldn’t squirt. But most of all, I was extremely turned on. Every time I saw a “rain woman” splashing her stuff in a film, I’d come fast as a teen-aged boy.

And now I was going to meet one! And get paid lots of money to see what she did!….

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Just Another Afternoon of Terror and Joy (Chapter Three)

On my way to an appointment, I’m like any other on-the-road businessperson, dealing with the perils of traffic and trying not to get lost. Maybe I’m committing that controversial mind-split, driving while talking on my cell phone, or singing along with my music CD’s. But that’s nothing compared to the distraction created by my thoughts about where I’m going—especially if I’m meeting someone new.

If my tryst is with someone I’ve never seen before, and he’s not in a house, he’s checked into public lodgings, then terror is the term for what I’m feeling. Adrenalin is dripping inside me, working its poisonous jitters all through me.

Hotels and motels are where callgirls get “caught,” and taken in cuffs to the precincts.

He didn’t sound at all like a cop on the phone. He asked the appropriate questions, and sounded out-of-state; he guffawed with a sincere-sounding startled negation when, right out of nowhere, I said Are you police. Those were the traits that considerably diminished my fear of getting set up. Those were the noises that somewhat assuaged me, and made me decide that I’d go for this risk.

But I won’t be completely at ease until I know him. I won’t be at ease until he’s paid me, and he hasn’t distinguished our transaction with the chanting of my rights.

How would you like to be on your way to a meeting, hoping you look okay, anxiously hoping you’ll make a good impression, and also clenched up with the raw, primal fear that you might get deceived and arrested?

I wonder whether people—people who aren’t sex workers—can begin to imagine that terror. It’s gut-wrenching, routine, and faced all alone. Protectors of the public are what we escorts fear.

I pull up at the hotel. It’s a sweeping, three-star affair. When I go to a cheap motel, I feel a little cheap, even though I make the same money. I won’t feel that way here.

I park and walk into the lobby. I approach the front desk people with a bright, friendly smile, and plenty of eye contact.

Don’t act nervous. Don’t ever act guilty. Walk proud; walk tall; you belong here.

Damn right I do.

But just to get me lost, just to lead me astray, just to get me gaping, impressed, at the vast banquet halls and theme lounges (so some day I’ll book an event here, and make the hotel big bucks), the guest rooms are located remotely, in areas not apparent. These large hotels are strange mazes. Somewhere deep in this complex, tunnels of rooms spread out from the center in maddeningly different directions.

Which way should I go?

My client tried hard to be helpful on the phone; he described where I should turn once I got here. But the design of the place, and its hugeness and attractions, have all done their numbers on me; I’ve arrived, and my memory wavers; I’m a little bit overwhelmed. I’m probably going to go the wrong way, probably five minutes-worth of wrong way, and I don’t want to be late. So I head to the desk for directions.

Somebody hands me a map of the hotel.

I realize I’ve just called some attention to myself. If I decide to go out the same way I’ve come in, these sentries will witness me leaving in an hour. If they’re sharp they’re going to peg me, and know.

Oh, well. That’s why I jump around. From this town to that town to that town, and even that one over yonder. From this hotel to that motel to that hotel; I’m always a moving target, never easy to hit. By the time I work at this establishment again, a new slew of faces will be manning the desk. Or maybe the next time I come here, it will be on somebody else’s shift. The point, and it’s vital, is that these particular front desk people will never see me a lot.

Because of the map, now I’m orientated. I’m ready to face my next challenge, the big one. Now I’m heading straight for the lair of a man I don’t know from Adam.

When I get to his floor, and I’m close now, scoping room numbers to his, my heart is a pounding hammer, and my stomach is knotted to the point of feeling sick.

Maids are all over the corridor. Their huge carts are parked just like trucks. Their invasions of rooms and their aggressive strip-downs make them look like they own the place. They also tend to look foreign.

For some reason, they always smile at me.

Why?

They smile at me, an attractive woman, more carefully groomed than the average female traveler, who’s walking down this hallway all alone; I don’t have any luggage, and I don’t look at all wound-down; I’m clearly not a woman who’s come here to rest.

They can see I’m not holding a key card. They can see I’m all peering and seeking, yet somehow bold just the same; I’m purposefully hunting for a room not my own.

So, why are they grinning at me?

Do they know? Are they cool?

Maybe they’re beaming for the simple reason that their cultures made them randomly friendly. Or maybe they’ve been trained by their employer to welcome every face with a smile.

But there’s something too real in their eyes.

Is it because they know what I’m up to, and they know I’m the highest paid female service worker this place will ever contain, and their culture has taught them to respect me for it?

Or are they grinning because they know there’s a sting operation going on here, and they know I’m a whore walking into her doom, and their culture has taught them I deserve it?

Easy girl, easy. Stop it.

I return every one of their smiles.

I walk a bit further, and okay, here’s his room.

By the time I’m standing there knocking, my fear has wrung me out; I’m like someone on the point of dying, who’s reached the acceptance phase. I’ll just deal with the detectives, if that’s what awaits me.

I’m also like a soldier heading straight into battle. I’m committed to seeing this through. I’m now compressing the terror, so I can intelligently face the whatever.

He opens the door, and I feel a little shock.

The shock isn’t him; it’s the moment. It’s the stun of two face-to-face strangers. No matter how well I plan it, no matter how often I do it, there’s always this flash of bizarre.

We’re both swallowed whole by it, weirded. But we’re going to keep our cools.

I’m smiling, of course. I say hi. He does the same, and steps back. I step inside.

I don’t give a damn about his age or his looks. The only thing that matters is what’s in his eyes. And the language of his body is roaring…..

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Flowers That Bloom In The Trash (Chapter Fourteen)

Now that I was an escort, I always felt well off. I felt beautiful, and free, and in control of my life. For the first time in a long time, I felt like a good mother.

It made sense to me, immediately, to defend the profession that was saving my family.

I had a driving need to share what I was feeling. It was instinctive to write about it. I wrote mounds of journal-style thoughts about it. I relentlessly sought books on prostitution. I read twenty books either by or about other prostitutes. I had a ravenous hunger to learn more about this secret, this forbidden way of life that had lifted my life out of hell.

When I delved into the published writings of American activist prostitutes, I got amazed and excited all over again. In most of the accounts that I read—those of Norma Jean Almodovar, Dolores French, Cosi Fabian, and others—each was reporting that as soon as she learned the callgirl lifestyle, elation was her dominant emotion. Each was expressing a sense of liberation. Each was describing her discovery of whoring in glowing, exultant terms. Each was insisting that once she’d gone down that prohibited, stigmatized path, her circumstances dramatically changed—for the better. And what’s more, they changed right away.

The same thing had happened to me, with the same sense of lightning-bolt truth.

Money abruptly came into my life, but without the destructive emotional price that I’d been led to believe that a prostitute must pay. At first, of course, I had qualms about my acts; social conditioning is a vice grip on the mind. But social conditioning is only a spin, and a spin can be brought to a clattering stop on the ground of concrete truth. For me, that truth was threefold. It was the new look of peace on my well-attended sons. It was the health of my bank account and credit rating. And it was the major eye-opener, the thing that clinched it all: the sincere appreciation of my clients.

As I’ve mentioned before, all of my customers acted grateful and sweet. No one I saw when I started, and no one I’ve ever seen since, was abusive. It’s been quite the contrary.

My customers all act respectful. They often act downright adoring. I enjoy an outpouring of gratitude. They’re usually happy to pay my fee, and some tip me. Most make appointments to see me again.

Clients are always expressing their thanks. I think I’ve come around to a fairly good understanding of what they’re all so pleased about. Each client sings at least one of these praises:

Thank you for being so friendly and sensual, without any hesitation. Thank you for being all mine, my dream come true for one perfect hour. Thank you for taking charge of my need. And thank you for the honor of allowing me to try to take charge of yours. Thank you for letting me have this fun. Thank you for helping me through this transition. Thank you for accepting my polygamous nature. Thank you for letting me relieve my stress, exactly the way I need to, through my cock. Thank you for committing me to only your fee. Thank you for providing these wonderful “sins” with respect and a sense of humor—with the attitude that what I badly need isn’t wrong.

All of the whores whom I’ve read about describe that appreciation. And most of those women’s conclusions are a perfect mirror of mine. We recognize the stupidity of making prostitution illegal. We consider all the meanings of “criminal,” and we know that our happy transaction simply doesn’t add up to a crime.

Dolores French is the president and founder of the Atlanta-based support group for prostitutes called HIRE (Hooking Is Real Employment). She remains a working prostitute and a dedicated activist for prostitutes’ rights. In 1988 she published her book, Working: My Life as a Prostitute. Throughout it she expresses her sense of awareness that prostitution is inherently a helping profession. French quotes from her mentor, the woman who got her started, a courtesan who declared that whoring is a benevolent human service.

“…even the weird clients are usually nice people. You’re providing a valuable service to these people—all of them. You’re helping someone with a crippled sense of self-esteem…Part of the art of prostitution is using sex to create a feeling of trust and intimacy…Men might not even understand why they keep coming back…They think it’s for the sex. But they’re coming back because we touch them emotionally…”

French concludes the passage with her own convictions.

“The way “Elaine” described it, prostitution is a noble profession, right up there with nursing and teaching…As I started working, I found out that many of my clients were isolated and lonely…If I could make that client walk out the door feeling happy, feeling good about himself, feeling he might actually be interesting and fun to be with, I had performed a great service. To do that a person has to love men and enjoy being with them, which I did.”

In 1993, Norma Jean Almodovar published Cop to Call Girl, her account of how she came to prefer whoring over her career as a policewoman for the LAPD. The former felt like honest work. The latter was despicably corrupt.

Like French, Almodovar remains committed to the fight for prostitutes’ rights. When asked why she doesn’t think a callgirl’s work is wrong, Almodovar echoes my feelings.

“It was not degrading to me because I think that sex is a positive, nurturing act…I cannot fathom how making another human being feel good for a fee could be degrading or demeaning unless it is degrading to make other people feel good.”

Mayflower Madam was published in 1986. Its author is one of the world’s best-known twentieth-century madams, New York City-based Sydney Biddle Barrows. Though I’m against third-party management, in Barrow’s case I make a heartfelt exception. Her book is a treasure of avowal for the honor in the profession, and her nurturing respect for her girls.

Barrows states:

“Like their counterparts in the other helping professions, our girls brought tenderness and comfort into our clients’ lives. We were there for them. We listened to them. We made them feel better. We gave to them emotionally, and we gave to them physically….Our society still needs to learn to tolerate the idea of women making a living by being intimate with men. Some people say that prostitution is degrading. Certainly it can be, but not in the agency I operated….”

And from her girls:

Melody: “You can have millions of dollars…but if you don’t have anyone to share it with, what’s the point? Some men try to buy that companionship. I’m not saying it’s as good as the real thing, but it beats the hell out of being alone. Besides, sometimes the real thing isn’t that good, either.”

Sunny: “For most of our clients, who were hard-driven, hard-working men, an evening with one of us was an extra-special treat they looked forward to every now and then, just as I sometimes reward myself for….strenuous dieting by going out for a hot-fudge sundae.”

Lisa: “Although sex was certainly part of the package we were selling, I knew all along that we weren’t really in the sex business. We were in the happiness business. The Constitution guarantees the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and all we were doing was helping people pursue a little happiness.”

From my earliest days as a sex worker, I for one have felt certain that I’m not harming or cheating anybody. I know the uneasy feeling of being pressed into the role of a quasi kind of cheat; in the past, in conventional sales work, sales managers have subtly urged me to scam people. I’ve despised myself for complying.

As a whore, I feel proud to be able to acknowledge that my service is all cards-on-the-table. Other than my fib about my chronological age, which feels okay because I state an age that people guess anyway, there’s nothing dishonest or damaging about what I say or do. I’m not deceiving people. I’m not selling drugs, or weapons. I’m not stealing. I’m not polluting the environment. I’m not causing negative ripples in the universe.

I use condoms.

And I’m not a robber of quality, as in the cheating of a service of its advertised promise. Right from the start I devoted myself to a healing-priestess sort of model that I decided to call the true whore. That standard has driven me to always make sure that no one among my patrons feels dissatisfied, or uncomfortable, or ripped off.

I’m not a phony. I don’t fake orgasms. I’ve always heard that whores are fakes, and I don’t want to be like that. I aspire, instead, to be like Dolores French. She writes that she’s used her sessions with clients to teach herself how to more easily come.

I either have a real orgasm, or I don’t, and I admit to either if asked. Whenever I’m in a relationship, I never come for the clients. That would feel like I’m cheating on my lover. And even when I don’t have a lover, I don’t come for clients all the time.

Who could!

So whenever I don’t come, which is often, I tell the clients who need to know that they’ve made me feel really good, but no, I didn’t come, but that’s okay, they’re good lovers, what they’ve done for me is great. And every time I say that, they tell me they like my honesty.

Back when I was a brand-new escort, inexperienced and scared shitless, even then I knew that I was onto something good. I knew that I had it in me to make it the best it could be.

I considered what makes for a “moral crime,” and I realized I was guiltless. I was sumptuously paid for bringing natural pleasure. My clients and I each walked away with equal satisfaction. I gave men what they wanted. They gave me lots of money. All was fair, a balanced equation.

Soon I learned a joyful way to respond to the outcome of casual sex. Newly absent, in that kind of sex, was the pain of getting discarded. The desolate black hole left by hit-and-run loving had become, overnight, a big wallet; it was stuffed with glorious cash. This was a whole new world! Now I knew that casual encounters could be lucrative employment. The money erased any sense of hurt. I never felt “used.” I felt no more used than anyone else who receives great money for a sale. I never felt “slutty.” Who can feel slutty, or anything ugly, when she’s basking in compliments and cash?

People vary somewhat in their definitions of “slut.” As a new whore I realized that for me, the term was inaccurate. Some might call me a slut, but I knew better. The image evoked by that slovenly word is a woman who lacks self-esteem. A slut is guilty of cheating her own worth. She sleeps around, and gets little from it. Even the self-respecting slut is construed as a woman who’s wrongful; she’s perceived as deceitful in relationships, and therefore unworthy of trust.

None of those negatives applied to how I felt. I felt honest. I felt trustworthy. I felt like a quality woman. And it was the very men I serviced who made me feel that way. They made me feel desirable and needed and respected. And they always put their money where their mouths were.

As a new whore, I knew I was still a good person. But now I felt powerful, too.

I had the world by the balls!

I do yet. I’m lavishly paid for what I give of myself. As I mentioned on the very first page, just what I give, and when, and to whom, and for how much, is entirely up to me. If that’s what it is to be a slut, then go ahead and make me sew an “S” on my bodice. I’ll embroider a vertical slash right through it, and smile all the way to the bank.

But when I began my new life as a whore, the gratification of making great money was only a part of my sense of well-being. My debut in whoring was a merge with my healthy lifestyle. The result was a profound combination, in me, of professional eroticism and holistic-health awareness. I soon got past my first motive to whore, which was desperation for money. Prostitution became more, to me, than just the way to acquire great cash. I saw that the work is important.

I intuited, right from the onset, that sex work can be healthy because sex work can be spiritual. My patriarchal Christian upbringing had never impressed me much. I had always understood that my birthright, the American culture, the so-called Mecca of pluralism, is a place where “spiritual” can mean something other than Judeo-Christian persuasions. “Spiritual” is a catch-all expression. It applies to anything intensely benevolent that feels profoundly right—profoundly right with one’s soul.

As a whore I felt sexually spiritual.

Every woman understands that to nurture is intrinsically spiritual. I had always been very maternal. I had always been a person who wants to help, comfort, and heal. As a whore, I was doing that. My proof was my clients’ gratitude. My self as a prostitute was weaving into all that was nurturer—me. I was a mother, homemaker, gardener, exerciser, healer, writer, and whore. All were seamlessly, wholly, my path.

Holistic integrity mends dualism.

As a new whore, I realized something. With the obvious exceptions of rape and coercion, and the molestation of children, sex is always righteous. When professional sex is completely freed up from a conditioned sense of disgrace, its goodness is as clear as the daylight. It’s as natural as the selling of the fruits from my backyard garden.

In the beginning, when being “professional” was an uneasy, clueless act, and I found myself in front of one man after another who wanted to pay me for me, I instinctively saw that the key to my well-being lay in giving myself joyfully. Deliberately controlling both my fear and my reservations, I tended to my clients with the same sense of right as those times when I mentored a child, or when I gave instruction in exercise, or when I labored to grow my garden, or when I worded a written story. Something simple, yet tremendous, occurred to me. In spite of the fleeting nature of certain modes of intimacy, and regardless of the power of societal infliction of shame, our genitals are a major gateway to joy. That is not an opinion. That is an absolute truth. Some may choose to ignore, despise or shrink from that truth. Regardless, that truth stands.

I decided that to be a true whore is to embrace that absolute. I decided to believe that a customer’s need to have his genitals stimulated, and his need to try to stimulate mine, is no more disgraceful than a caregiver responding to a baby’s cries for food, or a personal trainer pushing his client to feel the surge of his blood, or a gardener breaking up clods so that roots can feed from the soil, or an intellect pursuing more effective expression.

Right from the start I coached myself to maintain that sense of esteem. I had to go at myself. I was boldly taking a stand against everything I’d been taught, since my patriarchal girlhood, to view as the worst, the most reprehensible, sexual person a female can become.

To value prostitution is a huge revolt for a woman. It’s the overthrow of her upbringing, and I did it. Few women share it with me. But as I’ve mentioned before, the reason is simply that most women don’t know the truth. Not enough women are out there, working without exploiters, and learning, just as I did, that independent whoring is exalting.

And yet, the worldwide number of autonomous whores is definitely on the rise. My proof is the promotional websites, like IndependentEscort.com.

It’s been encouraging to find that my professional ideals are reflected in some recognized theisms. I thrilled to an article in a holistic-living publication, written by the late Zen Buddhist master, Philip Toshido Sudo. His piece is entitled “The Zen of Lovemaking.”

“Sex is sacred. All of us began as a combination of sperm and egg, man and woman. At its best, sex takes us back to that beginning, transcending the mere fulfillment of our animal desires to reveal our inherent divinity as creators: it’s a spiritual endeavor, as profound as any religious rite or ritual.

Like sex, the study of Zen takes us back to our origins as well…Zen is simply an absorption in life—the essence of life.

The way of Zen is to allow nature to express itself through all of our actions, whatever they are…

Religious adherents sometimes renounce sex as an earthly desire to be transcended. Zen monks are no different…they take strict vows of asceticism as a means to self-purification. But “pure” Zen decries attachment to religious orthodoxy or any doctrinaire pursuit…Consider the revered 15th century Zen master, Ikkyu Sojun. In poem after poem, he sang the praises of wine, physical love, and even brothels…

To Ikkyu, sex deepened the path toward enlightenment. No one can enter this world without being born of both a man and a woman, he said: we are connected to sex by the “red thread” of blood at birth…We’re of sex. That fact should be embraced, not avoided, Ikkyu said. He wore his priest’s robes to the pleasure quarters to signify the spiritual nature of his activity:

Me, I am praised as a general of Zen

Tasting life and enjoying sex to the fullest!

Zen sex can take place anywhere, anytime, with anyone, because Zen truth is available at all times, for any person willing to practice.”

I know.

As I’ve grown in my whore identity, I’ve developed profound respect. Respect for myself, respect for my clients, and respect for the service I render.

At first, I was alone in that venture. No one mentored me, and at that point, no whores worked with me. My aloneness was a pained isolation, but I kept at my new life just the same. The books I read by activist whores were a tremendous validation. So were the websites of prostitutes’ rights organizations. But most of all, it was my clients—my steadfast “partners in crime”—who kept me going strong. They bolstered me with money, protectiveness, and gratitude.

They do yet….

…The service of Eros is a therapy that attracts the true whore just like blossoms to the sun. The pull she feels is strengthened by impressive financial rewards, and by the persistent intuition that what she’s doing isn’t wrong.

I hear this praise so often that it starts to sound like a mantra:

“Thanks so much, ****. I feel so much better. I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight”…

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