The Price of Love

Now that Bailey's dating again, he's remembered just how expensive it can be.

"It's just expected that the guy pays," he said. "If I don't offer, I look like a cheap asshole. And no matter what women say, they love a man with money."

I agree. The guy is expected to pay. Now I know there's not much sympathy from women, seeing how on average, they still earn $0.80 for every $1.00 or some similar statistic. A man's extra income can and should go towards chivalry, they claim.

Yet I've always been perplexed by some women who are adamantly against prostitution yet see no problem dating a rich guy. Some even go so far as to say they hope to land a rich man, and be showered in all the material goods his money can buy. I've seen this enough with some of my clients -- women who married for money only to realize that they want sex, as well.

Bailey, for better or worse, is actually quite traditional when it comes to dating, so he would be paying no matter what. He even goes so far as to get flowers, open doors -- the works. Any woman who's with him is lucky, but I've seen him being taken advantage of in the past, too. Dating can be treacherous -- especially in Miami.

So to all the women who think all forms of prostitution are essentially victimization or sex trafficking, think twice the next time you say you hope to land a rich man. Because the last time I checked, having sex for money makes one a whore. None of your pseudo-feminism will change that, dear.

What began as a chance for Bailey to vent soon turned to me. Asking whether I even have the chance or desire to date anymore, I told him such dates were few and far between. Perhaps now that sex is my profession, I feel less inclined to go chasing after it in bars in South Beach and Coconut Grove like normal people.

"But if you found someone you were really interested in, you'd give a shot, right?" Bailey asked.

"I guess so. Still, that hasn't happened yet. And to be honest, I hope it doesn't happen for at least another few years. I've got a good job, you know? And until I find something else that lets me be my own boss and pays equally well, I don't plan on leaving escorting."

"I understand that. It's funny -- out of all the people we went to school with, I never would of pegged you to become a whore."

"Really? Who could you see doing it, then?"

"Well... um... I don't know, actually. But you? Never in a million years."

"Just goes to show you, life is full of surprises."

Starstruck

So, I had sex with a celebrity's wife.

The cab ride to the woman's mansion was one of tension and apprehension -- but also pure excitement. Not just over the idea of being caught (the client had assured my agent beforehand that her husband was out of town, and the paparazzi in Miami aren't nearly as diligent as their peers in LA), but also at the chance of seeing how the "other half" live.

Well, the home was amazing, but that was expected. Located on one of the islands (Star, Palm, Hibiscus, Fisher, etc.) it was modern in design with plenty of floor-to-ceiling windows and sleek furniture. I've always had an interest in architecture and design, both inside and out. This home certainly didn't disappoint.

As for the client herself, well, she was astoundingly normal. Kind, polite, wealthy yet not covered in jewelry or designer clothes. Her blouse and jeans were no different than anything you'd find at the mall. I never really cared for her husband's work, and now that his wife is buying sex from a stranger, I'm guessing that he's not that remarkable a husband, either.

She'd purchased a two-hour booking, meaning I would be netting about $400 for the night -- not too shabby, eh? It also gave us the chance to have a bit of wine and talk about the news (Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett, mainly) before entering the bedroom.

"Is there anything particular you'd like me to do for you?" I asked, and took off my shirt. "If there is, just let me know."

"You're pretty forward," she replied. "I like that."

"Missionary, then?"

She laughed. "Yes, please. I've had enough of anal with my... never mind."

We lay in bed, clad in our underwear, kissing as another rainstorm passed through. She was in no rush and subsequently, neither was I. Part of escorting is being able to sense the client's pace -- that is, how fast and hard they would like things to go. From everything I could tell, the client wanted to take it slow, and it's my responsibility to honor that.

When I finally penetrated her, I dipped my head and kissed her on the mouth, each kiss punctuated by soft gasps on her behalf. And as her tongue dragged across my neck and her teeth gently bit into my shoulder, I was gasping too. In a rare event, I believe she came before I did. Maybe it's been so long that a man took her presence into account during sex that she couldn't hold out.

I slid out of her and fell onto my back. Staring at the ceiling, I felt the gentle breeze from the fan push against my bare, sweaty chest.

"Oh... that was..." her words drifted off as she wrapped her arm around my abdomen. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. It's what I'm here for."

Life Imitates Art

While art imitates life, the opposite is true as well.

This week, I had an appointment with a woman whose husband is suffering from Erectile Dysfunction (ED). Thus, I was hired to sleep with her. She knew my agent -- apparently they're old friends, and the client was well aware of what my agent did for a living.

Once the client and I made our way into the bedroom, she didn't waste any time in getting my clothes off. Before I knew it was down to my boxers, and then those were down on to ankles, too. As she took my cock into her hand, stroking me as I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, she gave a word of warning.

"Don't cum in my mouth."

"No problem," I replied. "I'll give you fair warning."

Now, not every woman I work with is capable of making me ejaculate -- at least not from oral sex. Like everything else, some women are far more orally adept than others. The same can be said for men, of course. Rebecca often says that a woman's clitoris could glow in the dark, and even then only about half of men would still find it.

Still, the client was fairly skilled, and seemed just so happy to have a man who could be intimate with her. After she went down on me and I returned the favor to her, we ended up in bed, where we had fairly aggressive sex. What I mean by "aggressive" is that she kept telling me to pump her harder.

"Harder," she'd bark, grabbing my ass and trying to push me in further. "Harder! I haven't had sex in three months!"

Jesus, I thought, doing my best to oblige her wishes. Finally, the both of us came at the same time (which is quite rare, actually, but nice when it happens). I fell onto my back, sweaty but not drenched. After lying in bed for a bit, I asked if I could take a shower, and the client told me where I could find a guest bathroom.

After showering I opened the medicine cabinet, hoping to find some spare deodorant as I was going out later that night. Didn't want to sweat if we ended up eating outside. What I found was a whole slew of products -- from toothpaste and a toothbrush, after shave and even Viagra.

My best guess is that the husband and wife have been sleeping in separate rooms for some time. Perhaps since the husband lost his ability to get a hard-on. I felt bad for invading his space, and even more worried that when he returned home, he'd be suspicious as to who was using his bathroom.

As I was about to leave, I asked the client if using that bathroom was OK.

"Oh, you saw my husband's things? Don't worry -- he's in New York until next week on business. But I'll still do a quick cleanup later on."

"Right. Well, thanks. If you'd like to see me again, just give my agent a call."

As the cab pulled up out front, I headed for the front door and saw a family portrait in the living room. No idea where the kids were -- probably summer camp -- but the idea invading someone's "happy" family still made me cringe.

I might be a whore, but that doesn't mean my conscience has faded completely. Though quite frankly, sometimes I wish it would.

Cat Killer

I'd like to take a break from our regularly scheduled programming.

One of the hottest stories in Miami as of late has been the Cat Killer. For months now, cats all over South Miami-Dade County have been being mutilated and killed. Feline lovers have been living in fear that their whiskered companions will end up dead.

Well, last week the supposed Cat Killer was arrested. At 18-years-old, suspect Tyler Weinman is charged with 19 counts of felony animal cruelty, 19 counts of improperly disposing of an animal body, and four counts of burglary.

While Weinman is still only a suspect, the evidence looks pretty damning. A friend of mine has said that if he was acting alone, the DA should try and put him away for as long as possible. Her reasoning? Those who murder people often start first with animals, that way they have enough "practice."

So we have death, depravity and a study of the criminal psyche. All's well in Miami, the other city that never sleeps. Maybe it's the heat and sunshine, but people in the entire state of Florida always were a little... different.

Despicable as it may be, this city is still mine, and I don't plan on leaving anytime soon.

Crossing Over

After a post-workout shower, I headed to Coconut Grove to meet my agent for lunch. Digging into my turkey wrap, she talked about how pleased she was with everything regarding my work, and that men are much less maintenance than women.

"The girls," she said, nursing her mineral water, "all they do is complain. Complain that another girl got a booking, that I'm not aggressive enough with their rates. You never do any of that -- not one bit!"

"I try," I said. "If it weren't for you, God knows where I'd be right now. Stuck in some shit job instead of living the way I do now.'

"You have a lot of fans. I've been meaning to tell you this for awhile... but men have been requesting your companionship."

"Really?"

She nodded. "I never respond, of course. Most of the time I refer them to another agency that has gay escorts. He gives me a small commission. That's why I always treat you for lunch instead of splitting it like I do with the girls."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Well, I certainly appreciate it."

"Any plans for the summer?"

I talked about how Rebecca and I might go to Seattle or Vancouver, and how I usually like to pick a place to explore on my own. This time around I think it might be San Diego. I've heard great things about the Gaslamp Quarter as well as Coronado.

"I'm sure you'll have a great time, wherever you end up," she said.

"Yeah. If there's anything I love more than this job, it's being able to see the world."

Private Parties

And now, I'd like to talk about group sex.

Well, not quite. Yes, I did a three-way with Adam and a client, but that was only because I know Adam to be a decent guy who (like me) takes the necessary precautions while working. The use of condoms, regular testing for STIs, and being discriminating about who to have sex with and who to pass up are all necessary for a safe, successful career in escorting.

There is, however, one part of the business that I took part in once, and don't care to do again. Like in the late Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut, I attended a sex party at a private mansion. The drive down to the Keys was a bit rough on account of traffic, but being chauffeured in a limousine helped.

The night itself was almost surreal. There were no Venetian masks, though the lighting was low and many wore costumes -- ones that were taken off once the sex began. I was there as hired help. See, not everyone is able to just drop their inhibitions and start fucking like lions in the midst of mating season. It helps to have a few... facilitators... to get things started.

I was a facilitator, and I got paid $2,000 for a night's work. Good cash -- but far less than my female counterparts received, which was somewhere in the area of $5,000. Somehow, the notion of gender equality seems lost in this business.

I had sex with two women that night, which was exhausting work. I had a break in-between each time, but still, I fell asleep on the ride back to my hotel after the night was over. Walking through the lobby that night, I suppose I didn't look any different than a guy who'd had a bit too much to drink -- no rare sight in the Keys.

The sex itself was great, though. I never thought being able to look at one's self in the mirror during the act would be arousing, back it was. Combining the physical sensations of sex along with the voyeuristic nature of mirrors was pretty intoxicating.

And yet, I'm not sure if I would ever go back to such a party. Whenever someone brings up the debate of escorting vs. pornography (are they alike? different? one more honorable than the other?) I always say that escorting thrives on anonymity, and there is no digital trail that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I don't particularly want the whole world being able to see me have sex. Strange as this may seem, I find what goes on in the bedroom to be a private affair between two (or however many) people. Sure, I'm willing to have sex for an hourly fee, but again, that doesn't entitle EVERYONE to see it.

With porn, however, anyone who pays $39.99 for a DVD gets to see the goods. That always struck me as a bit tacky. I very well may be the most modest whore to walk on God's green Earth, but still...

So, if the people who hired me for that night called me back, would I go? I'd like to say no -- but then again, the element of danger and pushing one's boundaries is always interesting. Not to mention, two-grand doesn't exactly grow on trees.

Slippery When Wet

I'd like to take a moment to clear up a common misconception.

Shower-sex is quite popular in movies and TV. You know -- the steamy, skin-glistening trysts that look profoundly erotic, soap suds and all. Well, I hate to ruin the fantasy, but shower-sex isn't nearly as easy as it looks.

Getting the right angle in order to penetrate any orifice is quite difficult. Standing face-to-face, a man's cock is more likely to poke a woman in the abdomen than it is penetrate her pussy. That's not to say one can't have fun, but closing the deal might prove more elusive than many people anticipate.

So, what is possible in the shower? Oral sex is nice -- sucking a cock or licking a pussy isn't much difficult, and the water makes things even slippery than usual. Kissing is also another fun activity. I've had women tell me that kissing a man with chest hair (read: me) is even nicer when the hair is wet.

Personally, if a woman isn't hairless south of the border (which really is rare these days), I find water is a nice way to make everything a bit "neater" down there. I find that getting a short-and-curly between the teeth doesn't happen nearly as often in the shower as when I'm simply doing it in bed.

In addition, sucking the water of a woman's breasts has to be one of my favorite activities. The women seem to enjoy it as well. The most important thing I can recommend to my fellow men is to remember that breasts are in fact sensitive. Don't paw the like produce at the market, and watch the teeth when you take them into your mouth.

(The whole teeth thing also extends to women blowing men -- unless you know that your man is into that sort of thing.)

Bath tubs are a bit different, for penetrative sex is actually possible. That being said, one must take precautions to have proper lubrication if necessary. Water can dry out the natural "wetness" that lubricates the vagina, making any penetrative sex painful. Slow and steady wins the race, and the warmer the water, the better (at least in my opinion).

All right, that's all for now. Will be back soon with more stories...

Inquiring Minds Want to Know

I met up with Bailey and some of his friends for lunch this afternoon. The hot, sunny weather continued throughout the weekend, making walking around town without an umbrella actually feasible. I used to dread summer in Miami, but not anymore.

Anyway, back to lunch. The five of us settled at a table and ordered some appetizer. Soon, people began dreading the return to work on Monday, citing either a hatred for the jobs or the ongoing fear of being laid off. I kept quiet, hoping no one would ask the question I dreaded most.

"So," one of the girls asked, looking at me, "what do you do?"

A look of panic flashed across Bailey's face. Doing my best to calm his fears, I told her what I always tell people -- that I work in freelance writing and graphic design. Brochures, flyers, press releases and the like. Sure, I have to pay for my own health insurance, but the lack of a commute and the chance to take as much or as little work as I want to are what keep me in the game.

"And you haven't noticed a slow down at all?" she continued.

"No, not really," I replied. "If anything my work is picking up. Whenever someone is laid off, the work still has to be done. That's when the boss usually calls me."

Part of my statement was true. The recession hasn't had much impact on my bookings with clients. At first I thought that with the husbands laid off from work, they'd be spending more time at home with their wives, which would impede my ability to come over and have sex with them. Fortunately, I was wrong. Even with lay offs, it seems most husbands seem content to head to the golf course than spend time with their families.

Sad, but true.

Lunch was uneventful after that little bit of interrogation. On the drive home I got a text from Bailey, apologizing for his friend's girlfriend and her questions. It was no problem, really. Part of being an escort is being able to think on one's feet. And if there was ever a job that demanded social grace and improvisation, escorting is definitely it.

Where No Tongue Has Gone Before

Honest to God, suburban moms never cease to surprise me.

I arrived by cab to the client's home. Once again, I reflected on how women prefer to meet at their homes rather than hotels. Perhaps it's because women like to feel comfortable and in a familiar environment? Where the hell their husbands are I have no idea, but that's their problem, not mine.

We got down to it after some polite conversation. After some "normal" sex activity -- sucking her tits, eating her pussy -- she told me to lay down flat on my stomach. I obliged, figuring she wanted to rub my back or perhaps even stand on it. What she did, however, took me by surprise.

Who knew suburban moms were into rimming?

Her tongue was wet as it swirled around the orifice, shocking and titillating my senses. I'd never had analingus performed on me before, and aside from Rebecca I'd never performed it on another person. The feeling was unusual, alarming, but still pleasurable.

As for kissing after the fact... um, no. After her tongue had been south of the border and between my ass cheeks, I invoked the rule of no-kissing. She didn't seem offended -- if anything, I was acting like a "typical" prostitute in keeping certain more intimate/chaste acts off the table.

While I doubt this particular brand of pleasure will come up again, I'm not exactly adverse to it. Still, I think it's best reserved for people who are in a committed relationship where trust is well-established and monogamy is the name of the game.

Wow -- that sounded awfully conservative. I need to stop watching Glenn Beck on FOX News, hoping to see him cry like a little bitch again...

A Phone Call Away

Wednesday was gorgeous -- sunny skies, no rain, and the opportunity to go to the beach for the first time in a month. Now that most of the snowbirds / tourists are gone, Miami is much easier to get around, and parking is plentiful, especially on a weekday afternoon.

Yeah, I feel guilty passing by an office building, knowing that people were inside toiling while I got to go to play, but I got over it.

I was on the sand for about fifteen minutes when I bumped into Adam -- who, like me, decided to take advantage of the nice weather. We merged towels and began talking, and of course the topic eventually steered to sex.

(Reading the blog, you'd think I rarely talk about anything else, but that's not true. Still, do you really want to read about President Obama's proposed health care reforms, or the fate of the GOP with their ever-dwindling numbers and influence?)

"Is it just me," Adam said, "or is the work getting lighter?"

"It's the summer season," I replied. "Things are always quieter. That's why you need to work hard during the winter and save your money. Feast or famine -- but only if you spend too much."

"You always were a smart-ass. Answers for everything."

"I try."

Adam told me how his favorite client was at her summer house in Maine, and wouldn't be back until mid-November. He missed her (and by that I assumed he meant her money), although that didn't stop her from calling him not three days after she left.

"We had phone sex," Adam said. "Do we charge for that?"

"I never thought about it. Telecommuting isn't something you hear about in escorting."

"You never did anything over web cam, then?"

"God, no. Nothing that will leave evidence. Photo or video."

Adam seemed to take my suggestions seriously. It's funny, because he's only a few years younger than I am. Just old enough to drink, actually. And while I wouldn't consider myself a mentor by any means, I do try to look out for him the way Rebecca looked out for me when I first got started.

Once the beach got a little too hot, we headed over to a pub on Ocean Drive for some food. I laughed once we sat down at the bar, remembering a time when I first moved to Miami when my first roommate (a musician type who I liked then, but haven't talked to since) and I were mistaken for a couple.

The musician, a guy from the mid-west, didn't like it so much. I thought it was funny, and after I told Adam, he did too.

"You would make a good homosexual," he said. "Once you start working out more, that is. Oh, and stop looking at women's breasts and drinking breeder beer."

"Breeder beer?"

"Miller Light, Budweiser -- the shit you find at a frat party."

"I see."

"Fags have too much class for that crap," Adam said. "Well, class or pretentiousness. I haven't decided which."

Secrets Revealed

Remember the girl I mentioned in a previous post, the one that got away? Well, not "got away" really, but the one who I never got the chance to have a relationship with because she wouldn't leave her idiot boyfriend?

Well, we talked recently. It seems her boyfriend went out on an all-night bender and didn't bother to call to let her know where he was. True, a lot of guys don't call when they're out getting drunk with their friends, but when a man plans for dinner with his girlfriend's parents the same night...

My friend baked the lasagna, prepared the Caesar salad, debated whether they should have white or red wine (and couldn't decide, so she just bought one of each) and waited for her significant other to arrive. Needless to say, he didn't.

I got the call earlier this evening. It started out platonic enough. Her asking how the weather is going in Miami, me asking how everything is out west. Yet even when exchanging pleasantries I could hear the unhappiness in her voice. I pressed her on it, asking her what was wrong.

After she revealed all, I did my best to remain sympathetic, not blaming her boyfriend in any way, which I know makes her upset. Funny -- she'll complain about the dumb prick yet she won't leave him. But the real fun began when she changed the subject, and suddenly started asking me all about my life.

It was then I decided I had to tell her what I do for a living.

At first there was silence. Then, there was a brief spat of yelling on her behalf, after which she seemed to calm down. I explained what I could -- that I enjoyed the sex and enjoyed the money even more. Escorting wasn't taxing, and I earned a handsome living working far less hours than I would doing anything else.

So, The One Who Got Away now joins Bailey in knowing my occupation. People like Rebecca and Adam don't necessarily "count" because they're in the business themselves. After telling her, I felt great, as if a weight had been lifted off of me.

Not many people know about this blog, however. It's ironic that I'm at my most candid and honest when typing away on my laptop. Anonymity breeds candidness, especially when one's occupation demands a certain amount of secrecy.

Still, I could never tell my parents. To quote Hillary Clinton, "No Way, no how!" They think they've raised a respectable, college-educated young man who decided to go freelance instead of working at an office. I certainly like to think of myself as respectable -- and I know I'm college-educated -- and I did indeed forgo life in the office.

However, having sex for a living doesn't exactly sit well with all those rosy parental expectations. Sometimes I feel guilty for lying; other times I realize it's for their own good. Most importantly, I don't harass them for money, which serves as a testament to the level of independence I live by thanks to having sex with women who pay me for it.

Little Blue Pill

No, I don't use Viagra.

It's not that I have anything against it. For men who are actually suffering from Erectile Dysfunction (ED), it's a useful way to remain virile and able to satisfy their sex partners. For me, however, it's simply not useful. I'm in my early 20s, and can both get and maintain an erection just fine.

I know there's a lot of bunk out there about male sex-workers (gigolos, porn stars, etc.) using Viagra on an almost-regular basis, but I don't think that's really the case. OK, maybe porn stars do, seeing how they're fucking on film and not for an individual client. Do any of the women I see really want an erection that lasts up to four hours? Don't think so.

I've asked Adam the same question -- whether or not he uses the blue pill to stay hard. Like me, he said no. Most of the time the women we're with are satisfied with a one-hour fuck, not the marathon-length encounters porn stars must endure to get the perfect shot.

And while I'm sure that Viagra is perfectly safe, all drugs are known to have side effects. Would a man who uses Viagra recreationally in his early 20s be subject to some unexpected consequences down the road? Maybe, maybe not. I don't intend on finding out, either. I've looked in my father's medicine cabinet plenty of times, and have never seen Viagra in there next to the Listerine and dental floss.

The same can't be said for other medicine cabinets, or visiting relatives who hijacked my bathroom back home upon arrival. Fortunately, if one's father doesn't suffer from ED, it's unlikely the son will, either.

So while I'm sure Viagra would love an endorsement from a man who has sex professionally, they'll have to look elsewhere than this blog. And quite frankly, I hope I'm never in the position to endorse their product at all!

Escorts in the Media

Sex-workers have been in the media a lot lately.

Be it Showtime's Secret Diary of a Call Girl or the Elliot Spitzer scandal, it seems that escorts are quickly moving into the mainstream -- at least in terms of media coverage.

For the record, I think Ashley Dupré is gorgeous. I wasn't surprised at all to hear the kind of money she was charging for her companionship. I didn't have much sympathy for Elliot, however. For a man to rage against prostitution only to get caught with one was one of the better cases of irony I've seen in recent years.

So, now that the cat is quickly coming out of the bag, where does that leave escorts who are still working in the biz? For starters, it makes us even more vigilant. Okay, I know that writing a blog about my experiences might seem foolish, but thus far no one even seems to be reading the damn thing.

When I say vigilance, I mean screening clients more carefully and having them agree to multiple conditions. Some girls -- the smart ones, anyway -- are now refusing to see politicians. That may cut into their revenue (along with businessmen, politicians are well-known for using escorts for a quick fuck rather than go home to their wives), but the peace-of-mind is priceless.

No one is going after a private citizen who sees an escort for sex. It's the public figures, such as actors, musicians, CEOs and politicians that get the media salivating over the possibility of breaking the story. American has a long established lover affair with seeing public figures fall from grace. Screwing a whore in a hotel room goes along with that.

I, on the other hand, have sex with women. Fortunately, this protects me a lot from the prying eyes of the media. As I said before, most of my clients are private citizens, either divorcees or neglected wives of successful men. I've never been with the wife of a public figure -- not that I know of, anyway.

Furthermore, women don't seem to make the kind of bizarre requests that men do. No one has ever asked to film/record me, or even ask that many questions abotu where I'm from or if I've ever been to such-and-such place or know so-and-so. They mainly want sex, companionship, and a sympathetic ear.

And while blogging can risk revealing my identity, I feel pretty secure. These days it seems blogging about one's ventures in escorting can lead to a book deal and a prime-time drama on cable. I've read Belle de Jour: Diary of an Unlikely Call Girl and believe it to be true. This is the book that inspired the BBC series that crossed the Atlantic to the US on Showtime.

As for other memoirs? Not so much. A "woman" by the name of Miss S. wrote a book called Confessions of a Working Girl, a book I found to be utter crap. Who works in a brothel to pay for some sort of study abroad program in Venice, Italy? The mere word "brothel" was enough to make me cringe. Anyone who's seen HBO's Bunny Ranch knows that the kind of girl you get at a brothel isn't exactly high quality.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: You get what you pay for. And when it comes to sex, it's all money well-spent.

All Things Equal

Oral sex really is wonderful.

I can't imagine a time when it was considered "dirty" or deplorable. Something about having one's mouth close to another person's genitals is profoundly intimate, especially when both partners are pleasuring each other simultaneously.

That's right -- I'm talking about the sixty-nine.

This past week, I had a client that seemed to want me to coach her. This isn't unusual; Rebecca and Adam all have similar stories, as do most escorts for that matter. Seeing how we're the sex-worker, sometimes the client will look to us for guidance and/or suggestions as to what we should for the evening.

Seeing how I love oral sex, I asked the client if she'd ever tried a sixty-nine. I guided her on top of me (she was the six, I was the nine) and before long, we were going at it like two teenagers who'd just made a pledge of sexual abstinence.

Going down on a woman from behind -- that is, eating her pussy from the back -- is deeply erotic. There's something primal about it, as if I've suddenly reverted back to a caveman focused on nothing but food and sex. Well, I suppose that description isn't too far removed from modern men, but still...

The client had a mouth like a vacuum cleaner, sucking and stroking with intermittent flicks of the tongue on the head of my cock. For any women reading, the head of a man's cock is a HIGHLY sensitive area, one that should be given extra attention when blowing him.

We both came at the same time, more or less. No squirt for me, and the client pulled her mouth off of me before I ejaculated. After a quick clean up, we waited a bit to have sex missionary-style. I really hope this "reboot" factor I have will last for another few years, as it's a great characteristic to have, seeing how I'm a whore.

By the time I got ready to leave, another thunderstorm had rolled in, drenching Miami and even reaching up to Broward County. A not-so-perfect ending to a nice evening, but I can't complain. Is it just me, or am I one of the luckiest men on Earth?

What Women Want

No, not the Mel Gibson movie. I never cared for him before, but ever since his blaming the Jews for all the world's ills during his DUI incident, I've lost all respect for the man. Oh, and for someone who claims to be a strict Catholic, having an affair and impregnating his mistress reveals him for what he truly is -- a lying fraud.

Sorry, just had to vent. The guy really gets on my nerves. Moving on...

My conversation / debate with Rebecca over the differences between men and women got me thinking today. What is it that women want out of my (paid) companionship?

It just can't be sex -- although that's certainly part of it, judging by how eagerly some of my clients reach for my cock once we start fooling around. I've never seen women this aggressive in my non-escorting hours. Perhaps it's an age-related difference. The girls I date are usually in their early to mid 20s, whereas my clients are at least a decade older.

Could age bring about more sexual aggression and assertiveness? True, my clients are paying for sex, so why not just reach for my cock and make sure I'm hard? Then again, erections have never been hard (pardon the pun) to come by, so I don't know why they'd feel the need to "inspect" the merchandise.

Other than sex, there is a social / emotional aspect to my services. I listen to them discuss their lives, be it their children, travels, hopes and ambitions for the future, that sort of thing. I had a wonderful conversation with a woman who'd traveled to Rome for Christmas last year, and the photos she took of the trip were quite stunning. When I told her she should look into photography as a hobby and possibly a part-time career, she blushed.

Ah, yes. Compliments -- the real thing women are after, be it with a gigolo or a traditional partner. Women, more so than men, need to hear that they're valued and appreciated. I know that sounds trite -- possibly even stereotypical -- but my career in escorting thus far has confirmed it time and time again.

I feel the need to add a personal touch to what I do. If a woman mentions that her son's seventh birthday is coming up, the next time I see her I'll be sure to ask how it went. Little things like this really add up, and often result in repeat business, which is the best thing for me from a financial standpoint.

So, there you have it folks. I'm not just a sex machine going around Miami, sticking his dick into any woman that will pay for it. More than anything, what I provide is something that these women do not get from their husbands. Maybe that's because their men are over-worked, or regretting marriage completely, or possibly fucking the secretary.

Sad, but I'm not complaining. Their loss is my gain, and I'm reaping the benefits each and every week.

Mentoring

"You did what?!"

Rebecca looked at me in shock as I told her what happened with that certain client of mine -- the one who got several hours' worth of companionship for free. Glancing around the restaurant, I told Rebecca to quiet down. The last thing we needed is some journalist on a lunch break making us his/her next story.

"I didn't mean to," I said, thinking of how much I sounded like an adolescent. "It just happened. After the sex we got to talking and before I know it..."

"Julian, that's totally unprofessional. Your 'companionship' comes at a price. You just give it away for free. That's what sluts are for."

"Good to know. So, has this ever happened to you? Finding a client attractive and all that?"

"Of course," Rebecca said, taking a sip from her iced tea before continuing. "But I never let my emotions get the best of me. Besids, he's not seeing the real me. The girl he pays to spend time with is another person altogether -- she's a fantasy, not a reality."

"Do you think I'm putting too much of myself into the work?"

"Could be. I mean, you don't use your real name -- thank God -- but you do need to put up a bit of a wall, you know? Or else things like this will continue to happen."

I wondered if Rebecca was right -- if perhaps my genuine nature towards my clients was putting me at risk. Then again, women are different than men in that they thrive off of emotional intimacy. It's different to satisfy a woman's needs than a man's. If I just focused on sex and left my clients alone in bed afterward, I wouldn't get any repeat business.

They like the fact that I give them what their husbands (assuming their married) don't: my complete, undivided attention. Hell, sometimes I even find their stories interesting, especially if they happened to work before getting married and becoming bored housewives.

Rebecca ordered a grilled chicken caesar salad, where I settled on a turkey wrap. As we waited for our food, she told me that I couldn't let our agent know about my unbilled time, or else she'd ask for commission and begin to suspect I was swindling her.

"She seems nice on the outside," Rebecca said, "but trust me, once money comes into the picture she's a different person entirely."

"Dully noted. Anyway, let's change the subject. Are you still planning that vacation to the Pacific Northwest."

"Yeah, I am. I'm still leaning more towards Seattle rather than Vancouver, especially now that you need your passports to enter Canada."

"Keep my posted, then. I wouldn't mind getting out of this heat for a week."

"Yeah, well, you better make sure to bill all hours with a client, or else you won't have enough money to pay for airfare and hotel."

"Sorry, mom," I teased.

"If your mother knew you were a whore I'm sure she'd say the same thing."

"It's a good thing this restaurant is practically empty," I whispered. "Otherwise, we might have some explaining to do!"

Love & Sex: A Gigolo's Dilemma

I knew this would happen eventually, but I was hoping to put it off.

I headed the client's house on Monday night thinking nothing would come of it. Yet when she opened the front door to her beautiful home, my heart stopped. She was beautiful -- more so than any other client I've been with in my year of escorting. She had fair skin with shiny black hair, along with turquoise-colored eyes that seemed to switch between green and blue.

"Here you are," she said, handing me my payment in a beige envelope. "Wouldn't want to forget this."

"Hmm? Oh, thank you," I said, thinking of how I'd gladly fuck her for free. "So... this rain is ridiculous, isn't it?"

Christ, talking about the weather! I was quickly letting my libido get the better of me, and talking like a typical guy (read: bumbling fool) because of it. When she offered me a drink I gladly accepted, and ended up having two glasses of White Zinfandel. Normally I like Merlot, but the white wine was surprisingly tasty.

Now, normally I like to progress things fairly quickly. Small talk is fine, certainly, but I never forget that I'm there to have sex and move on. Last night, however, was something else entirely. I stayed at her house for four hours and only charged her for one.

My agent would HAVE A FIT if she found out.

The sex was slow, intimate, lasting about an hour and a half on the account of my leisurely technique. I really wanted to savor the moment, thinking that there was a good chance I'd never see this client again.

Once finished, I ended up sleeping a bit, then called a cab back home. Kissing her goodbye, my fingers twirled her hair, and to this day I can still feel it. Of course I offered to come over again, telling her to just call my agent if she'd like any repeat business.

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied. "Goodnight."

* * *

So, is finding a client attractive common is escorting? It's been known to happen from time to time. As for thinking about a client the day after, wondering if you should ask her out on a proper date... not so much.

Of course I know I can't follow my instincts. Part of being an escort is being available, elusive and detached. Sad, but true. Seeking out a monogamous relationship while being a whore is one of the most difficult things known to man. That keeps me up some time -- wondering what I would do if I fell in love with a woman and had to choose between her and my job.

Decisions, decisions. I'm meeting with Rebecca later for some much-needed advice. So, dear readers, stay tuned for future entries. Oh, and don't rat me out to my agent. Theoretically, I owe her commission for those extra three hours :(

Grocery Shopping in the Afternoon

One of the benefits of not workinng a traditional 9-5 job is that I can do a lot of errands during week at mid-day. While shopping at Publix for groceries this afternoon, I was surprised to see just how many people were actually there. Is the era of the 9-5 disappearing? Have lay-offs hit Miami harder than I previously thought?

Sure, there were people I expected to see shopping -- mothers with young children, senior citizens, as well as a few college kids who have probably stayed in town for either summer classes or internships. Everyone seemed pretty at ease, focused on filling their carts and getting on with their day.

When I first began escorting, I was terrified of being found out. Not by the authorities -- in this city, they have bigger problems to worry about -- but by regular citizens. There I was, well-dressed and young, doing things that I normally wouldn't be able to do on account of my "job".

And yet, as time went on, I discovered that no one really asks any questions. Once, I was at an Armani Exchange store buying some clothes, at around 2 p.m. on a Wednesday. I paid cash, and as the sales girl handed me my receipt I could see her thinking, "I wonder what this guy does for a living."

Still, she didn't ask. She gave me one of those fake, retail smiles and wished me a nice afternoon. At Barnes & Noble, no one seems suspicious that I sometimes spend a hot afternoon drinking a green tea and browsing through books and magazines. Ditto for the gym.

So it seems my fears of being branded a whore and ran out of town were false. Looking back, I doubt that anyone ever considered that I was a whore, but even if they did, who's to say they would care? Miami doesn't have the faux-puritanical ideals that you'd find in the south or the mid-west.

I do have a client later on tonight, so I'll make another entry tomorrow to recapture the moment. This blog thing sure is addictive.