That was the order of activities this past evening. After spending the holidays up north, I returned to the gorgeous Miami weather with one day to relax before going back to work. While normally the end of December and beginning of January is a bit of a lull, a few clients are known to schedule in last-minute bookings.
The Artist happened to be one of them.
Ever since she painted a nude portrait of me, we've been keeping in touch via e-mail somewhat regularly. I don't mind, really, since building long-term relationships is vital to any escort's career. The more regular clients I have, the steadier the work, the more secure my monthly earnings. Understand?
The sex happened fairly quickly. After a quick greeting, a kiss on the cheek, and a quick glass of wine, our clothes came off and we all but fell into bed. Funny -- it didn't last long, either. Now, most men wouldn't admit that, but the client herself didn't seem to mind. Sometimes a good, twenty-minute fuck is better than an hour-long session.
Really -- that's what many women tell me. None of them really want to have a sweaty, thrusting man on top of them for more than a half hour. After all, they're the ones being penetrated. Things can get uncomfortable after awhile.
But now for the body paint. I wasn't quite sure what to expect from this little adventure, but it was certainly one of the more unique experiences I've ever had. The paint was thinner than I expected, almost watery. And as for splaying my body against an oversized canvas, well, seeing one's butt cheeks on a canvas is pretty amazing.
After a the "portrait" was complete, I showered in a spare bathroom and washed myself clean. Unlike the other painting, the Artist requested to keep the body paint one. She said she'd like looking at my ass from time to time, which didn't surprise me. She certainly enjoys pinching it.
Another bout of insomnia has caused me to do something rather unusual...
As I've mentioned before, I write fiction in my spare time. One novel is complete and is currently being edited before I begin querying to agents. This next piece is unrelated to the first one.
Now, the plot might offend some sensibilities, though given the fact that I'm a whore blogging about my experiences in sex work, I don't expect to have any prudish readers. Sex and violence, however, are two different things. This current fiction project I'm working on is much more violent than sexual.
The plot thus far: Seventeen-year-old Adrian Troy is a killer. Living in Seattle, his latest victim is a college student at the University of Washington, a young man by the name of Trevor Brown.
Read on for more. And please, go easy -- this is a first draft, something I literally wrote on the plane ride down to Miami this afternoon. Cheers!
CHAPTER 1
Adrian Troy was a seventeen-year-old killer, and Seattle was his hunting ground.
He’d followed his victim to Mt. Rainer National Park -- quite an unusual spot considering it was nine o’clock at night. Mother Nature had blessed the Pacific Northwest with yet another day of rain, which suited Adrian just fine. Rain had a great way of washing blood clean and destroying any potential evidence at a crime scene.
After turning off the engine to his car, Adrian cracked his knuckles and sighed, wondering if the kill would be worth it. As feared as sexual predators were, Adrian knew first-hand that they paled when were face-to-face with an equal instead of some meek girl.
Oh, but he couldn’t let this one go. Not Trevor Brown -- the University of Washington student who’d partaken in the gang rape of a teenage girl. Sexual assault was par the course for many fraternity brothers, but normally they targeted fellow students. Drugging a high school girl with Rohypnol and then “sharing” her with the brothers upstairs was especially pathetic.
Patrick exited his car and entered the park, the light of his cigarette acting like a beacon for Adrian to follow. When the small, orange light grew dimmer, Adrian knew it was time to exit his car and follow Patrick on-foot, less the risk losing his prey inside the vast preserve.
Hopefully he won’t scream, Adrian thought. Maybe I should just slit his throat, just as a precaution. But then how can I get him to confess? Shit -- why does killing people have to be so complicated?
Right when Adrian thought he might lose sight of Patrick, his victim was kind enough to take out a flashlight and give him an even easier way to track him. Patrick, for all his preppy attire, appeared quite drunk. He staggered along the trail as if he might fall at any moment. Cursing under his breath, Patrick was totally oblivious to the fact that he was being followed.
For Adrian, it was almost too easy.
When Patrick finally stopped, Adrian rushed up from behind and plunged the hunting knife into Patrick’s back. It wasn’t a killing blow -- no, that would have been merciful. Instead, it pierced Patrick’s kidney and caused him to collapse, the blood already seeping out of the wound and onto the wet, brown earth.
“Don’t bother moving,” Adrian said coldly. “I just punctured your kidney.”
“Who… who the fuck are you?!” Patrick cried. “What are you doing--!”
Adrian grunted then kicked Patrick in the ribs. The twenty-one-year-old cried out again, this time in pain instead of shock and anger. His face was glowing from the flashlight he’d dropped during the ambush, its twisted grimace oddly satisfying to Adrian’s sense of justice. Funny how Patrick could look so innocent, even when Adrian knew damn well he was guilty.
“I’m here for Dana,” Adrian said. “You know, the girl you and your fraternity brothers raped last August? But then I’m sure your father had all of that taken care of.”
Patrick opened his mouth to speak, but Adrian flipped him over onto his back and planted a foot onto his chest before he could utter one word. Picking up the flashlight, Adrian pointed it at the hunting knife he held in his hand before directing the light right into Patrick’s eyes.
“You think fucking a girl who’d just been drugged makes you a man?” Adrian asked. “Do you? Come on, tell me. Have one iota of fucking decency for once and confess your crimes.”
“They… They made me do it,” Patrick whispered.
“Don’t give me that shit,” Adrian snapped. “You’re the goddamn president of the fraternity. Just like your father before you.”
Patrick had no reply. The guilty usually don’t. Adrian was still marveling at how child-like Patrick looked in the radiance of the flashlight. His blonde hair was wet and dirty, matted to his face in a series of messy locks. Tears were streaming down his eyes, though that did little to provoke sympathy on Adrian’s behalf.
“Dana would have cried too,” Adrian said. “I guess drugging her was a twisted act of mercy on your part. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to kill you.”
A bit rushed, I know, but hopefully effective. How will Adrian kill Trevor? And bear in mind, this is just the opening chapter. There's something far more sinister at work in Seattle -- a serial killer that begins targeting teens at Adrian's high school.
I'm excited about this project, and at the idea of working with a teenage serial killer. But don't worry, my blogging will continue on as usual. I just thought this might be a nice diversion, and a way for all readers to see another side of my creative mind.
Remember that young cousin I mentioned before? The one I mentor from time to time? We were out in the city, enjoying what was a cold and windy but also sunny day. Alone at a cafe in the middle of the afternoon, he told me he wanted to tell me something.
"What is it?" I asked. "You look worried."
"It's just... I mean, I know you won't be mad or anything..."
"Trust me -- whatever it is you did, I've done worse."
Still, he remained silent and avoided eye contact -- with me, that is. However, he did appear to be looking at someone in particular. The man in question was slightly younger than I am, and also quite good-looking. It was then that I knew what my cousin wanted to tell me.
"You're gay," I said. Blurted it out, in fact.
My cousin's face went red. Cripes, this is what he was so worried about? There I was, thinking he'd ran someone over and hidden the body, or hired someone to take his SATs and was in danger of being caught. Or perhaps there was someone threatening to pull a Columbine at his high school. My imagination has no bounds in terms of imagining worst-case scenarios.
"Is it that obvious?" my cousin asked.
"What? Oh, no, of course not. You're not flaming or anything." I winced after making that comment. The way Adam tells it, only gay men themselves are allowed to make fun of their more effeminate counterparts.
"Then how did you--?"
"You were pretty non-discrete in checking out that guy," I explained. "That, and I have a pretty keen eye."
"You never suspected anything before, did you?" my cousin said.
"No, not with your never-ending questions about girls."
From that point on, my cousin divulged how he came to discover his sexuality. Essentially, he had sex with a girl and didn't like it. Ditto for eating her pussy. And sucking her tits. Beyond kissing, he really didn't care for girls at all.
I took the time to reassure his belief that he was gay. Err, not so much reassure this belief as support him in his coming-out process. It was fine with me, I said. And don't believe any crap that being gay is either a sin, a crime against humanity, or some sort of deviant act.
"Honestly, if this is the 'worse' thing you ever admit to, consider yourself blessed."
"I'm just a little freaked out about some stuff, that's all. I mean, I went on the internet to try and learn more, and what I saw..."
Eek. I can only imagine what my cousin could have stumbled onto if he had typed in 'gay sex' onto Google and began combing through the results. With Adam's assistance (major kudos to him), I'm in the process of compiling a list of websites that are informative instead of exploitative. Thus far GLAAD and PFLAG have been invaluable.
It wasn't long before he started peppering me with questions, though. Not about having sex with men, but about sex in general -- things like condoms, lubricant, and the topic of anal sex. He'd assumed I'd done it with women, and he was correct.
I waited until we returned to his hotel before getting into the more graphic details. Essentially, I told him, anal sex involves three stages:
The lubricated loosening. This is when a lubricated finger is inserted into the anus to prep the orifice for entry. It is followed by another finger, then another, until the orifice is loosened enough for the penis.
The entry.One cannot simply "dive in" after the first stage. The "top" must enter gently, taking time to make sure his penis is able to slip in gently.
Home free.The "top" must work his way up to a steady rhythm in terms of thrusting. Slow and steady wins the race. Time is of the essence -- meaning both partners must be patient in order to fully reap the rewards.
My cousin seemed satisfied with this explanation. Still, part of me shuddered at the idea of him having anal sex -- be it penetrating or being penetrated. It's just so... I don't know, mature for him. But that wasn't the most sweat-inducing part of our conversation.
"You really know a lot about sex, don't you?" he said to me. "Why is that?"
"Oh, really?" I said, suddenly coy. "Just life experience, I suppose."
"You mean you've been fucking like crazy?"
"I've had my fun, I'll admit that."
"People wonder about you, you know," my cousin said. "All this time without a full-time job, yet you have that nice apartment in Miami."
That last part made my blood run cold. What do you mean, people wonder about me? No way in hell does anyone know about my true profession. No -- I'm a freelance PR executive who also dabbles in graphic design. End of story.
"That's enough for today, I think." My cousin's parents would be arriving back at the hotel soon enough, having caught an afternoon matinee. We (my cousin, his parents, my parents and myself) all had a reservation at the hotel restaurant for dinner.
"Fine," my cousin said. "You want to order a movie?"
"Sure," I said. "Oh, and one last thing..."
"Yeah?"
I'm not going to lie -- part of me thought about telling him about what I do right then and there. Perhaps it was because he'd just revealed such an intimate part of himself to me. I'm a big believer in equality in relationships, whether they're romantic or familial. Fortunately, my senses got the better of me.
Right. It's approximately 8:52 a.m. on Sunday morning, December 27, 2009. Normally I'd be fast asleep at this hour, but the fact that my father has a footstep like a lumberjack doesn't lend itself to sleeping in. How my mother puts up with this I'll never know...
Speaking of my mother, she's still stuffing my face at every turn -- or at least trying to. Insisting that I'm somehow "too thin," she thinks nothing of offering me cookies and pie at every turn. I deny her, of course, insisting that body standards in Miami are some of the strictest in the country.
"I can't go around looking fat," I said. Especially not when I earn a living selling my body for sex. If women wanted someone pudgy around the middle, they'd fuck their husbands.
"Oh, come on," my mother continued. "This pumpkin pie will go bad..."
Personally, I'm an apple pie man. However, looking at the can of whipped cream makes me think back to one of my first night's at work. The client -- and I've never had this particular fetish requested since -- had a thing for food.
Well, not food so much as condiments, but still! She had whipped cream, honey and even fruit at the ready. Once I suppressed my giggling, I was pretty excited (literally and figuratively) about what lay ahead. But learn this, kids: Sex and condiments ain't what it's cracked up to be.
Don't get me wrong. Licking whipped cream off her tits and sucking the nipple thereafter was lovely. Ditto for pouring honey on her abdomen and the inside of her thighs. It had a way of combining with her natural taste into something completely unique.
She did much of the same to me -- licking, sucking, pausing to place a strawberry in my mouth, too. However, once everything was licked clean, what we were left with was a kind of sticky film on both our bodies. Once we finally got down to having sex, I felt my chest being tacked onto her own as I was on top of her.
"Um, sorry about that," I said. "I guess we overdid it with the whipped cream."
"Hmm? Oh, right," the client said, clearly not much caring. "Don't worry about it. We can shower after...."
She trailed off as the both of us got into the groove of things, so to speak. We climaxed shortly after. As I rolled off of her, that same sticky film almost tried to keep me in place.
"So," I said, still erect. "About that shower..."
Washing myself clean felt good. And when she joined me inside the shower, well, that part was even better.
For all those interested in how some people get started in the business, follow this link: Escort Emergency Start-Up Kit.
The author of this post -- herself an author and sex worker -- has some great anecdotes for what many people do when they get started. It appears this article is for those who wish to enter escorting without the help of an agent/agency, which is something I didn't do.
Confident as I may be, I still wanted the guidance and security of an agent. Now that she and I get along so well, I really couldn't imagine going without her, unless of course I were to leave Miami.
I'll be returning to Florida on December 29, and I actually have a booking the following day. I apologize if my entries have been a bit boring this week, but I promise to spice things up once the holidays are finally over with. Rest assured, this blog is going to continue.
For all those that celebrate Christmas, have a good one!
Last night was interesting to say the least. My mother's annual Christmas dinner went on as usual -- lots of food, a few drunk relatives, and our annual gift-opening ceremony at 12 a.m. I got some nice new clothes, and my parents seemed to enjoy the gifts I smuggled in from Miami as well.
What does a gigolo buy his parents, you ask? Well, besides some great Cuban coffee for the both of them, I bought some scented candles for my mother, a gift card to Barnes & Noble for my father, as well as another gift certificate to their favorite restaurant here in town.
Yeah, I may have gone a bit overboard, but being an only child makes my budget go a bit further. Thankfully no one's asked where my money comes from. And no, my family doesn't attend Church on Christmas Eve. Seeing how we're pretty non-religious, and I myself am pretty much a mix of an atheist and an agnostic, I would have felt pretty out of place.
Moving on. If you read yesterday's entry, you'll remember I mentioned a cousin of mine who I only see once a year. Well, he and I caught up last night and he's coming along quite nicely. He still doesn't have any idea that his cousin/mentor is a whore, and I'm hoping to keep it that way.
He and his parents are staying in a hotel in the city, and will be meeting my parents I for dinner tonight. Thus far it looks like Chinatown, but things can still change.
Take care, my dear readers. I wish you all a wonderful holiday and an excellent 2010.
Is there anything more loathsome than Christmas dinner?
This isn’t meant as a slight to my parents -- quite the opposite. My Mom and Dad are wonderful. It’s the rest of my family I’m not so keen on. Aunts and Uncles and cousins that are eager to ask questions about what I’m doing and where I’m going, totally ignorant about what my life is really like.
I hate the invasiveness. I hate the fact that I have to keep my guard up and create lies on the spot instead of enjoying myself like a regular person.
Christmas Eve is a fairly large event at my childhood home. To this day, my mother still prepares a feast for anywhere between fifteen to twenty people. The party lasts from about 7 p.m. to 11 p.m. or so, although last year things didn’t wrap up until midnight. Christmas Day, however, is much more relaxed. Usually my parents and I go into Chinatown so my mother can relax and have someone wait on her for a change.
Of course skipping my annual trip home was out of the question. My father would probably understand (and to be honest, he prefers visiting me in Miami), but my mother would have a right fit. There’s also someone else that would miss me greatly. He and I only see each other about once a year.
This cousin of mine, he’s in his senior year of high school, and likes to think of me as something as a mentor. Well, perhaps mentor is too strong a word, but he recognizes the fact that he can call, text, or email me anytime, and that I’ll answer his questions with complete honesty.
No topic is off-limits, whether it’s sex, drugs, academics or just life. I tell him what I can. “Always wear a condom,” is a popular one, as is “Recreational drugs are for losers,” and “Yes, girls your age are stupid, so dating older is a great idea.”
Funny thing is, if this blog ever did produce a book deal, I’d probably oblige his request. My salary at the moment can’t accommodate two people for a vacation, but if I were ever in the position to do so, I probably would.
Until then, I’ll have to keep working. I promise that this is the last of the Christmas-themed posts, and I’d like to wish any Jewish readers a very happy Hanukkah. So, barring any drunken antics at my parents’ holiday party, consider me a regular scrooge in terms of holiday-themed blogging.
I’m going to take a wild guess and say that readers are just as interested in Simone as I am. As our relationship continues to develop, I’ll be sure to write about it as best I can. Oh, and did I mention I have another job interview coming up…?
After maneuvering the holiday crowds at Miami International Airport, I arrived home with temperatures in the upper 20s. It's been ages since I've seen snow on the ground, so seeing the aftermath of last weekend's storm was quite impressive.
Anyway, I'm back here in my childhood bedroom, finding it unchanged since my last visit home in October. Of course Mom and Dad are glad to have me home. Both of them ask about the job interview I had in October, and I again told them that there hasn't been any notice.
"Probably didn't get it, then," Dad said. "I mean -- it's not that you weren't a good candidate or anything..."
"Relax," I said. "I've lived with your honesty all my life. I know how to take it."
"Well, you don't know for sure," Mom added. She does this often, trying to blunt my father's at-time crass honesty. "I'm sure things will pick up in 2010."
"Plenty of freelance work for now," I said. And by freelance work, of course I mean clients. The women who pay me for sex.
All of my gifts are purchased, so I won't need to borrow Dad's car to do my holiday shopping like I did last year. There's nothing more miserable than a mall on the final days before Christmas. Between pushy sales associates who won't leave you alone to the deathtrap parking lots, it's a scene I try to avoid.
Will have a more detailed entry up later tonight. Until then, happy holidays to all.
I realize that admitting I like being slapped across the face or spanked with a belt and/or riding crop might strike some as strange. Physical pain isn't something most people want to experience -- that is, they don't ask others to intentionally hurt them. Pain, well, hurts.
But is there a such thing as a "good" kind of pain?
I know what I feel when I'm being slapped or spanked is pain. However, I can say that all pain isn't created equal. The best way I can try and articulate this is by saying that "good" pain is like a hot, tingling sensation that slowly burns across the skin. Like stepping into a hot bath, it's shocking at first, but soon one adjusts the temperature, until they're so relaxed they can lay in the tub for quite some time.
Now, the "bad" kind of pain usually results in a deep throbbing and/or aching. This is the kind of stuff that will usually leave a dark bruise instead of any light redness. Though I'm no expert on BDSM (and quite frankly, most of the spanking and slapping I partake in is fairly lightweight in the grand scheme of things), safe words are essential for alerting one's partner to any true discomfort.
Experiencing the "good" kind of pain can be profoundly euphoric. I'm not quite sure if pain releases endorphins (those feel-good chemicals) or not, but I wouldn't be surprised if it did. In addition, the idea of surrendering myself to another is deeply erotic. During my working hours, I'm usually the one who takes the lead. So, on my own time, I enjoy a more passive role.
And let me just say something right here and now: Neither one of my parents EVER laid a hand on me. Just as many people are convinced that every escort is a victim of childhood sexual abuse, many assume that BDSM-enthusiasts were beaten by their parents as children.
Well, I hate to burst anyone's bubble, but neither of my parents is violent, and I was so quiet and docile as a child the most I ever got was a 10-minute timeout in the kitchen. Hardly a horror story. That, and I was taller than my dad by my 14th birthday.
So, there it is -- my best effort to describe why I loved it when Rebecca slapped my face or spanked my ass. I'm not sure how much I'll be blogging during the next week or so, though I'll do my best to keep things up-to-date. In all likelihood I'll be bored at my parents' house rather quickly. Cheers!
This one client of mine -- I'll refer to her as the artist -- she's quite a good painter. Her wealth enables her to pursue her hobby with great vigor, much to her delight. She's turned one of the rooms in her large home into a studio, with many easels and paint brushes lying around.
Now, remember when I declined a client when she wanted to photograph me? Well, one of the benefits of working with the Artist is that her paintings are what can be considered "impressionism", meaning they aren't photo-realistic portraits at all.
So yes, one night, after sex, I served as a model for her. And it was both a surreal, frightening and unforgettable experience.
I'd showered after sex, just so that I felt "fresh" in order to pose. I was wearing one of her ex-husbands robes when I followed her into the studio and waited for her to set up. Then, just like countless times before, I dropped my clothes and presented my nude body for her to use.
When I say I've slept with over 100 women, I don't say that to brag -- I say it to illustrate the fact that I'm comfortable with sex. Yet being elevated for her to see, completely nude and quite aware of her scrutinizing every inch of my body -- it was intimidating.
"What's wrong?" asked the Artist. "Everything all right?"
"Hmm? Oh, I'm fine. I'm just a bit nervous, that's all."
This caught the Artist off-guard. "You have sex for a living, so it can't be the nudity."
"No, it's being naked. It's the way you're looking at me. I can see it in your eyes. You're not like that when we're... together."
"You look fine, Julian. Now just relax. I can get your a glass of wine if that will help?"
I accepted the offer. The Merlot was good, and loosened my inhibitions a bit. By the time the client was finished, she'd finished a rough outline of the painting, which mainly focused on my body. She'd rendered me faceless on my request, and changed my hair color from dark brown to a lovely shade of purple. Impressionism, remember?
I just received the final results a moment ago. As we chatted over Instant Messenger, I thought of asking her if I could perhaps keep the painting, but decided against it. It's her work, after all. She's the one to make the offer.
Lo and behold...
"You can pick it up during our next booking. Oh, and how do you feel about body paint?"
So, my dear readers, I will be getting a bit of a present the next time I visit the artist for an appointment. After having sex, she'll likely slather me in paint and allow me to press my body on white canvas. Should be an interesting night.
More than anything, I'm turned own my women who are passionate, talented and knowledgeable in their fields. The Artist taught me a lot about art, and the fact that she's making art with my help is both humbling and exciting. However, one question remains...
What should I do with the painting? Hanging a nude painting of one's self is a bit much, even for an escort.
Really not quite sure what I should write about today. The weather is heavenly -- about 70 F, or for my international readers, 21 C. After weeks of balmy, tropical conditions, it's refreshing to have the windows in my apartment open to the cool breeze.
Hmm... well, I'll suppose my readers will want to know about what happened with Simone and I. In all honesty, nothing. We finished watching the movies I had, talked for a bit, listened to some music, then both turned in -- she on the sofa, me in my bedroom. Oddly enough, she was gone by the time I woke up.
Thanks for letting me stay. Have a good holiday. xx Simone
That was the note that awaited me on the kitchen counter when I got about early this afternoon. In all honesty, it took me by surprise. I don't know what I really "expected" for us to do this afternoon (lunch? Christmas shopping?) but I would have liked to see her before she left.
In any event, I have work tomorrow night as well as Monday and Tuesday. On Wednesday, I'll be catching an early-morning flight up north to be with my parents for the holiday. I'll be coming back to Miami shortly after Christmas, and my parents are entertaining the idea of visiting me sometime in January.
I know I mentioned that I had another job interview, but that's not occurring until January, either. Yes, it's in my field of study from university, and yes it does sound like a nice opportunity. But am I getting my hopes up? Definitely not.
It's funny to hear people deride sex work when, in reality, my agent and clients have treated me better than any recruitment executive or HR manager. Maybe that's because to my agent and clients, I'm valuable. Sex work is an industry meant for very few people. And when you deal with the high-end, well, the pool of candidates is that much smaller.
I had a reader ask me via e-mail why I would want to give up my job, considering starting at the bottom of the corporate ladder would mean a significant pay cut. This reader is correct, of course. But much as I would like to get in my field from university eventually, that doesn't mean I would leave sex work entirely.
Even one client a week would give me a nice cushion, financially speaking. Of course my agent here in Miami would be sad to see me leave the city, but would she make a few calls to New York, Chicago, etc. to see if I could get hooked up with another madam? Certainly.
That, my dear readers, would make this blog even more interesting. Imagine the possibilities: An entry-level business executive by day, and an escort at night. If that isn't an HBO series waiting to happen I don't know what is!
Take care, everyone. And please keep reading, keep telling your friends about the blog, and continue to add me on Twitter. And if you're really feeling adventerous, by all means, E-MAIL ME YOUR QUESTIONS AND COMMENTS.
Thus far, I have readers from the United States, Canada, the UK, France, Germany, Ireland, Spain, Hong Kong, Australia, and New Zealand. I'd love to hear what you all have to say, so stop being so shy and drop me a message!
If you've been paying attention to the news these past few days, you'll know that Miami and all of South Florida has been positively drenched.
Streets in Downtown Miami were flooded, motorists were stranded in Hollywood, FL, and the sexy area known as South Beach was turned into a water park. Every time I bitch about my rent, I seem to bite my tongue when a storm hits. Having the luxury of parking in an above-ground garage is great.
Not to say the garage itself didn't have flooding, but thankfully my car was parked several stories up. Most of the water has been pumped out, but I won't be moving my car anyway for at least another few days.
Needless to say I rescheduled some of my bookings until later this weekend and early next week. Even more interesting is that as I type this entry, Simone is sitting right next to me, munching away on popcorn as we watch one of my favorite Christmas movies, Batman Returns. She had some minor flooding in her neighborhood and asked if she could come over --
(Okay, before I could finish that sentence Simone took my laptop away from me to see what I'm writing. Nothing vulgar, I assured her.)
Back to what led her here: Simone had some flooding in her neighborhood, and needed a place to keep dry. Knowing I lived in a high-rise, she phoned me and asked for a place to crash. Of course I said yes -- escorts have to stick together -- and we've been getting to know each other since.
And for all those wondering, no, we haven't had sex. My sofa is quite large, certainly big enough for a petite girl like her. Add in some pillows and soft throw blankets, and it's practically like sleeping on a cloud.
On another note, I haven't heard anything from Rebecca. I know plenty of readers were interested in her, but she's been MIA for awhile. Catherine called to wish me a happy holidays, and to thank me once again for being such a good tour guide. Bailey will be off to visit his family soon, as will Adam.
So for right now, it's just Simone and I. And while I love my readers, I love watching Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman as well. Goodnight!
Had a bit of fanciful thinking this afternoon at the beach.
Once again, I found myself enviable of Dr. Brooke Magnanti's ability to reveal herself as Belle de Jour, mainly because prostitution isn't illegal in the United Kingdom. And seeing how she paid tax on her earnings, there was nothing that the authorities could really do.
The government here in the United States isn't nearly as enlightened. In Washington D.C. -- even with the Democrats in power -- there are still many die-hard social conservatives whose values are completely backward. Abortion is murder, they say, yet the death penalty and loose gun control laws are fine.
Religion belongs in public, as long as it's Christianity. Under no circumstances could other religions such as Islam, Wicca or even Buddhism be permitted. Jews get a pass because being Anti-Semitic makes one look like a fool. Never mind endorsing a bimbo like Sarah Palin for vice president...
Assuming this blog ever did became a hit, I would love to have it compiled into a book and reach those who prefer print over digital. And revealing myself as the author would be even better. Sure, there would be the initial period in which the media would dig into my past and try to find some dirt, but sooner or later there would be another scandal to take my place.
At this rate, I'm betting that it would be an athlete cheating on his wife ;-)
I have tons of promotional ideas, too. For the hardcover edition of my book, I would love it if the publisher would include a DVD loaded with extras -- a sit-down interview, perhaps, as well as some of my photography and short stories to give people an idea of what I do in my non-working hours.
Most of all, I think my idea for a contest is pretty daring. Each reader would receive a code to enter in on a website. Out of all those submitted, one would be picked at random, and the grand-prize winner would win a trip to Miami and a sit-down dinner with me, during which they could ask any question they like.
That last bit might sound impractical, but man would it be good press. In the never-ending quest to sell books, publishers around the world have had to up the ante and think of new ways to entice readers and make them feel like they're getting something extra for their hard-earned dollar.
Escorts, in my opinion, know all about the value of a dollar -- both earning it and spending it. And unlike our spend-happy government (while I support the Democratic party and President Obama, I recognize the fact that spending our way into deficit-hell isn't a wise move), some of us are downright prudent financially.
Of course, there could be a golden bullet in terms of both financial woes and the fact that my profession is illegal. I, like many escorts, think it's time the United States government legalizes prostitution nationwide and taxes it, just like they do for alcohol and tobacco.
Add in marijuana and suddenly you have tax revenue coming in from all sides. The conservatives would have a fit -- not that they haven't used prostitutes or done illegal drugs before. They're just too hypocritical to ever admit it.
Hopefully, one such dreams of mine will come true. Until then, be sure to remember that escorts are just looking to earn a living. They don't need anyone watching over them. We're perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.
Right. Just got in from work a few minutes ago. Now, about that foursome...
Simone and I arrived to the clients' home separately. As for Simone herself, well, she looked stunning in a strapless black dress, open-toe high heel shoes and quite possibly the most bewitching perfume I have ever smelled in my life.
"You look beautiful," I told her.
She smirked, then added: "You don't look too bad yourself. You clean up nicely."
"Does that mean I looked less-than-stellar when we first met?"
"Not bad," she said. "Just a little... average."
Hmm -- a compliment combined with a bit of an insult. I was liking her more already.
When the front door opened, Simone and I found that our clients really did look average. Not that they were homely by any means, but compared to us, they were quite under-dressed. They apologized, saying they felt like fools and that they should have known that by hiring two upscale escorts, they should have known that the attire might be a bit more formal.
"Don't worry," Simone said. "It's not like the clothes ever stay on long, anyway."
And so the chit-chat continued as it usually does -- a little wine, even some cheese. These clients were perhaps even more high-end than Simone and I, wardrobe shortcomings notwithstanding.
But onto the sex...
The bedroom was decorated with flickering candles and an even bigger blaze in the gas fireplace. The king-sized bed looked inviting, situated in the center of the room with plenty of pillows to go around.
Simone and I took the lead first, letting the husband and wife watch us as if an upscale porno had just invaded their bedroom. I took Simone's face into my hands and kissed her -- first on the mouth, then on her cheeks, forehead, and neck. I could feel her fumbling with my belt buckle before she unbuttoned my shirt and took it off.
"Great color on you, by the way," she whispered. "So, how do you want to go about this?"
"Let's give 'em a show for awhile, then let them join in," I replied, and promptly lowered her dress and began kissing her breasts. They were the real McCoy, by the way. And it wasn't long before I slipped my hands beneath her dress, squeezed her ass and then slipped her thong underwear right off.
Simone then caught me off-guard by shoving me onto my back, and yanking both my pants and boxers down. Now completely nude, my erection present for the entire room to see, Simone smiled back at the couple, and invited them to join us.
The wife came over first. Her and Simone double-teamed me: Simone jerking me off, the wife pressing her mouth against my own in an angry, demanding kiss. When I felt Simone's hand let go of my cock, I opened my eyes to see that the husband had taken Simone for his own.
I can't say who exactly penetrated who first, but I can say this: I only had intercourse with the wife. At no time did my penis enter Simone's vagina, which is something I'm kind of disappointed about. It's not that I expect to have a good time during work -- not to say that I don't -- but I couldn't just abandon the wife, peel the husband off of Simone and take her for myself.
Before long we were all in the bed, lying on our backs in a state of sweat, panting exhaustion. The husband had already fallen asleep, something his wife said is fairly common. Slightly embarrassed, she said that Simone and I could use the guest bathrooms if we wanted to shower up before leaving.
And that's when things got interesting.
After slipping on my underwear (even though I'm an escort, even I feel strange about walking around naked in a stranger's house), I got a glass of water from the kitchen. When I returned to the guest bathroom, I didn't see that Simone had already claimed it for her own.
"Sorry," I said. "I'll just go in the other..."
"No use wasting water," she said. "Come on, get in."
"Are you... serious?"
"Julian, you've sucked my tits and I've given you a hand job. Are you saying you're going to get bashful over a shower?"
She did have a point. Slipping off my underwear, I entered the steamy chamber and lathered up with soap. Of course I took a moment to admire Simone's nude body, and from what I could tell she took her time looking at my chest, cock and ass, too.
I was done washing up pretty quickly. Simone, on the other hand, seemed to be taking her time. And when she asked me to wash her back, well, who was I to say no? Understand that I found the act of washing a woman to be extremely sensual -- and by that I mean arousing.
Alas, I was pretty tapped out from the evening's festivities.
After bidding adieu to the client, Simone headed home in separate cabs. Take care, she said. We'll probably see each other soon.
"You too," I said. "Goodnight."
Collapsing into the backseat of the cab, I felt my stomach twist into a knot.
I cannot, any under circumstances, develop feelings for Simone. No way, no how. But when I say that she is the most mysterious and attractive woman I've met since Rebecca, I mean it.
So, the foursome is happening tonight. I promise to have as detailed a synopsis up as soon as I can. Depending on how things go, I suppose I can split the night up into two separate entries -- we'll see.
I'm nearly as curious about working with Simone than the actual sex itself. But isn't it always interesting to meet new people at work?
Moving on. It's come to my attention lately that people are really interested in what I have to say as a sex worker. Some of this is due to the fact that I'm a man in a predominantly female business. Sure, one can easily see male prostitute. Just take a flight to Los Angeles and catch a cab to Santa Monica Boulevard.
Ah, but those are streetwalkers -- not the kind of high-end escorts that seem to have captured the public's imagination. In stark contrast to those poor unfortunate souls, I'm neither disease-ridden, drug-addicted or desperate for escape.
I do my best to answer people's e-mails as fully and articulately as possible. But what do I find most interesting about my field? Well, the clients, of course. Seriously -- I never understand why people aren't more interested in those who seek out sex workers to begin with.
When I first started having sex for money, I had no idea would be on the other end of the front door. To my surprise, they ended up being quite normal -- housewives that married for money but were tired of being ignored, divorcees that were eager for something new, and the occasional single girl who got tired of navigating Miami's trite dating scene.
The men are even more interesting -- at least that's what Rebecca, Simone and even Dr. Brooke Magnanti herself seem to indicate. Whether they're lawyers of business executives, teachers or policemen, there never seems to be any absence of variety in terms of clients.
They're all looking for sex -- and willing to pay for it, too. And in spite of what Hollywood would like the public to believe, not all of them are fat, over-the-hill layabouts that can't get a decent woman on their own. On the contrary -- some of them are quite able to traditionally date, but some of them just don't wish to.
Sex on demand, at a price. As harsh as that sounds, for many it's downright practical. Speaking on my own behalf, seeing how pays for sex is the most interesting part of my job. What they "want" in terms of sexual intercourse/activity is fascinating as well, but it pales in comparison to seeing who's behind the front door.
So that's my two cents, folks. As interested as you are in me, I'm probably even more interested in you!
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