Friday, December 4, 2009

First Night at Work

Friday, December 4, 2009
So, Brianna rejected me as soon as she found out who and what i was. No matter, really. Life goes on. One of the benefits of being a whore is that I've become quite good at compartmentalization -- meaning I can sequester, bury, and generally dull my emotions on-demand.

Moving on. I've been meaning to post about my first night at work for awhile. Not my night with Rebecca and the man who masturbated to her and I having sex -- but my real, genuine client.

I remember going through my closet like a teenage girl, not knowing what to wear and worried I'd make some sort of mistake. I'd finally settled on black slacks and a button-down dress shirt. Not one of those striped monstrosities you see guys wearing in clubs, but a solid, respectable one in a particularly nice shade of blue.

Topped off the look with a good pair of shoes, my favorite watch, and just the slightest bit of cologne. Perfection.

When I finally arrived at the client's home, I was entranced to see how the other half lives. Understand that at the time, I'd recently graduate from college and was still living in my somewhat cramped and shabby student apartment. Things like hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows and recessed lighting were no small miracle.

The client was bi-racial, I believe. Not particularly gorgeous, but certainly attractive. She acted as if she'd been with escorts before, what with her offering me a drink right away and handing me the white envelope with my payment straight away.

"She was right," the client said, referring to my agent. "She said you were handsome."

I'm pretty sure I actually blushed. "Right, well, thank you."

"How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Guess correctly and I'll tell you."


Close -- I was twenty-two at the time, almost twenty-three. After making a comment about what a "baby face" I had, we went out onto the balcony and sipped our drinks as the warm breeze pushed off the Biscayne Bay.

What struck me most about the evening was how similar it was to a regular date. Well, not quite regular, seeing how I didn't have a habit of dating wealthy women anywhere between fifteen and twenty years my senior, but it wasn't some freak-show encounter, either.

I remember thinking, I could get used to this. And that was before we even had sex.

Ah yes, the sex. It'd been some time since I'd been with an older woman, but it wasn't long before I remembered how wonderful the experience truly was. Women over the age of thirty-five know what they want in bed and have no qualms in asking for it.

What did she want? Oral sex -- and plenty of it. Good thing I've always been... how shall I say... linguistically-inclined? No, really -- it's true. I'm proficient in Spanish and know a bit of French, too. I've been known to pick up a few trace phrases in German, Russian and Japanese as well.

Being between her legs was wonderful -- and I'm not just saying that because I was being paid for it. And by the time I finally penetrated her, I was on cloud nine. Getting paid for having sex: Was there anything better?

The following day, however, was marred by a bit of paranoia on my end. Was she an FBI agent undercover? Was I about to be arrested, hauled in front of my alma mater, having my degree rescinded and then thrown in prison? Would my parents give a teary-eyed interview with Barbara Walters, insisting they hadn't done anything wrong in bringing me up?

No on all accounts. And despite several efforts on my behalf, I have yet to leave escorting. And you know what? Fuck the firm up north if they don't want me. Brianna? Fuck her too. Already have, actually, and it wasn't anything spectacular. If the ever-increasing amount of e-mails I receive each week means anything at all, it's that people like this blog.

If they can accept what I do and derive happiness from it, why can't I?
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