"Ew, yeah right." Philip said, looking up from his sidekick. I rolled my eyes. Philip was not fooling me on this one. Looking at him now, staring at me with his large shiny dark eyes and perfectly formed round head, one might believe that his counter to my previous statement was truth. However, because I know this boy in front of me, I would not be fooled. I folded my hands and leaned forward a bit, leveling my height with his from across the table and creased my features into a small, malicious smile.
"He fucked you in the morning."
Phil opened his mouth in a sort of expression that was meant to convey shock, but turned into something of a laugh. "I hate how you know it was in the morning."
My smile opened up a bit and became more genuine. "Just because you look like a cute, innocent asian twink doesn't mean that you ARE. Come on, Phil, I've been at this game a long time. I know how it works."
"Oh, that's right, you're the White Diamond, Queen Of The Night, Roxanne.. You know, Lord of the Hookers."
I snorted and bit into the french fry I had been holding in my hand. "Don't forget 'Pleasure-Bringer to The Unpleasurable.'"
"Ew!" Philip exclaimed, "but, it's so true."
"Indeed it is," I replied, "but what can ya do?"
"How DO you do it, anyway? I could NEVER imagine having sex with some old gross dude."
Again, I smiled. I chewed the last bits of the french fry, musing over the best way to interpruet this for my little friend. "Well," I began, "I think that everyone has something to offer. As you know I can get turned on by intelligence, which is why I've never attempted to fuck you.."
"I thought it was because you didn't like asians."
"Yes, that too."
"Bitch."
I continued, dipping my fork into the refried beans and guacamole on my plate. "So, a little bit of conversation before always helps, especially if they are interested in me and my life and whatnot. I, of course, respond by asking them similar questions and gather a bit of information on their intelligence. Powerful men excite me, so the more interesting their job, the more I desire them."
"Basically, you fit into the classic ideal of a gold-digger." Phil said earnestly. I shrugged.
"That's not quite true, actually. I like sex and I like money, but it's not about either." I paused, expecting some sarcastic remark from my companion. Instead, he just sat there staring at me, expecting me to continue. So, I did. "I like the idea of control. I control where everything goes in the situation, bottom line. He hired me due to his desires, whatever they may be. I am there for a purpose, but I am not there to be controlled. I am under no contract and no liability. I have free range to do whatever I want sexually with them and there is absolutely nothing that they can do to get more out of me if I do not want it."
Philip was confused. I could tell by the way his almond-shaped eyes were slowly becoming distant and his face became complacent. "Okay," I began to explain, "let's say that I get a client call and he wants me to come over for a massage for an hour."
"Okay," Phil acknowledged.
"Now, he's obviously expecting a happy ending, and I am obliged to give it to him. However, upon getting there, I expect to be treated with respect. If I do not receive respect or if I feel uncomfortable with the man and the situation, I ask for the money up-front. This ensures that if things were to go downhill all will not be lost on my end. If he is polite and respectful, creates a calm and inviting atmosphere then I disregard the money up-front and instead ENJOY MYSELF. It's amazing what one can do when they are comfortable. If the client sees that he has succeeded in making me comfortable, he becomes more relaxed. Conversation begins, we get to know each other, and we go from there. I always maintain the sexual control, though. I do not do it in any mean way. In fact, I try to make it as sensual and exciting as possible, that way the control is favorable."
"Hmm." Philip chimed. He flipped out his sidekick again and began another lengthy text. "You sure make it sound easy."
"It's work, but enjoyable."
"You and your mysterious ways of thinking, Jonathan. I'm glad I'm not deep enough to delve into that mind of yours. Imagine the creepy stuff I'd find."
I smirked and continued eating the remainder of my dish in relative silence. Is the way I'm thinking about this creepy? Am I a bit too involved in this process, or am I just a little bit sick and twisted on the inside? I never thought I was. In fact, I thought I was just being realistic. It was better to sit and face things than to run from them. My mind was no different, was it?
We finished eating, paid the bill, and left the saucy little gay Silverlake mexican restaurant discussing mediocre things; topics that I was hardly interested in, but could feign some sort of detail due to my knowledge of current events and rapier-like wit. Philip's comment has ceased to bother me after I got to my apartment. Feeding my cat always alleviates such insecurities. I think it's the fact that she's so expecting and I am providing her with sustenance and that she is forever grateful to me for fulfilling my basic duties to her. Such a simple creature brings me such calm and warmth. I think that is why I like cats so much. You can never taint their innocence or disposition if you are only kind to them. I wish people were more like that. But, then again, if people were more like cats, what would make felines so interesting? I'd rather love my cat, personally. People, continue being douchebags!
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Intuitions
I've thought about creating a blog for a long time. Now, that's not to say that I've never had a blog before; there is a rarely visited livejournal account that has not been posted in for some time now. All for the better, I suppose. It was full of crappy revelations that really revealed nothing to me at all in the end. A bunch of random musings that I thought were clever at the time. Thankfully I am growing up!
This blog is going to document my experiences AFTER work, AFTER friends, AFTER clubbing, and AFTER my normal life in general. This is an account of everything that happens during my nighttime sexcapades. Sexcapades sounds good, yeah? I think that will be my permanent reference to what other's might call "hooking", "hustling", "whoring" and "escorting". It's all the same shit in the end, why not consider them something sexually adventurous? That is what they are to me, after all. Besides, being a glorified hooker and all, I think it's only right that I get first say in terminology.
Thinking back, I realize that I don't even know where to begin with this. I suppose one might assume I'd start at the beginning, but that would take far too much time and would probably end up inaccurate. I will just say that when I first started this gig I was innocent and somewhat sexually naive and virginal. Now, I cannot even count the number of people I've slept with for money. I stopped counting at 97. It's up there in the triple digits now, I am sure.
What began in San Diego while working as a post production brain for a porn company has now lead me to Hollywood. I am nothing of a star. Far from it, actually. It would be more of a curse to become a star now more than ever. All of those dirty, dirty fucking skeletons would come tumbling out of the very deep, dark closet. My life has become better now. I have a regular nine-to-five working as a showroom representative for a reputable clothing company, enjoy the company of a few good friends, and reside by myself in a wonderful little one-bedroom antiquated apartment near Normandie Avenue and Franklin. My cat is fatter, my closet is more full, and the utilities are paid without the hassle of asking someone to cough up half of the fucking money.
I know for a fact that I could support myself on the salary I receive from my job, but something deep inside of me is still hooked on-- well, hooking. I've delved into the depths of my brain so many times in vain attempts at pin-pointing the exact cause of my pseudo-addiction. My closest friends all have different explanations, and I get nowhere with it. So, for now, I am content to just ride the satisfactory fuck-train until I find it suitable to get off at the next stop.
I will start this on February 19th, 2008. I received a phone call around nine in the morning. I'm usually up and about by 7, due to work by 9. As I am pulling into the parking lot in downtown Los Angeles I receive a phone call from a blocked number. I've some time to kill, so I answer. On the other end is a somewhat nervous older man, somewhere in his mid forties judging by the depth of tone and wear on his voice, and he was obviously nervous. I used to smile at the fact that a grown man (usually secure and successful in life) is so scared to talk to some 19 year old whore. The charm has long faded, and now I assume a warmth to my voice that is at once genuine and matter-of-fact. With work starting in only ten minutes, I have limited time and don't plan to spend them pretending to be besotted at this shy call. It is my job to be beguiling, after all, and that usually starts once I meet the client. Perhaps I would have been a bit more merciful if a schedule was not due on my bosses desk in two hours' time, half of which I have completed.
"Hello?"
"Yes, hi-- Um.. My name is Gary and I was-- uh, calling about the ad on the internet."
"Oh, yes, of course. How are you, Gary?"
A brief pause and a sharp, calculating inhale, "Well, I'm doing well this morning. You're up early."
"Yeah, I have to be at work in ten minutes. I'm actually sitting in the parking lot right now."
"Oh! I can call back in uh-- when is your lunch break?"
"We can talk now, if you'd like. I have a little time to kill before I throw myself into the wolves' den."
"Okay then. Well, I was wondering if you are available in the afternoons and if you can do an incall."
"You're married?" I asked, shuffling through my bag to double check that I had all of the required documents for work this morning.
A nervous laugh. "Yes, I suppose you could say that."
"That's alright with me. Discretion is the key word in this business. I won't be saying anything at the next book club meeting, not to worry."
"Eheh.. That would be much appreciated, please," he warbled. I could practically see him clutching the edges of his desk, white knuckled with a bit of perspiration forming on his middle-aged brow. A smiled a bit to myself, more so due to the fact that the image was very funny. I have quite a vivid imagination.
"I don't usually do incalls. In fact, I've never done an incall before."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, and I work during the week from nine to five. One of those corporate jobs for the Man, you know?"
Another nervous laugh. "That's a bit of a problem. I can't do this on the weekend because of my wife, and not at night, either."
"I see, well, we could get together at my apartment during my lunch break. I will extend it a bit."
"Really? You can do that? At what time?"
"From 12:30 to 1:30, and I could probably bargain a bit more time, too."
"That would be good. Where do you live?"
"Hollywood."
"That's not too far, I live in the valley so I can probably be there in fifteen minutes."
"Great! I will call you twenty minutes before I leave for lunch, then."
"Okay, will you send the address then?"
"Yep."
"Cool."
"Alright, well I really have to get to work now. I shall be chatting with you in a few hours."
"Okay-- wait, before you leave.."
"Yes?" I'm a bit irritated now, the clock ticking closer to doomsday.
"What is your name?"
"Jonathan, pleasure to speak with you."
"Good speaking with you, Gary. Ciao!"
Work was busy during the first two-hour leg, but had calmed considerably after the meeting and the pre-order rush. I sat at my desk, musing over the conversation that I'd had with Gary earlier in the morning. I had not given it another thought since, and now that I allowed my mind to gather the information once more I began to question whether or not it was a wise idea that I invite him to my apartment. I'd never done an incall before but only on the principles that my home was clear of any sort of debauchery and sin outside of convention. I was a little bothered, but settled myself with the reasoning that it would only be once and this guy was too fuck-shy to initiate anything other than the touchy-feely bullshit that 80% of these guys want.
Lunch time! I cruise home, having already phoned Gary and let him know that I would be arriving at my residence shortly. I cleaned up a bit, fed Tiffany, and set the bed straight so that it was not a messy tangle of Egyptian cotton and pillows. I had only just finished when he rang me from the call box. I buzzed him in and took the kettle off of the burner. I had just finished pouring the last finger of hot water into my teacup when a sharp knock brought me to the door. My hand turned the knob and the door opened, my face creased with a smile meant to placate even the most hyper critical of these guys. As I had envisioned, a plump white man, probably Jewish in descent stood before me. He was a good five inches shorter than I (I am a bit tall, being nearly 6'2"), his short curly Jew-fro damp with the light sprinkle we were experiencing that day. He smiled.
Oh dear Lord, I thought to myself as I stepped aside to let him in. What a fucking grill. His teeth were yellowed and had grown in at an angle that gave them the appearance of being slightly sharpened. Standing there, surveying the short attorney before me, I could only imagine what his wife might look like.
The trick was lackluster, as I had imagined. It seemed that this was the typical client that I'd come to expect from those strange, ermine voices on the phone. It was the usual kissing (as much as I didn't want to), gentle caresses, stark gasping and moaning, and the climax that ended in the shower. Before I knew it we were discussing European politics as we were putting out clothes back on. Strange how that happens sometimes. I suppose, though, that one must substitute pillow talk when the pillows are absent.
I was $300 richer, and left again for work, telling myself that it wasn't all that bad to do the occassional incall. But, then again, it wasn't good enough or convenient enough to do it again. ;]
This blog is going to document my experiences AFTER work, AFTER friends, AFTER clubbing, and AFTER my normal life in general. This is an account of everything that happens during my nighttime sexcapades. Sexcapades sounds good, yeah? I think that will be my permanent reference to what other's might call "hooking", "hustling", "whoring" and "escorting". It's all the same shit in the end, why not consider them something sexually adventurous? That is what they are to me, after all. Besides, being a glorified hooker and all, I think it's only right that I get first say in terminology.
Thinking back, I realize that I don't even know where to begin with this. I suppose one might assume I'd start at the beginning, but that would take far too much time and would probably end up inaccurate. I will just say that when I first started this gig I was innocent and somewhat sexually naive and virginal. Now, I cannot even count the number of people I've slept with for money. I stopped counting at 97. It's up there in the triple digits now, I am sure.
What began in San Diego while working as a post production brain for a porn company has now lead me to Hollywood. I am nothing of a star. Far from it, actually. It would be more of a curse to become a star now more than ever. All of those dirty, dirty fucking skeletons would come tumbling out of the very deep, dark closet. My life has become better now. I have a regular nine-to-five working as a showroom representative for a reputable clothing company, enjoy the company of a few good friends, and reside by myself in a wonderful little one-bedroom antiquated apartment near Normandie Avenue and Franklin. My cat is fatter, my closet is more full, and the utilities are paid without the hassle of asking someone to cough up half of the fucking money.
I know for a fact that I could support myself on the salary I receive from my job, but something deep inside of me is still hooked on-- well, hooking. I've delved into the depths of my brain so many times in vain attempts at pin-pointing the exact cause of my pseudo-addiction. My closest friends all have different explanations, and I get nowhere with it. So, for now, I am content to just ride the satisfactory fuck-train until I find it suitable to get off at the next stop.
I will start this on February 19th, 2008. I received a phone call around nine in the morning. I'm usually up and about by 7, due to work by 9. As I am pulling into the parking lot in downtown Los Angeles I receive a phone call from a blocked number. I've some time to kill, so I answer. On the other end is a somewhat nervous older man, somewhere in his mid forties judging by the depth of tone and wear on his voice, and he was obviously nervous. I used to smile at the fact that a grown man (usually secure and successful in life) is so scared to talk to some 19 year old whore. The charm has long faded, and now I assume a warmth to my voice that is at once genuine and matter-of-fact. With work starting in only ten minutes, I have limited time and don't plan to spend them pretending to be besotted at this shy call. It is my job to be beguiling, after all, and that usually starts once I meet the client. Perhaps I would have been a bit more merciful if a schedule was not due on my bosses desk in two hours' time, half of which I have completed.
"Hello?"
"Yes, hi-- Um.. My name is Gary and I was-- uh, calling about the ad on the internet."
"Oh, yes, of course. How are you, Gary?"
A brief pause and a sharp, calculating inhale, "Well, I'm doing well this morning. You're up early."
"Yeah, I have to be at work in ten minutes. I'm actually sitting in the parking lot right now."
"Oh! I can call back in uh-- when is your lunch break?"
"We can talk now, if you'd like. I have a little time to kill before I throw myself into the wolves' den."
"Okay then. Well, I was wondering if you are available in the afternoons and if you can do an incall."
"You're married?" I asked, shuffling through my bag to double check that I had all of the required documents for work this morning.
A nervous laugh. "Yes, I suppose you could say that."
"That's alright with me. Discretion is the key word in this business. I won't be saying anything at the next book club meeting, not to worry."
"Eheh.. That would be much appreciated, please," he warbled. I could practically see him clutching the edges of his desk, white knuckled with a bit of perspiration forming on his middle-aged brow. A smiled a bit to myself, more so due to the fact that the image was very funny. I have quite a vivid imagination.
"I don't usually do incalls. In fact, I've never done an incall before."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, and I work during the week from nine to five. One of those corporate jobs for the Man, you know?"
Another nervous laugh. "That's a bit of a problem. I can't do this on the weekend because of my wife, and not at night, either."
"I see, well, we could get together at my apartment during my lunch break. I will extend it a bit."
"Really? You can do that? At what time?"
"From 12:30 to 1:30, and I could probably bargain a bit more time, too."
"That would be good. Where do you live?"
"Hollywood."
"That's not too far, I live in the valley so I can probably be there in fifteen minutes."
"Great! I will call you twenty minutes before I leave for lunch, then."
"Okay, will you send the address then?"
"Yep."
"Cool."
"Alright, well I really have to get to work now. I shall be chatting with you in a few hours."
"Okay-- wait, before you leave.."
"Yes?" I'm a bit irritated now, the clock ticking closer to doomsday.
"What is your name?"
"Jonathan, pleasure to speak with you."
"Good speaking with you, Gary. Ciao!"
Work was busy during the first two-hour leg, but had calmed considerably after the meeting and the pre-order rush. I sat at my desk, musing over the conversation that I'd had with Gary earlier in the morning. I had not given it another thought since, and now that I allowed my mind to gather the information once more I began to question whether or not it was a wise idea that I invite him to my apartment. I'd never done an incall before but only on the principles that my home was clear of any sort of debauchery and sin outside of convention. I was a little bothered, but settled myself with the reasoning that it would only be once and this guy was too fuck-shy to initiate anything other than the touchy-feely bullshit that 80% of these guys want.
Lunch time! I cruise home, having already phoned Gary and let him know that I would be arriving at my residence shortly. I cleaned up a bit, fed Tiffany, and set the bed straight so that it was not a messy tangle of Egyptian cotton and pillows. I had only just finished when he rang me from the call box. I buzzed him in and took the kettle off of the burner. I had just finished pouring the last finger of hot water into my teacup when a sharp knock brought me to the door. My hand turned the knob and the door opened, my face creased with a smile meant to placate even the most hyper critical of these guys. As I had envisioned, a plump white man, probably Jewish in descent stood before me. He was a good five inches shorter than I (I am a bit tall, being nearly 6'2"), his short curly Jew-fro damp with the light sprinkle we were experiencing that day. He smiled.
Oh dear Lord, I thought to myself as I stepped aside to let him in. What a fucking grill. His teeth were yellowed and had grown in at an angle that gave them the appearance of being slightly sharpened. Standing there, surveying the short attorney before me, I could only imagine what his wife might look like.
The trick was lackluster, as I had imagined. It seemed that this was the typical client that I'd come to expect from those strange, ermine voices on the phone. It was the usual kissing (as much as I didn't want to), gentle caresses, stark gasping and moaning, and the climax that ended in the shower. Before I knew it we were discussing European politics as we were putting out clothes back on. Strange how that happens sometimes. I suppose, though, that one must substitute pillow talk when the pillows are absent.
I was $300 richer, and left again for work, telling myself that it wasn't all that bad to do the occassional incall. But, then again, it wasn't good enough or convenient enough to do it again. ;]
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