Sex work is a funny business and, as with most businesses, it has its own rules. The rules vary from practitioner to practitioner and they may be more inflexible with some girls than with others. I’ve already mentioned a few no-nos that are pretty much absolutes with me. Here are a few of the more subtle preferences I have. Keep them under your hat. I’d lose my professional standing if the word got out that I’m not always entirely enamored with my clientele.
A big turnoff for me is lousy personal hygiene. Not only from the point of view of body odor but lots of men are totally unaware of the terrifying effect the sight of poorly maintained fingernails has on the feminine psyche. See, you can use the pad of your middle finger to gently stroke my clit and that’s a good thing. But if you shove a ragged fingernail up my happy place it’s gonna cause me a lot of anguish, even if I don’t let it show. Please come to see me nicely trimmed and filed. It’ll go a long ways towards improving the experience for everyone involved.
I also have a personal issue with over-sized gentlemen who believe their girth is much admired by members of the fairer sex. Now I don’t care if you’re just plain fat, muscle-bound from too many workouts at the gym or bulked up on steroids. If you’re gonna climb on top of me you’d best be light on your feet, so to speak. Otherwise it’s female superior all the way. Let me explain why.
Early in my career I had a client named Mickey who was above average in every department imaginable, including net worth, ego and body mass. Mickey probably hadn’t actually seen his cock in years but he wanted me to have the full benefit of his magic muscle up close and personal. He insisted on climbing aboard and humping away until I came or he came or the cows came home. I was young and foolish and didn’t know how to say no back then so, against my better judgment, I let him.
It wasn’t all that unpleasant at first. Mickey propped himself up on his elbows and the urgent thrusts and unbridled parries were even somewhat pleasurable. But somewhere along the line Mickey threw too much grunt into the occasion and passed the fuck out! I’ve seen pictures of Sumo wrestlers thrown to the mat and pinned beneath their corpulent opponents. I’ve seen beached whales left to simmer in the midday sun. I’ve never in my widest dreams imagined I would someday find myself suffocating in mounds of inert flesh. It was horrid. It was scary. I really didn’t want to go out this way. Smothered by a ton of blubber.
Mickey finally regained consciousness and oozed off my quivering frame. He apologized profusely and tipped me really well but I still hold the image in my haunted brain of me expiring in a sea of flesh and making front page headlines the next day in the Orange County Register. “Local Hooker Slipped a Massive Mickey.” My goodness, what would Momma think?
Not long ago I received a reply to a posting indicating an interest in getting together for an hour of fun and frolic. There were three noteworthy aspects to this communication. The first was that the respondent was a woman. Not that I have anything against plying my trade with members of my own gender, but it is certainly the exception and not the rule. Second, the lady in question said she wished to bring her husband along. Again, I have nothing against a group roll in the hay but it is certainly not the norm. And finally she said that, although her hubby would be attending the festivities, he wouldn’t be indulging in any of the activities. And, by the way, if I could supply a length of rope and a straight-backed wooden chair that would be a big plus.
I responded by saying his presence, whether or not he played with either of us, would constitute a special circumstance and as such would cost extra. She said she understood and had no problem paying extra but added that under no conditions would he be allowed to touch, taste or tamper with the goods. You can imagine I was intrigued by this request. I figured he’d gotten into hot water at home and this was her form of punishment for his offensive behavior. Hey, I’m neither a paragon of virtue nor a particularly judgmental person. Whatever folks do to get through the day is okay by me as long as it doesn’t ruffle my feathers and it contributes to my college fund.
They appeared on the threshold of my hotel room precisely on time and she proceeded to strip the miscreant nude and rope him firmly to the chair, hands behind his back and his poor excuse for a cock dangling over the edge of the seat. He had such a hang dog look I almost began to feel sorry for him but then I noticed she had already disrobed and was sitting buck naked on the bed with a big grin on her face and a twinkle in her eye. I quickly slipped out of my own clothes and joined her in what turned out to be one of the more memorable slap and tickle sessions I have enjoyed in years and the dejected creature tied to the chair was soon forgotten. It was only later that I glanced up from my grazing duties at the Y and realized he was getting off on our Sapphic behavior. His bedraggled cock had sprung to life and was waving happily in my direction. His body suddenly tensed against the chafing rope and with an abrupt quiver he shot his wad a good three feet across the room. With that my female companion lifted my face from her abundant fur, kissed me firmly on the mouth and thanked me for a job well done.
They’ve never called again since that lovely forty-five minute bizarre encounter. I often find myself reflecting on that session and hoping they get back in touch. Hell, I’d even be willing to forgo the special circumstances fee. My college fund is full to overflowing anyhow.
Nothing is less dignified than the portrait of a bank vice president, his pants and shirt muddled in a heap on the thickly-carpeted floor of an upscale hotel room, mentally preparing himself for a close encounter with the rented girl of his dreams when suddenly his manhood takes it into its little head to nod off. Now I admit I’m no Marilyn Monroe, but I have had my share of compliments on my feminine assets. So for this minor functionary of the finance industry to fiercely lay the blame squarely on my naked shoulders for his lack of firm resolve? On the other hand I learned a long time ago, back when I was waiting tables at the Oar and Spinnaker, that the customer is always right.
Here are three scenarios that won’t help this situation. Pointing to the unfortunate flag hoist at half-staff and snickering. Getting up off the bed and slipping back into your blouse, all the while humming the love theme from Dr. Zhivago. And third, pointedly glancing at the clock on the bedroom wall and hollering “Next!”
Here’s the dilemma in a nutshell. The banker has gotten himself caught up in a fantasy and he’s suddenly confronted with reality. The obvious solution is to gently coax Mr. Moneybags back into his dream world without bruising his delicate male ego. Fortunately, I am the go-to-girl for this solution. I grew up fifteen blocks south of a major overpriced family theme park, fantasy capital of the world. I can weave dreams that’ll make your head spin. I was happily deflowered by a lanky boy wearing a character costume in the faux forest glade on the port side of a boat inside a pirate-themed water ride. To this day I get hot when I hear the roar of cannon fire. In the bargain, I got a season pass to the park.
I learned a lot from that brief encounter, and that information forms the core of my personal Rules of Engagement.
- If you want to play with me, you wear a raincoat. I don’t know where that little rascal has been and I don’t want to share in the perils of his misadventures.
- Cleanliness is next to Godliness. The lanky boy perspired a lot inside that suit and I don’t find the taste of sweat to be even remotely erotic.
- The cash is in the coffer before the clothes come off. The lanky boy came through in the end but he was young and swell and grateful as Hell. And even then he took a lot of persuading.
So what about my righteously-indignant Banker Boy, daring me to fix his problem? Without going into a lot of salacious detail, let me point out that praise trumps scolding, a gentle touch in the right spot helps to firm the flaccid and there are techniques your mother never thought to teach you when she was showing you how to bake bread. Needless to say, Mr. Banker left with a smile on his face, I scored full marks on the SAT (Sexual Agility Testimonial) the banker would hopefully post on his bad boy review page and the world was a happier place. And they say I don’t earn my pay. Speaking of which my ten o’clock just texted me that he’s downstairs waiting. More later. Ciao.
Thanks for joining me on this journey of words…my travels through (and travails of) titillation, as it were. Hopefully you’ll be entertained, amused, inspired…and maybe we’ll both learn something along the way. Here’s hoping.