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?