Don’t get me wrong. I find a client’s sometime inability to express his inner desires charming. Sweet, even. But it’s amusing when I ask what a man would like to do, and he replies with “Whatever you want to do.”
You mean, go home and watch television while sipping hot chocolate in my pajamas? I think he would feel my fee was somehow less than justified. But still better is the mumbled reply of “Oh, you know, the usual.”
No, I don’t know. For you the usual might be open-air rope bondage with a ring of ponygirls. I know it is for me.
Your typical club-stud, on the other hand, has a take-no-prisoners approach to his needs that I find refreshing. You’re there, he’s there, the DJ is playing Carmina Burana, which is definitely the signal to collect your coat and get out, and you’re the only two people not playing find-my-tonsils in the taxi queue. It’s a forgone conclusion what will happen next, and the only guarantee is that someone’s wrinkly bits will make it to CCTV in the next half hour. And to be honest I don’t pick up random men because I want a love match. Nothing less than a full cervical bruising will do, and I am rarely disappointed.
Or as N puts it, when you know you’re not going to see her again anyway, why not push the boundaries?
Who else but a nonpaying stranger would insist that he would only do the deed if my womanhood was partially lined with ice chips first? Who else would try-unsuccessfully-to fist me whilst driving (N.B.: not ideal in city traffic)? No client would dare, for fear I would whip out a calculator and start totting up the additional cost of this service.
There’s a lot of talk in escort circles of Girlfriend Experience (GFE). That’s because it is by far the most requested thing we offer. I have been cuddled to within an inch of my life by well-meaning chaps whose only previous acquaintance with me was via a website. I’ve sipped red wine and watched telly with single gents until the taxi beeped its horn outside. And no pickup, to my recollection, has ever stretched out on the counterpane and told me stories of his childhood in Africa.
The last gentleman before the boy at the club-and I am rather stretching the meaning of the word “gentleman” here-who followed me home on a random stayed exactly ninety minutes. We did the deed, considered doing it again, then he fretted about his recent ex, dressed, and left. I was somewhat offended that he turned down the offer of a cup of tea. Still, I went to bed having gotten what I wanted out of the night, which was a good and forceful banging.
Clients are another species altogether. They have invited me on holiday, asked my opinion on the possibility of extraterrestrial life, and cleaned my shoes while waxing poetic on the proportions of my profile. The most upholstered compliment I ever received from a pickup, on the other hand, was something along the lines of “Coffee? A clean towel? This is great-staying at your place is like being in a hotel.”
Ah, no. I’ve been in plenty of hotels. And the men aren’t paying for fluffy towels. jeudi, le 15 avril
The client was a revisit. He was in law enforcement, and the first time out he’d taken me to a semiformal work event. From the ratio of nubile cuties to paunchy detectives, I may not have been the only paid girl there. Or perhaps the Met’s PR efforts are paying off in unexpected ways. I had been seated next to my date, while one of his colleagues, a Scottish youth, looked down the front of my top in a way that suggested it was meant more surreptitiously than it came off.
This time the customer met me at his flat and asked a lot of questions, probably because we were alone. This can be dicey: are they just curious or potential stalkers? As they say, the truth is like the sun, its benefit is entirely dependent on our distance from it.
So I have a manufactured history that is mostly, but not completely, true. Minor but plausible differences in hometown, university, degree, current home. Other questions are simpler to answer.
“Have you ever dominated?”
“Honey, that was how I started in the business.” When I was a student and worked briefly as a domme, it was something I didn’t especially enjoy and didn’t want to do again. Largely because getting out of character was difficult for me. But maybe being more of a submissive in my private life led to some empathy for those who like to be dominated, because I’ve ended up doing it more than a few times in this job as well.
“Really?” The client nodded and pursed his lips. “Really.” He was tall, well over six feet. Thick framed and strong. Probably mid-forties. Bald. And single, which is (from what I’ve seen) as likely in clients as not. “I find that… fascinating.”
What is it about men who know seven ways to kill you with their bare hands who just want to be pussycats in the bedroom?
“Have you ever let someone take control?” I asked. He was sitting in a stuffy chair, and I was curled up at his feet drinking Shiraz and stroking the back of his legs.
“I always wanted to, but…”
“Sweetie,” I said, and reached up to stroke his chin. “Don’t be shy. That’s what I’m here for.”
A first-time submissive is usually easy to handle and eager to please. It takes months before they start trying to deviously control the action from below. I asked if he would let me tie him up, he said yes, what with? I wasn’t prepared, so I asked for a handful of ties. He led me upstairs to the bedroom and produced them.
I told him to undress. He did, as I sat on the bed, cross-legged. I ordered him onto the bed. He hesitated a moment. “Get down, face up, legs and arms straight,” I said abruptly. He did. I pulled my skirt up and crawled over him, heels still on. Straddling his chest, I tied his hands to the bed. At the foot of the bed there was nothing handy, so I looped the ends of the ties round the wheels of the bed-frame and hoped they would hold. I could feel him craning his neck, trying to get his mouth closer to my bottom. “Lie back,” I barked. “If I want you to touch me, you’ll know it.”
It was standard S amp;M, nothing challenging. Tease and (extremely) light torture. But I did end up with the cleanest shoes outside of a Nine West. dimanche, le 18 avril
N has taken a hiatus from his usual running commentary on sport and tits to focus on pussy.
His cat, that is.
Unlike my dearly departed feline, who would take to spring like a cat to a nest full of little flightless baby birds, using her catlike reflexes to jump cattily from branch to branch and scaring the living kittens out of any and all tree dwellers, N’s pussy has been dragging along, unable even to pull herself up the steps.
She came back from the veterinary clinic with a bandaged paw and a pinched look, as it was explained to me, having had a thorn the size of another cat drawn out of her foot. It had formed an abscess and-well, something too disgusting and technical to go into, really. But I gather it involved “draining,” which I presume has nothing to do with kitchen sinks. N has been looking after her with the tender mercy of a ward sister who missed her calling. It’s rather sweet.
Last night as we left the gym, he did not offer me a lift home, nor suggest a drink or a meal somewhere. Mumbling something about changing a dressing, he all but ran to the parking lot.
I smirked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting a little pussy on the side.” mardi, le 20 avril
Coffee with N and A1 for no better reason than to dissect my love life. Again. “So what happened to that trolley dolly?” N asked, sipping an Americano.
“Could have been something. But he called it off, by phone, this weekend,” I reported. It was annoying. Admittedly, he was probably more often in the air than in town, but this should be no barrier. In my opinion some of the best relationships involve not seeing each other.
“Did he have a reason?” N asked.
“Too busy with work. Couldn’t be bothered.”