Message to the Punter

You can buy my love;
On my heart,
No price tag you'll find.
My smile for you,
Never reaches my eyes.
Your touch leaves no imprint,
Whether cruel or kind.
You access my body,
But never reach my mind.
Renting my mouth,
Doesn't earn you my kiss.
You hear my farewell,
My only gift,
The realisation
You are simply dismissed.

My First Escort

My return to prostitution started off quite well.

I arrived at the hotel on time.  I wasn't off my head on cocaine.  So far so good I thought.

I was greeted by Diane's "elderly gentleman" Gerald as soon as I stepped foot in the bar.  He looked about 80 years old with white hair and walking with the aid of a stick.  My heart sank.  What on earth was I going to do with him for four hours?!  On Diane's advice, I ordered a treble vodka. "You'll definitely need it!" she'd said laughing. I began to regret not scoring a gram of charlie.

The hotel bar was busy, full of glamorous looking couples dressed up for a night on the town.  I suddenly felt extremely envious.  Here I was sat with a man old enough to be my grandfather when I should have been out there enjoying myself with a gorgeous man my own age. Instead, I was mentally steeling myself for a night of "passion" in order to foot the bill for Christmas!

Gerald turned out to be just as Diane had promised.  He was rough.  His false teeth made a funny clicking sound every time he sucked my nipple.  No matter how many times I told him I didn't french kiss, he persisted in trying to force his tongue inside my mouth.  His breath was putrid.  Despite the fact that it was obvious he couldn't get a hard on, it didn't stop him trying.  He persisted in rubbing his dead looking penis against my leg, my bum, my tits until I thought I was going to scream.

In the taxi on the way home, I decided I not only needed a few lines of coke, I actually deserved it after the evening I'd had.

Good Intentions continued

Image by MagdaMontemor via Flickr

In the end the problem of Christmas won.

After all, it was a one off.

Diane had a private client, an elderly gentleman that she was wanting to get rid of.  She saw him once a month for four hours and he paid £500.00.  She warned me that he wasn't easy.  However, as he had a thing for blonds, she figured he would be more than happy to see me, thus giving her a welcome break!

The arrangements were made for one Friday evening.  I was to meet him in the bar of a prestigious city centre hotel where he was a guest for the evening.

I arranged a babysitter for my son and then set about the process of transforming myself from dowdy chambermaid to sexy femme fatale.  By the time my taxi arrived, I felt as nervous as hell.

What if I'd forgotten what to do?
What would happen if I just couldn't do it?
Would I make a total fool of myself?
How was I going to afford any Christmas presents if I didn't do it?

I checked the contents of my bag for condoms, lube and stockings etc. and locked the door.  There was no turning back now.

So much for my good intentions of never opening my legs for money again....

Good Intentions

After about 18 months of working at the guest house, my resolve to never darken the door of another massage parlour began to waiver.

Although, I loved the easy going atmosphere, the pay was diabolical.  On a good week, I would probably work around 20 hours.  However, when the business was quiet, I often had weeks when I didn't work at all.  No work meant no pay as the owner employed the majority of his staff on a casual basis.

It was coming up to Christmas and I began to seriously worry about where I was going to find the extra 

money from.

I had become friendly with one of the duty managers, Diane.  She was the same age as me, a single mum with 2 kids, so we had quite a lot in common.

One evening, when we had had a few drinks, she confided in me that she used to work as an escort.  Once she had divulged her secret, I felt compelled to reveal mine.  It was a relief to be able to finally talk to someone who could understand.  I sat and poured out my whole story, how I was stressed out about money, or rather the lack of it and finally, my reluctance to return.

Diane said she could help me out.  As I sat and listened to her talking, it was as if I had two voices arguing inside my head.  One voice shouting "No, don't do it, look at the mess you ended up in last time!".  The other voice not quite as loud, reasoning "It's a one off, you can take the money and run!  At least, it will solve the problem of Christmas".

(to be continued)

A Weekend Addict

Another positive aspect of securing a "normal job" was that I was no longer surrounded by the drug culture which exists in a lot of massage parlours.  Perhaps more to the point, I was no longer earning the sort of money to justify the "luxury" of a cocaine habit.

I would like to say that I ceased using the drug altogether.  Maybe if the week had run from Monday to Thursday, missing out the weekend, I would have been a reformed character. As soon as Friday evening arrived, I would get an overwhelming urge to start getting off my head.  I would always regret it the day after, spending hours feeling guilty about the money I had spent.  However, at the time, I was convinced it was worth every penny.

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A Normal Job

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The first time I left prostitution was after meeting my son's Dad, in 1997.  Naively, I never envisaged myself returning to sex work.  My head was full of dreams of settling down as a family and living "happily ever after".  Unfortunately, my dreams never became more than wishful thinking, a stark contrast to the unhappy existence I found myself in.

The second time I decided to turn my back on sex work was after the owner of Classique massage parlour sexually assaulted me.  This time I was determined that I was never going back.  It never occurred to me to seek help or talk to anyone about the way I was feeling.  I pushed all my thoughts and feelings to the back of my mind in an attempt to erase that part of my past.

I managed to find a job as a chambermaid at a small guest house about 3 miles from where I lived.  The pay was bad and the conditions weren't brilliant.  Most of the staff were over worked and under paid.  The whole building was shabby and in desperate need of a lick of paint.  In fact, on a good day, it made "Faulty Towers" look like a 5 star establishment!

I didn't care.  It was a "normal job".  To me, it meant an end to the headache of leading a double life.

Shame contd

It never occurred to me to talk to anyone or seek help for the way I was feeling.

My solution was to "run away", to distance myself as far as possible from anyone involved in that way of life.  I reasoned, that way I could forget, pretend that the whole thing had never happened.

Suddenly, I didn't like the person I had become. I felt dirty when I thought about the amount of punters who had used my body, albeit for a price.  I was disgusted with myself for the amount of cocaine I was using.  I was also ashamed of the vulnerable position I had put myself in, allowing a sleaze ball like Dave to take advantage.

Sadly, my friendship with Marie had ended, due to an argument over a punter.  Although, I missed her terribly, part of me accepted that her influence wasn't always a positive one.

More than anything, I craved a "normal" life.  Therefore, I needed to find a "normal"  job.