So You Wanna Be an Escort?

{ August 28, 2011 @ 3:51 am } · { Uncategorized }
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From time to time, I’m asked from prospective or fledgeling sex workers for some pointers. It happened again today, and it seemed like a good time to blog about it. You may have noticed I’m a shit blogger. If I can say it in 140 characters or less, I’ll tweet it. If I can’t… I convince myself that it isn’t that interesting. Sorry about the long lapse, but this is more than 140 characters, and, yeah, okay, it’s useful. So, here goes. For entertainment purposes only. Bulleted for your pleasure.

  • See if there are any review boards in your area. The Erotic Review (http://www.theeroticreview.com/)  is national, but there are usually better local boards to be uncovered in urban areas. It’s the cheapest way to advertise, and plugs you in to the community, not just of clients, but also other sex workers. You will need them. Get established on Preferred 411 (https://www.preferred411.com/index.cfm) and Date Check (http://www.date-check.com). They are more vital in some cities than in others, but they offer another screening option, and help legitimize you as you establish yourself. Stay off Backpage for right now, until you’re a little savvier about screening carefully, and wait to shell out the big dollahs for Eros until you get your feet wet, and definitely until you have some really great professional photos. Start with the boards. Most areas have more than one board, so if the first one you find is gross, with spread pussy shots all over the place, keep looking. Those are not kind boards, and they will make you doubt yourself and burn you out fast.
  • DON’T POST YET! Get a feel for the community first. Find the more respectable girls. Read the reviews. Find out what makes an experience a good one for the client. Once you’ve gotten a REALLY good sense of the community, you can post a “Hi! I’m new here!” thread and start advertising.
  • Figure out your brand. Don’t pop up saying “Hi! I’m 22, a single mom, and I love indie rock!” This isn’t about YOU. This is about creating a fantasy. Are you the late night party girl? The well-read sophisticate? The cute girl next door? The spunky college student? Once opinions of you have been formed, changing them will be hard. Find an archetype you can easily pull off, and don’t post too much about your real life. Nothing about kids, boyfriends, or any interpersonal drama, ever. And I mean NEVEReverevereverever with a cherry on top. Ever. Good? Good.
  • Invest in professional photos. It’s a few hundred bucks, yeah, but they will pay for themselves and then some. Just bite the bullet and do it as soon as you can. There are always a few photographers advertising their services on every review board, but if none of them have the look you’re going for, check out One Model Place for photogs in your area. Some escorts, like Jenny DeMilo in LA, do photography on the side, and often have a very good eye and know what it’s like to be shot nude, or scantily clad. If a photographer is a dick to you, or makes you feel bad about yourself, don’t ever use them again. And realize for every fifty shots you might get a single good one. Don’t be discouraged. You are not that fat, you don’t really look like you have Bell’s Palsy, and you are not constantly mid-blink. I promise.
  • Avoid trades for at least six months. Don’t trade sex for photos, work on your car, a new laptop, or anything else right off the bat, and don’t ask anyone to pay in advance for sessions. You want to avoid looking desperate, not just because it’s bad for business, but also because people will try to take advantage of you if they think you’re hard up. After you have a good reputation and a good cash flow, you can make your own decision on trades. I’m typing this blog on a laptop I traded a massage for last week, so I’m not totally against it, just wait until you’re established.
  • SCREEN!  This is the single most important part of your job, and will help keep you from getting murderized, raped, or arrested.You’re new. So the best thing you can do is ask for two provider references, and then check them. This will help create rapport with other girls in your area. Make sure you say thank you when the ladies reply, and if anyone asks you for a reference, reply to it as quickly as you possibly can. If a guy’s references seem kinda sketch, tell him that you don’t know those girls well, and ask for additional references. Don’t be afraid to turn away business if FOR ANY REASON you get a bad vibe, a gut feeling that says something is wrong, or if their references don’t come through in time. Fighting prostitution charges will cost more than the money you make on an appointment, and it’s no use making money if you’re too dead, traumatized, or hospitalized to spend it. There are a few people out there who hurt people like us. Make it a point to never meet them.
  • No matter what he says, don’t let him talk you into doing anything you don’t want to do. This includes skipping the condom for fucking. Personally, if I’m pressured, I always say “If you keep making me say no, I’m going to forget how to say yes to blowjobs. And then we will both be sad!” Whatever keeps it light, but your boundaries firm. Also, I don’t care what he says, don’t hang out with him for free. This will earn you the contempt of your fellow hookers, and waste a lot of your time. If he can see you for free, he will. Don’t let him.
  • Surprise! He’s probably not just there for the sex. Listen to him. Get him to talk about himself, and what he likes in or out of the bedroom. Just don’t ask about or criticize his wife. Find something you like about him. Anything. Say the nicest TRUE thing you can. He smells good? Great shoes? Great kisser? Gentle touch? Go with that. Don’t insult him with false compliments, and try to connect with him as if you were on a real date with someone you like.
  • Don’t worry about expensive hair, nails, tanning, blah blah blah just yet. Get a couple of nice little lingerie outfits–Ross is great for that–and wait til you’re solid on your feet before spending 100 bones on stockings or 200 on highlights. Look good, but also realize that there’s a difference between what a girl thinks is ubersexy, and what a guy thinks is ubersexy.
  • If you can help it, don’t work out of your home. You’re new, and you don’t want to worry about possible stalkers, or people knowing too much about you. Also, if you have kids, they won’t be taken away because you’re an escort, but they WILL be if you get caught hooking where they live. Check out Hotwire or Priceline’s Name Your Own Price feature for the best deals on four star hotels, and keep an eye out for ladies looking to share an incall, because honestly, working out of hotels is risky.
  • When you are getting started, and are probably using hotels, see no more than 2-3 clients a day. Otherwise, you will draw attention to yourself. At check in, bring a suitcase, even if you don’t need one. If the front desk asks, say that your landlord is having your apartment sprayed for bugs. Don’t dress sexily for checking in. Wear jeans or a suit. And don’t be a pain in the ass. Don’t make the hotel people hate you, because they can take you down if they suspect you and really want to.

That’s it for now. It’s not exhaustive, but it’s a good start. Check out The Internet Escort’s Handbook for a ton of useful information, too. And a few extra pointers? If you have a smartphone, you can get the Google Voice app to take business calls on a separate line without having to carry an extra phone. Plus, hey–it’s free, and not attached to your real name! There is also an app called Square that will let you take credit cards, which is a nice bonus, especially if someone starts running out of time before they’re ready. Just ask them if they’d like to extend the appointment for another hour, and hit their plastic for it right there. No awkward ATM runs. Crown condoms, along with Kimono and Beyond Sevens, are awesome. Love them. Always bring your own. ALWAYS. And finally, although it’s embarrassing to admit it, the George brand black lace top thigh-highs they sell at WalMart will not run, even if you get fucked doggy style on Astroturf. I buy those fuckers in bulk.

So that’s it. Have fun. Be safe. Network with other girls. And stay tuned in to yourself. If you’re not happy, it’s not worth it.

Why I hate cunnilingus.

{ September 22, 2010 @ 3:24 pm } · { Uncategorized }
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I recline–for the third time today–against a duvet which is nearly the color my skin used to be, but that was before I started taking this seriously. Enveloped in my hungry and sincere embrace is my lover d’heure, perhaps forty-five, not bad looking, and he grunts in excitement as his hands fumble at my garters. He has not bothered to remove his wedding ring, and I cannot for the life of me recall his name.

I never sleep in this bed, save for the rare occasions that find me the overnight hostess to a paying guest. Perhaps some courtesans are more in the habit of entertaining overnight, but only a favorite client can coax me into twelve or more hours of companionship. This client–god, damn it! What was his name? Bob? Mark? Joe? Anyway, the one with his face between my thighs–is my guest for the next two hours. I throw my head back in mock rapture, arching my back to conceal my face as I surreptitiously glance at the clock. One hour and five minutes left. I have plenty of time, and I settle back into fantasy as I tug at his hair.

Like most escorts I know, my feelings on cunnilingus range from indifference to loathing. And, like 95% of my clients, Bob/Mark/Joe is a lover whose motives lean less toward pleasing me or himself, and more toward a desperate, exhausting craving for validation. He goes down on me because, he thinks, I will love it. And if I love it, it must mean that he is a good lover–a great lover even!–the kind of lover I would want to have in my regular life if only circumstances had been different. He laps at me without skill, his eager tongue exerting the kind of manic effort I remember putting into my culinary creations as a child. Look mom! I made you some eggs! With seventy four different kinds of spices! They’re GOURMET!

Bob/Mark/Joe looks up at me, mouth full of pussy and hope, trying to find evidence of a religious experience behind my eyes. I stroke his forehead gently. Slowly. Not too hard. Oh, god, yessss. Just like that. I rock my hips into him, encouraging rhythm, and think of hotter sex to steer myself towards the climax he needs from me. It is counter-intuitive to think of loathing something that can make you come, but, then, I don’t like my ex-husband, either.

I moan, and scream, and thrash, and my orgasm is real. Bob/Mark/Joe wipes his face with the back of his hand, and grins at my pleasure as though he invented the concept. He wants my approval, my commendations, he wants a cookie for his efforts, and I give it. I don’t tell him that bodily pleasure is not the same as earth-shaking pleasure. I don’t tell him that I can come with a vibrator and not miss a beat on my crossword. I don’t tell him that he has failed utterly at engaging my mind, in discarding his ego to discover a deeper level of erotic, or at the most basic act of asking what turns me on. It is the first time we have met, so I say none of these things. Instead, knowing that he has satisfied his ego, knowing that he will now fuck me the way that makes his body scream, I can move forward to the part that I crave. I pinch a slip of latex between my lips, and slide my mouth all the way down to his pelvis.

Just Another Dead Hooker

{ September 1, 2010 @ 5:41 am } · { Uncategorized }
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It happens a lot. For every 100,000 of us, 213 will be murdered at work. After each of those women is murdered–if anyone notices, or if anyone who does notice bothers to report it–there will be news stories. The word “PROSTITUTE” will be in the headline, make no mistake: Prostitute Found Stabbed, or Victim Identified as Local Prostitute. Our deaths are entertainment, their investigations the stuff of pulp novels and Lifetime specials. And last night, it happened again.

I didn’t know her. We’ve never met, though we have some common clients. Had. We had some common clients. She was not street-based. She got work from the same message boards I have used. Her photos are professional, her smile seems genuine enough. And last night police found her dead in her apartment.

The story in the news, it was just a blip. Woman found dead, apparent homicide. Police are investigating, anyone with information should speak the fuck up, and get to it. It’s not yet been made public what her job was, but soon enough polite society will breathe a sigh of relief that it is in no immediate danger. They will sip their lattes and peruse the details. When a sex worker dies, her murder does not incense the community. We are marginalized. Disposable. The most compassionate of onlookers will cluck their tongues and sigh that the poor thing didn’t have any other choice in life, and isn’t that so goddamned sad.

No. You know what’s sad? When we, as a society, hold a class of citizens as expendable. When we culturally condone violence against women who charge for their time, their companionship, their love. Her whole damn life was tragic, is the sentiment. Why not her death, too? And those of us for whom the details of this case are not salacious, but terrifying–we’re left with a culture that is relieved to hear that no crime against a person was committed. Thank god it’s just another dead hooker.

Walmart of the Apocalypse

{ August 19, 2010 @ 5:27 am } · { Uncategorized }
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So after hypervolemic shock, ovaries doing acrobatics, some stuff bursting, some other stuff bleeding, and, finally, surgery, she’s back! The delectable Bestie. The one with the blonde hair, blue eyes, and bad fucking attitude. Yep. Her.

Today we spent together, as all of her appointments cancelled, and my pussy is boycotting clients til it gets some real action. And so we went out. Eating crepes? Check. Looking for vintage dresses? Check. And I got to show her the Walmart of the Apocalypse, which she has never before seen.

The Walmart of the Apocalypse is a large warehouse that has been converted to a thrift store of sorts. Broken furniture sits in piles, snatched up by scavengers. A decent corduroy sofa for thirty dollars. A 70 year old sewing machine with cabinet for ten. A gorgeous, rustic trunk, ruined by a faux tie-dye paint job: twenty five dollars. And wheeled bins, the size of twin beds, brought out to waiting crowds. It’s a little obscene… they stand around anxious, knowing where the next cart will be delivered. One corpulent woman in a sports bra and a bad weave shovels armloads into her own cart, sorting from there so that no one can take anything she hasn’t looked at yet. She discards an arm from an old sweatshirt, faded cheetah stretch pants, and a heather gray, wool pea coat in pristine condition. There are slightly misshapen Easter baskets in a bin containing crutches and several chainsaws.  Shopping carts overflow as greedy hands snatch up anything they can find that isn’t too fucked up for use. I have heard tell of fistfights here.

“This is the future of commerce” I always think. Scavenged tidbits, unsorted and sold by the pound. This is the flagship commissary of our post-Armageddon society. I have never been here with anyone else… never stared in unison at the crazy man with the lazy eye and the coke bottle glasses as he fills three carts: one for clothes, one for glassware, and one for metal goods and books. Never had anyone to compare theories on who the drug addicts were, nor show bizarre tschotskes to. And  my Bestie? My most excellent companion? Did she wrinkle her nose at the smell? Squint up at the penitentiary lights as the glared down on the concrete floor? Nope. She was transfixed; my shopping buddy now, and, evidently, will be still after the zombies/flu/Jesus/Republicans ruin everything.

My goodness how I’ve missed her.

Sparrows

{ August 18, 2010 @ 4:37 am } · { Uncategorized }
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“Do you do half hours? And if so?? HOW much??” (text msg, ignored)

“I really need to talk to you. I know it’s midnight, and you’ve had a long day, but I am freaking out about where we stand, where we’re going, and what we’re doing here.” (Mrs. Vegan, shortly before I broke up with her and husband. Paraphrased for brevity)

“Seriously? No reply yet?” (Mr. Vegan, ~48 hours after telling them I have no time for dating them.)

“Can you take me to Vancouver? I REALLY need to get a kitty for my son” (The Stripper, employee. I totally caved)

“MOOOMMMMM!!! MOMOMOmomoomomomomomommAAAA! MAAAAMAAAA! MA–A-A-A-A-aaaaaaah-ma!!!!” (The Little Mister, wanting milk while I’m in the shower.)

“I think I’ve fallen for you. Don’t be a hero. If you’re madly in love with me, don’t tell me to sod off. Just tell me what your feelings are.” (One of my favorite clients.)

If–after a few quotes–you’re already tired of reading about The Sparrows, then my job is done. Consider this a teaspoon from the bowl of porridge that has become my life.

A little extra time with a client here, a favor for a not-quite-friend there, and more and more of my clients, employees, lovers, and acquaintances want to tap the dysentery-infested well of my feelings.

The whole thing… every extra little “just saying hello” email, every un-reciprocated benevolence, every unshared fetish indulged with enthusiasm, every privilege conceded in exhaustion to my Little Mister… it’s one more scrap of time I can’t spend in my head. One more book I’ll never finish, one more hour of sleep I’ll miss, one more dinner I’ll eat out, one more load of laundry I’ll fall behind on. Sometimes. Sometimes it’s as if they’re birds, picking bits of my flesh off to take home, vying for what’s left of the marrow at the end of the week. Not that they know that they vie. The faintest whiff of competition, and any of them might take off with the bones, too, crowing about who got the biggest piece. It’s no exaggeration; one client who has reviewed me several times has started catching hell from other clients, some of whom have never even visited me. Some have seen me only once or twice.

Perhaps this is because I have rendered myself intentionally friendless–or nearly. I used to derive a great deal of joy from time spent with peers, and now I feel somewhat worse for the time spent socializing. Spinster, I am. My Bestie has taken ill the past several weeks, and my lover–Mr. X–has been traveling, and cosseting his own ravenous flock of seagulls. Is it any wonder I’ve taken up smoking again? That I’ve begun cleaning with a near-manic furor?  Any wonder I’ve lost myself in books, as I did through half my youth? No, no of course not.

But, even with the pecking and cawing, and the fatigue… even though I’ve taken the next two days off, and have not placed any ads, I have yet to turn off my phone.

So. These are spoons, huh?

{ March 18, 2010 @ 7:27 am } · { Uncategorized }
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So in the masterfully whimsical film “The Adventures of Baron Munchausen,” the king and queen of the moon have detachable heads. Their heads float off to engage in intellectual pursuits, while their bodies do… well, what bodies like to do.

This is how I have lived my life. And until recently, that’s been fine, and I haven’t wanted to do a thing about it. Now, though. Now, though, I’m trying to have sex in a way that stops my brain from puzzling over why the word “should” has an “l” in it. But better sex isn’t the only reason to live more in my body and less in my head.

I’m trying to feel pain before it becomes a Very Big Problem. And therein lies my issue. Before, I did not notice a UTI until it was a kidney infection. I didn’t notice contractions in childbirth until I was “in transition,” the hardest and most grueling bit of labor that ushers in pushing. If there were to be serious consequences to being oblivious to joint pain, I figured I’d have to start paying more attention to how I felt.

And now that I’m paying attention? Everything hurts, all the time. Not stabbing, acute pain, but dull, ever-present pain, with acute sprinkled in. Right now my scapulae feel like they need a massage, but they feel that way right after a massage, too. A dull sort of tired, just like I feel in my hips. My knees and wrists and even my toes are sharper ache, and my ankles feel like they need to “pop” at all times. My fingers throb from typing, and my spine feels like an overused bullwhip made to stand on its own.

Unless I’m trying to feel it, I still naturally ignore it, and do things like move and contort in strange ways when I am at rest for too long. I don’t notice that it’s because I hurt until someone points out to me that I am fidgety.

It astounds me how little I’ve paid attention in the past. How do I feel like this all the time, and not notice? How do any of us? Funny, isn’t it? Once upon a time, I thought I hated my body for not fitting into the right jeans. I had *no idea* the kind of malice it was *really* capable of…

XY + XX = Zzzz

{ March 18, 2010 @ 6:55 am } · { Uncategorized }
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Bored of introspection related to courtship. Secret lovers are easy to blog about, because one must never speak of them to anyone. The internet cannot keep a secret, but there are so many secrets it’s not keeping that you can’t hear the whispers for the roar.

Anyway. I even bore myself with my pheromonal fixations.

Tell me sweet little lies

{ March 16, 2010 @ 5:41 am } · { Uncategorized }
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You didn’t ask for it, but I am going to give you a little bit of advice. Are you ready? You may want to write this down, as following this advice will save you no end of headache, heartache, stress, and General Unpleasantness.

Are you ready for it?

Ahem:

Do not date married people who you meet through the sex industry.

See? Wasn’t that a brilliant piece of advice? I challenge you to find a single error in its logic. You wanna try? No, of course not. Because you can’t argue with common fucking sense.

So. The Girlfriend and I had our first date today. Except for the part where 30 minutes before she was supposed to pick me up, she “started throwing up.” Raincheck? Sure. Only I have been around long enough to know that the odds of sudden food poisoning with perfect timing are miniscule, whereas the odds of her husband getting jealous and putting the kibosh on it are darn near 1.

Which. Is. Fine.

But no. No, she tells me the same lie she’d tell a client. Later, she’ll confess, “you know… I wasn’t actually sick. You see, it’s just that my husband gets so insecure sometimes…”

And we can faux bond over this confession. Over our experiences with men, and sex, and bisexuality, anonymity, monogamy, polyamory, misogyny, male-dominance, emasculation, honesty, love, lust and the universally more fulfilling experience of being with a woman. We will hang up after a very long conversation, feeling connected, fulfilled, resolved. And she will still be married to a man. And she will still lie to me the next time an unpleasant truth presents itself.

So. Within a minute of her text message, I get an email from Mr. X.

He mentions that he is considering a bit of mischief, which I take to mean hiring one of my colleagues for an hour or so. This is beyond fine. Hell, we hardly have sex when we see each other; if he wants a sure thing, he should call one of my colleagues. I don’t give a fig if he beds nine tarts an afternoon; he’s already slept with everyone I know… and so have I. It doesn’t matter.

Except that he’s lying about it. Or at least I think he’s lying about it, for reasons that aren’t important here. It just makes me wonder why the hell he thinks I would care. Clearly he’s incapable of fidelity, and even if he WAS a monogamous partner to me, I am faithless as they come and don’t value purity. I value candor, and I’m not getting it.

He is lying to me. He is lying to me as he lies to his wife, and it makes me wonder what he sees in me that he is afraid of. My rejection? My feelings? Retaliation? The only real value that this relationship has for me is that I can be seen for who I am, but is it valid? If he thinks he needs to lie to me about preferring a hooker sometimes, then I am no more understood by him than I am by my clients.

Is it possible for me to have sex with someone who knows my real name? Who I can use my real personality with? I lie constantly to every person I have sex with when I am Victoria; isn’t it just a wicked little irony that when I have sex as Beatrice, I can’t seem to get a scrap of truth?

Prefers love to money. Wait, no. Scratch that. Reverse it.

{ March 13, 2010 @ 6:10 am } · { Uncategorized }
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So last night, I was available until 9, and Mr. X was available after 9. This is common of our timing, so our rendezvous last evening was aborted. I know it is wrong, and involves many assumptions on my part, but I am nevertheless hit with a twinge of smug satisfaction when our schedules don’t quite align. Not because we can’t see each other, but because when stars don’t align, it is usually because I want to do something else, and he has to do something else. I want to see a client, make money, be someone else for an hour or two, and he has to go home to a wife he doesn’t think very highly of.

My ort of happiness is beyond inappropriate, but it is a tiny little morsel of validation nonetheless, and it’s impersonal to Mr. X. I could be married right now. I could come home and make dinner and say “hey, honey, how was your day,” and snuggle up in bed without anything else to say, wishing I could get up and do something else. It’s easy to feel like that would have been the more responsible choice. I see a lot of unhappily married people, though. People who everyone else would say love their wives. People who seem happy on the outside. But I know better.

Enter The Vegans.  The thing I had to do last night at nine was host my third threesome with The Vegans. They drive in to see me. High school sweethearts, they clearly adore each other, love sex, and are adventurous. They have a couple of kids, some hobbies, and are sexy indie rocker types, in their mid-thirties. And I love them. They are the picture of what marriage can be: a healthy, hot, and sexually satisfied couple who don’t need to own each other to love each other.

And then, of course, I’m jealous. Fickle, I am.

*Flash* Give Me Sexy

{ March 12, 2010 @ 5:26 am } · { Uncategorized }
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How to have the Worst Afternoon Ever.

Step One: Find a photographer. Call him, and book a shoot. Give this photographer a deposit of a couple of hundred dollars, so that you’re really committed. Proceed to email him dozens of links to what you are looking for, knowing all the while that at the end of the day, he will shoot exactly what he feels like shooting, and there is nothing in the world you can do about it.

Step Two: Show up to the shoot. Note that a makeup artist has been hired, so you have spent your day with no makeup, and your hair in a pony. This necessitates jeans, as vintage dresses do not go with no makeup and a pony. Give the man a couple more hundred dollars.

Step Three: Sit for two hours with a hair and makeup artist who is accustomed to doing weddings. Tell her five times you want your eyes to be more dramatic before realizing she has no idea what the hell you are talking about. Curse yourself for not insisting upon doing your own makeup. Resign yourself to looking like a slightly tarted up bride, and try not to make a sour face.

Step Four: Don lingerie, freshly purchased for this very occasion. Contort into odd positions which look “natural” to the camera. Suck in stomach. Hold for ages as lights are adjusted. Continue to hold as two gay men discuss what will make you look sexiest, and the makeup artist starts to nod off. Hold it some more as the two gay men test the lights. Now move forward three inches. Now tilt your head to the side. The other side. Chin towards me. No, nevermind, back down and at an angle. There you go.  Mouth open, remember? Now actually I’m going to have you move back three inches. Great. Now let’s test the light again…

Repeat this step over and over for three more hours, until you are ravenously hungry with low blood sugar, abs that refuse to suck in anymore, and a yen for a long nap. Actually, keep going right on past ravenous and in need of a nap. Go on ahead until you’re vaguely murderous and feeling a little caged. Finally say “I’m sure that’s enough shots for what we’re going for. I want to leave now, before I lose my shit and go completely insane. Thank you, you’ve been great.”

There is a reason that models get paid a Very Whole Lot of Fucking Money.

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