Whore Diaries: My First Two Weeks As An Escort Read online

  Whore Diaries: My First Two Weeks As An Escort

  E-book, 1st edition 2012

  Text and cover page Copyright © Tara Burns. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, stored or transmitted in any form without prior written permission from the publisher. Written permission must be secured from the author ([email protected]) to use or reproduce any part of this book.

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  INDEX

  Prologue

  Introduction

  First Time Again

  Oh, Canada

  Rape Culture

  Cocksucker

  Tantra

  Prologue

  Conversations with God in the Titty Bar

  “God,” he says, by way of introduction, reaching up to shake my hand. This is his assertion of dominance. A man with money in a room full of hungry whores.

  “Goddess,” I respond, pulling my dress down to protect my ass from the roughness of the plastic chair as I sit next to him. My assertion of equality hangs in the air between us.

  He looks me up and down, taking in the sheer pink babydoll, the stockings, the rhinestone necklace, the art that is finally my eyeshadow after thirteen years of perfecting it.

  “Obviously,” he says.

  Good, we’ve got that straight.

  “I’ve got more fucking money than God,” he says.

  “Good.” I let my smile come slow. “I appreciate that in a man.” I do. Money. I just need five thousand dollars more for a little piece of land on the river.

  “I tell them – wait, see, they give me money. They give me their fucking money and I give them some back. You know? So I tell them fourteen fucking million, that’s what it’ll take, take it or fucking leave it, that’s how it is. I’m like fucking God, they don’t have a choice. God, I’m like fucking God, I can have anything I want. I can buy any of these bitches in a heartbeat.”

  “Wow,” I nod slowly. “It’s like your fucking God, huh?” I have a degree in psychology. Not that I need it, but it cracks me up, times like this.

  “Yeah,” he nods. “It’s like I’m God. But I’m old. Look at this guy.” He slaps the unsuspecting young man next to him on the shoulder. “He’s young, he’s got that curly hair and look at his big eyelashes. And muscles. This dude has it going on! You should be fucking with him, not an old man like me.”

  “You’ve got it going on right now, God.” I lean in all close. Is he hitting on this kid? Am I seriously losing God’s attention to a man? My cleavage draws him back in. God might be insecure and bisexual, but he’s not gay.

  “Goddess. You’ve got it. You’re all that. You’re all that and a bag of chips.” He leans close, bringing his pink old school carpenters union hat close so I can see the decades of dust and work worn into the fabric.

  “Yeah,” I whisper, “I’m all that and a bag of chips.” I don’t even eat chips. Except terra chips, which are awesome, but only when they’re on sale or when I break a grand.

  “No, no. You’re all that and a tall drink of water.”

  I laugh. How could I not?

  God gestures at the woman on stage. “What is this shit? I’m fucking bored. Fucking shit, this is fucking boring. I have more money than fucking God, and this bitch is fucking boring me with this shit.”

  Poor God. The boring bitch makes his bright blue eyes go dull and wrinkled like the rest of his face and I'm glad that when I was on stage he was happy and tipping twenties. Soon he fixates on the boy next to him again. He’s so handsome and cute, with big muscles. He’s telling the boy that he’s got more money than God and buying us all drinks, drinks, and more drinks. Shots, beer, ladies champagne cocktails. I suck my cranberry and sprite down fast so the waitress can sell another one, another one, another one. I’ll be peeing all night, but it’s my patriotic duty to the titty bar to sell as many overpriced ladies champagne cocktails as possible.

  “Goddess,” God slurs into my chest. “You’re hot. You’re so hot. You’re going to drain my wallet. I’ve got more money than God and you’re just going to fucking drain it all.” Wow. Has God been hanging out on financial domination websites?

  “You’re going to fucking love it,” I tell him. The strip club is the perfect ethical arena for neurolinguistic programming.

  “Yeah. You’re a fucking Goddess and your going to drain my wallet.” God, the man with all the power, the man who could buy any of us fucking bitches in a heartbeat, wants to be drained of his money. Of course he does. It’s lonely being God. Without his money he’ll be human. That's the scary desire at the heart of every man who’s got more money than God.

  The problem is that his wallet is empty after this last round of drinks and the twenty that I prompted him to tip the waitress.

  When I finally get God to the ATM he can’t figure it out. “This is fucking shit. I don’t know how to work this machine.”

  “Don’t worry, babe,” I wink. “I know how to work your money.”

  Diamond, on the couch nearby, laughs over her shoulder at me.

  The ATM only lets you take out two hundred at a time. A serious tragedy for a strip club that doesn’t take credit cards. At the bar he tells the bartender that he has more money than fucking God and I’m a fucking Goddess and I’m going to drain his fucking wallet. She’s innocent, though not inexperienced, and she laughs nervously. I tell him to tip her, and he slips her a twenty. “She’s going to bleed me dry,” he tells her. “She’ll get a couple, three hundred off me, easy. But what the fuck, it’s just money. I have more money than fucking God. What the fuck, it’s just fucking money. Yeah, she’ll bleed a couple, three hundred off me easy. Fucking Goddess.”

  “Give me your fucking money,” I tell him. “Right now. You know you want to.”

  His eyes open a little. He wanted it, but he didn’t expect it.

  I laugh. If God wants a money hungry bitch to bleed him dry I’m happy to oblige – why is that a shock?

  He slaps his wad on the table. I take a handful of it, laughing, and shove it into my stockings without counting. “I’m bleeding you dry, God.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got more money than God and you’re fucking bleeding me dry. God. You’re all that, you know that? You’ll get a couple hundred, three off me fucking easy. What the fuck, it’s just money.”

  “Come on, God, I’m going to bleed the rest out of you in the VIP room.”

  I tell him it’s eighty to touch, and he hands me a hundred, his last hundred. I tuck it into my stockings quickly and slide into his lap as the song starts.

  “You don’t have to,” he whispers. “You don’t have to do this.”

  I sit in his lap and play with his hair, stroke his face, make faces like I’m going to kiss him, until tears come to his eyes. Yeah, God has some human in him. So I snuggle up and wrap my arms around him and pull his arms around me. “You don’t have to,” he whispers again.

  “Hush, I want to,” I tell him.

  When we emerge from the VIP room he’s smiling. “You fucking bled me dry, you bitch.”

  Happy to oblige, God.

  I go to the bathroom to dig the cash out of my stockings and pull the sea sponge from my cunt and rinse it out. I love how the clots get stuck with this clear stuff and you have to kind of pull it off under the water. Really, I have the most beautiful blood clots you can imagine. Goddess, indeed.

  Last call is ring
ing out in the bar, and I’m sitting on the toilet giving birth to blood. I put God in his place, forced out the human in him for a hug, and wound up richer for it. This is how I know I can do anything.

  Introduction

  Why did I stop stripping and start escorting? It's complicated.

  I was living in a cabin in the wilderness, far from roads and stores. My days were full of chopping wood, hauling water, hunting, fishing, and caring for my friend and adopted mother, Dream, who I kept on the top bunk in my 12x16 cabin. Dream couldn't walk around very much. If she sat up for long her spine would start pulling on her brain stem, she said. And sometimes her behavior was hard to explain to people.

  The money I had come to the woods with was running out and I needed $15,000 to pay off the land, plus some money for food and books. I didn't think I had enough tolerant friends to house Dream through a couple months of me stripping, and if I paid for a hotel room every night we might never get ahead.

  What else? The heels hurt my back. The thought of loud music, flashing lights, and selling ladies drinks late into the morning made me want to stay in the woods forever. Instead of my normal exhileration at the thought of winning the sales games I just felt tired – couldn't men just agree to pay me without me having to prance around and stroke their egos first? I just wanted to have intense, soulful, sexy experiences, get lots of money, and get back to the woods. Also I hadn't had sex in a year and I really wanted some. The universe, I decided, was telling me to get outta the heels and onto my back.

  As a bonus, escorting means having a hotel room: an automatic place to keep Dream.

  I walked the seven miles through the white dark of Alaskan winter to the nearby village to access the Internet and made a website. I picked a date to travel to Anchorage and started advertising. The emails came in slowly. I was nervous. Except for a turbulent bout of prostitution as a teen, I'd mostly only had sex with women. What if I hated giving blow jobs? There were only two guys who wanted to see me and passed my screening. Would business pick up once I had a few reviews? The FBI had recently done stings in Anchorage, using a fake escort identity to arrest men. Maybe customers were just jumpy.

  Looking for advice, I called my friend Mac. Mac had been escorting for almost a decade and had accidentally on purpose ex-patriated to Canada a couple years before. After all, once you've lost your passport in a foreign country you can't just leave, right? Mac invited me to come and work with her in a sex positive empowered escort collective. In Canada escorting is mostly legal, Mac explained. That means it's cheap and you can actually talk about sex – like, if a guy's looking for anal he can call up and ask if you're into that, rather than assuming or guessing. She had made a thousand dollars the day before, she said, and that meant she'd fucked eight guys. What better way to find out if I was really cut out for escorting and make a pile of money than fucking ten guys a day with a good friend?

  I set dates with the two guys who wanted to see me in Anchorage. I put Dream in my black plastic sled wrapped in blankets, and I pulled her out to the road, warmed the van up, and started the long drive south.

  These are the stories that followed.

  First Time Again

  My make up bag is buried somewhere in the van under piles of everything we own for the moment packed floor to ceiling. No nail polish, no eyeliner. Maybe I should buy some – it takes money to make money, right? But I show my advertising to Dream – authentic wilderness woman come to town just for you!- and she says it's more authentic without that stuff anyways. So there is just coconut oil on my lips and eyelashes.

  I drive Dream to the grocery store across the parking lot and fetch her a motorized cart to ride around in. She doesn't know if she can do it, if she can sit straight up with the pressure on her brain stem like that for a whole hour. What if they try to run her out of the store? You can't be allowed to just drive the cart around for an hour. I assure her that it'll be fine, and I rush back to the room.

  The first client is a preacher man, a sex addictions counselor. I found out by googling his screening information, and I think he must know that I would google, that I know, but we don't say anything about it.

  The fancy-ass hotel that we're in makes you have a room key to come in the front door, so I have to go down and let him in a side door. I worry that the desk people will notice me letting different men in, but what the hell. You only live once, and it's only a couple men.

  The preacher man wears an expensive shirt, blazer, undershirt, black jeans, cowboy boots. He says he has a few businesses, and also “works with addicts.” I don't mention what google told me. When we get to the room he leaves the money on the dresser and excuses himself to the bathroom, just like I instructed on the etiquette section of my new website. How nice. I silently shove the money into a hiding place and then open and close a drawer so that it'll seem like it's in there. Then I ditch the jeans and arrange myself casual elegant on the bed.

  He joins me for awkward conversation and petting, which ends in me naked and him fully clothed stroking and teasing. I think I may have finally reached my thirties, that time women have told me about all my life where I just like sex. When he kisses me his mouth is full of breath mints, another suggestion from the etiquette section of my page. Fuck, I should have mints too. Finally he takes his clothes off, and he licks me. He's good, but too much stimulation too constantly and I orgasm way too fast. I really can only come once or twice and then that's it for a few hours, but he keeps licking and I keep wiggling and gasping. My ad wording attracts guys who like to lick pussy, I think. I say some stuff about authenticity and giving and receiving pleasure, and it's like placing an ad for the softest sweetest licking johns out there.

  After forty minutes he asks me to roll over and he pets my pussy from behind, getting very interested in my ass. Pet, pet, pet, and a finger slips into my ass, and jabs. Jabjabjab.

  “Honey,” I say, “be gentle back there.”

  He apologizes a million times and says other women like it.

  “Sweetie, no one likes being jabbed in the ass. Go slow.”

  After a bit the condom goes on and he sticks it in from behind. I reach back and play with my clit, but his little cock keeps falling out. And falling out of the condom. I turn around and suck it for a minute. It starts to hurt my jaw after a while, so I climb on his cock. Reverse cowgirl, since he's an ass man. But that doesn't work for him, and so he stands beside the bed with my ankles on his shoulders and pumps his cock in and out of me, in and out. He can't come, he says after a while. This is what happens, either he comes too soon or he can't come at all.

  I know a secret tho, that almost any man can get himself off. So I turn around and hang my head off the bed between his legs and squeeze my boobs around his cock and tell him to jerk off the way he does when he's alone. I kiss his legs for a second, and then I look up. Balls. Gross. For a second I lean my head back and imagine a beautiful vulva above me. When I open my eyes I don't mind the balls anymore, so I kiss them. And lick them. And press my tongue into that spot right behind the balls and he comes yelling all over my chest and stomach, and every time I press my tongue into that spot he comes and yells even more. Awesome.

  When he's done he says he's so sorry and he goes to get a wet washcloth to clean me. No, no, I say, and I rub his semen into my breasts. This is the elixer of life. A year ago I never could have done this, but I've grown or evolved or something and for the moment it's my mission to make the preacher man accept his sex.

  We talk about his dogs while he gets dressed, and how his wife left him and took the kids, and how he has no family here and he's so lonely. But it's okay, he has his businesses. That could be my future. Antisocial me. I'm glad that I can get my noncommittal super casual yet meaningful intimacy by selling it instead of being someone with a penis who has to buy it.

  When he leaves I call Dream. You can come back, he's gone. I'm starving, so I take a big swig of the wine that I got in my attempt at an upscale image, forgetting that preacher men d
on't drink with whores. Wine. Empty stomach. I head out to find some food, and pick Dream up a quarter of the way across the parking lot between the store and the hotel. I should have known she couldn't walk so far. I feel like such a bad caretaker.