Whore Diaries: My First Two Weeks As An Escort

by Tara Burns

  I'm so hungry and so tired. At the mall I find a big salad with chicken on top, and then back in the hotel I do my best to stay awake. Poor Dream is passed out on the bed. This is too much for her, sitting up and moving around for an hour. But what should I do? Try to get her to sit in the van? Pay a hundred dollars for another hotel room?

  Dream wakes up when the next guy calls. This is the guy I'm not sure about, John Smith. At least that's what he calls himself. He jumped through some of my hoops, but his email-attitude is a mildly yellow flag and his reference whore was drunk in a loud bar when I called her. I give Dream the money from the first guy. Our new emergency fund, in case I get arrested, soon to be the rent money while I leave her in a friends empty cabin and go on a whore tour for a couple weeks.

  When I let him in he's young and hugely fat. He's been bragging in his emails about being in Hawaii for work, and he tells me his sunburn was splotchy so he went to a tanning bed and now he's really burned. Poor John. He's brought lotion for me to rub on his back, but it's hard, chunky lotion that you have to press in to make it melt, so I use my coconut oil, which he thinks is the most amazing product. He tells me about his job flying around the world inspecting things. Guam, Hawaii, Japan, Iceland. I pretend that I would like to fly around the world inspecting things too, and he tells me a little about things that must be inspected. After half an hour I'm still rubbing oil into his back and he is still lieing there, so I tell him to roll over. His front is burned too, so I rub oil in while he lies, completely passive and limpdicked with no clue as to what he wants. So I ask him his favorite fantasy, and it is two women touching him everywhere. The skin on skin.

  I lean over and rub my breasts all over him, which makes him gasp. He is so big I can sit on his chest and he can suck my nipples, and I grind my cunt over his nipples and work my way up and down him kissing and touching. He loves it. After a while I condom him up and suck it for a second. His cock is nice and small and doesn't hurt my jaw at all. But I can tell he wants the skin and eye contact and not me being down there by his cock, so I climb on top and lean over him, rubbing bellies and breasts and soft lips and grinding slowly into him. His little cock hits my gspot much better than the last guys bigger little cock. It's kind of like riding a ship, the way his belly moves under me, but when I lean down and cling to him it's like a big snuggly teddy bear. I come riding his cock, rubbing my clit on his bellyfat. It's nice.

  Afterwards I crawl up next to him and put my head on his shoulder, my arm around him. Snuggling is going to be my signature thing. People need it. He pets my hair, and pets my hair, and pets my hair. Then he asks if he can give me a back rub. Sure, I say. I give everyone an extra fifteen minutes. Another marketing thing, like snuggling. So he rubs my back. And he's good. And he loves me. I start thinking about all his travel bragging and how if I work this right he'll pay me ten grand to go somewhere exotic with him for a week.

  Then he asks if I do couples, because he has a wife. He has a wife? Here I've imagined him so alone, and I was wrong. They have a two year old, he says, and she doesn't want sex anymore. He thinks she likes women, he says, as if that must be why she doesn't want to fuck him anymore, and also as if that is his most treasured fantasy.

  All my friend’s husbands become assholes after they have kids. It turns out John is no exception. I tell him if he wants her to be interested in sex he should send her out to the spa while he watches the kid and cleans the house and makes her dinner. He asks if I could just not mention seeing him before, if we did a threesome kind of thing.

  Then he asks how I keep my skin so incredibly soft, and says he's never met anyone like me before.

  I laugh, “you see girls like me all the time.”

  No, he says, other girls are all business and then they make you leave, no cuddling or love.

  “Oh,”I say. “Well, I wouldn't want to separate things like that.”

  Then he leaves, and I'm exhausted. I call Dream and she asks if it's okay to buy grapes. Yes, I say, don't ask for permission to buy grapes, and I lie in bed too tired to get dressed. When I wake up it's twenty minutes later and I go to look for Dream. She's crawling and whimpering up the hall. Fuck. I should have done something else with her. Fuckfuckfuck. When she's in bed I give her monotropa uniflora, and she says it works really fast. I eat the grapes and she says they're dirty. But all the fungus and good stuff is on the skin, so I wash some for her and eat another handful of dirty ones.

  “I want to sleep,” I tell her. I'm so so so tired. Last night I woke up a hundred times to her crying in her sleep. Tonight we have separate beds and I drink enough wine to sleep through a lot before I fall into bed.

  Oh, Canada

  Even after it slows down and I decide sleep is imperative the phone rings all night. I sleep with it in my hand and when it goes off I check that it isn't someone checking on me, and then I hit ignore and fall back asleep. After four or five hours it picks up to a pace where I stop sleeping and start answering. I'll just stay in bed and answer, I tell myself. Mac calls to make sure that I'm still alive and see why I didn't do any safe call/txts last night. Because I didn't have any clients. Everyone else from the collective went to a big swinger party last night, leaving the hotel room, price list, and ringing phone all to me as soon as I got to their country. But no one in Canada likes me enough to want to stick their penis in me for money. Not yet.

  I'm hungry, but I still don't have any of this country's money, so I have a beer for breakfast. The fridge is full of beers so we can offer them to the clients. We also have cards that say Buff, Polish, and Shine.

  But the phone keeps ringing and soon someone says he'll be here in twenty minutes. Yeah, right. I tell him to call for the room number when he gets to the parking lot... and he does! It's a miracle! I give him the room number and rush to make the bed and straighten up the room. I don't remember our phone conversation. I've gotten out of the habit of remembering any of the dozens of people I talk to every hour now. When he comes to the door he's well groomed, middle aged, a little pudge, cinnamon skinned and an accent that could be Indian or Pakistani.

  He gives me the money and asks, I get bareback, right? No, I say, there's absolutely no bareback. Now I remember him, we argued on the phone about whether I'd do bareback. Ugh. He says okay, okay, and hands me the money, but it's too bad I don't do bareback or he'd get two hours. Do I party? Depends on the party. He sniffs, the universal sign for coke. No, I don't, but you can. He lies out neat lines on the table, four of them. Hey, I say, don't do too much, I want your dick to work. Yes yes, he says, it's too bad I don't party, or he would probably get half a days worth of hours. I nod. I'm really curious about how this will play out.

  Of course it won't get hard. Of course he wants me to suck it bareback. I have a special method of putting condoms on flaccid penises by suction holding the head while I roll it down, tho, and soon he's sort of hard. I let him fuck my mouth, my tongue protecting my gaggy throat, and I use my vibe on that spot behind his balls. It works, and soon he is really hard and wants to fuck me doggy style. His penis is so little it doesn't feel like anything. When I first imagined fucking several guys a day to get my whore creds in I thought I'd be sore, but if they're all like this it won't even be as uncomfortable as wearing a tampon.

  He can't come. Coke dick. Finally I tell him it's more money or get out, and he takes a quick shower and then licks the last of the white powder off the coffee table, telling me I should really try it.

  The next guy is younger, a student, black coat, cinnamon skin, accent. He is sweet and lovely, and I get him off in like ten minutes and snuggle a little.

  The next guy is also young, an engineer, black coat, cinnamon skin, accent. And the next.

  They're all half hour guys that last ten minutes, except the occasional coke dick. I look back and don't remember much about any of them, not because I'm dissociative or anything, just because this is beyond impersonal. It's beyond impersonal and I'm weirdly happy about it. A couple days ago I was s
o exhausted from getting all emotionally/physically/spiritually engaged with just two guys, but today I've already fucked four and feel like I've just taken a little invigorating walk. In general, I don't think this is the kind of sex I want to have, but today it is.

  Our driver shows up with taco bell as soon as I txt him “clear” on the last guy. I'm starving, and I chatter at him about the guys while he posts a zillion ads for Maggie, Mac, Brazil, and me. Soon we're in the car zooming off to pick up another lady for a guy who'd booked an appointment two weeks ago. Of course, he did it by email and didn't bother to confirm until a couple hours ahead of time and I had no idea what he was talking about, but it turned out he wanted two full service whores for an hour. When I told him the ladies he was originally going to see weren't available he said he didn't care who showed up, he didn't know who it was going to be in the first place.

  So I go with Brazil, a beautiful young Trinidadian girl from Houston, to his room. I'm all intimidated by her beautiful aloof expertness, but as soon as we get to the room she disappears wordlessly into the closet area, and then I'm annoyed. I strip and sit with the guy, get his money, invite him into bed, and then she joins us. I wait to follow her lead, but she just disses his teevee show while I play with his balls. After a while she looks at him and says, “I could blow you.” It's like Christmas for him, and he lights up while she lackadaisically rolls a condom down his dick. She takes it deep tho, I'm impressed. I kiss him and play with his nipples and run my hands all over his chest until she sits up and says her jaw hurts. Of course I understand this, and I don't want my jaw to hurt, so I ask if I can just jump on his lovely cock. It's huge. Big-normal, I guess, but long. Huge. I climb on and teach him not to bang into my cervix. He doesn't want to come in me, he wants to come on our tits, but when I climb off he comes accidentally.

  Normally he can get hard again, he says, but he can't now. When he finally does Brazil gets ready to climb on. She rolls her eyes and says it will hurt with her on top. He goes soft, he doesn't want to hurt her. She rolls her eyes again and says they won't know if it hurts unless they try, but he can't get hard again.

  We snuggle up to watch the teevee, but he says he doesn't want to keep us, and so we're out to the car to pick up another lady, and then there is a hectic time of many phone calls and texts and outcalls and an incall, and somewhere in the middle of it a babysitter calls to say something's come up. Suddenly the phone stops ringing and there's an eight year old in the car with us as we run around shuttling people back and forth. We play the alphabet game, you know, what you're packing, and then he goes home to his big sister.

  I come out of the convenience store where I was picking up lip gloss, condoms, and dark chocolate, and Brazil is talking on the phone next to me. In the front seat Maggie is whispering to her husband, "he says it's six or seven inches, what do you think?"

  "He could have a pencil dick, you never know."

  "What should I text him?"

  "I dunno, how big is too big?"

  I lean forward. "Are you guys talking about my ass?"

  Yeah, they are. “Tell them a fingers fine and anything beyond that is on a case by case basis,” I say.

  Then the phone rings and someone asks for me. It's Mike. But there've been so many Mikes today. One who wanted to be pissed on, one who wanted cock and ball torture, and one who wanted to be wiped with a dirty rag (a fetish I'd never heard of!). He asks if it's extra for what we talked about, and I tell him about only selling my time, not individual acts, and I appreciate tips of course. After we hang up I realize it's the anal guy Maggie's been texting.

  This is fun! I've never in my life worked this way before and I like it. I can immediately think of three or five women I'd like to do it with, and for a wistful moment I think I should have done this when I lived in a van: gathered a band of whores and traveled the country.

  We get back to the hotel and when the other girls text clear I run up and they run down to the car for an outcall. Five minutes later the anal guy is there. I dunno if you'll be able to get my dick hard, he says, I did a bunch of coke at a superbowl party...

  Rape Culture

  I knew it had to happen, eventually, booking guys like this over the phone with no screening, not even asking their names half the time.

  He was right after a sweet hot farm boy who was supremely frustrating – skilled enough to get me really really turned on, but not devoted enough to get me off. When I texted “clear!” to the driver he texted back, “okay, I'm sending another one up.” He does this thing where he texts with the guys and pretends to be us. It works.

  I waited and waited and no one came to the door, and then someone turned the door handle. They turned and jiggled and applied a shoulder before I got to the door, but never knocked. How strange. I looked through the peephole and it was a very confused looking young guy, so I opened the door. He stared at me in confusion for a second and then came in.

  “Where are you from?” he asked abruptly.

  “Alaska,” I said. “Where are you from?”

  “India. I just get here two day ago.”

  His accent is hard to understand. I'm bad at understanding all the accents here, and I feel guilty about it because I don't want people to think I'm some bigot who thinks everyone should speak perfect English. I just can't understand them.

  “Did you want half an hour or an hour, honey?” I asked.

  “Condom?” He asked.

  “Yes, I use condoms for everything.”

  “Condom? You have?”

  “Yes, I have condoms. Yes! Condoms!”

  “Okay,” he says and he tackles me, kind of like the cookie monster, but more aggressive. His arms wrap around trying to squish me, trying to push my little outfit down. Wow. I push him back a little.

  “Business before pleasure, honey.” He looks at me confused. “First you pay, then we play.”

  “Come bed,” he grabs my arm.

  “First you pay me.”

  “Oh, money? It no problem. No problem. Come bed.”

  Finally he pays me and I shove the money to the back of the drawer and start to text the driver that he paid for half an hour, but he is behind me, squeezing my arms together and rocking me wildly to and fro so that I can't text. After a minute I push him off and tell him to wait a second, and he does.

  We get on the bed and he grabs me again trying to roll me over him and under him, but I'm bigger than him and brace myself so that I don't roll very well. I cross my legs and pet him gently. Calm down, little man from India. He starts pumping enthusiastically against my thigh, so I push him away a little and reach for a condom.

  “No,” he says, “no condom.”

  “Yes,” I tell him. “Yes, condom.”

  “No, I put it in, it be okay.” He wraps his legs around mine like some kind of wrestling move and tries to pin my shoulders to the bed. I'm twice as big as him and all grown up and assertive now, so I roll my eyes and roll over so I'm on top of him. He thinks this is affectionate at first and his pelvis jerks like a dying engine, but I crawl off the bed.

  “You need to leave.”

  “No,” he says, moving off the bed. “It's no problem, it's no problem.” He looks confused.

  “It is a problem. We use condoms so we don't get diseases.” I hold up the condom. “Condom. No diseases.”

  He nods. “Okay. I wear. No problem, I wear.”

  I nod. Maybe I should make him leave. If I were the shy young girl I once was, he would have raped me. But instead I'm this grown up person I am, and he is not a rapist, except that maybe he is, back in India. Maybe there are five thousand traumatized women and girls in his wake, except maybe there aren't.

  “No problem,” he's saying, “no problem, I wear.”

  Okay. I go back to the bed and pick up a condom and he lies down. “Love me,” he says, “please love me. I need love.”

  I lean over him, and he grabs me to him and starts jerking again, pumping against my hand. It makes me dizzy, his rolli
ng around, and I can't just sit up, I have to push my way out of his grasp.

  He points at the jacuzzi. “In water?”

  “Sure,” I start the water and climb in. He sits in front of me and I roll the condom on slowly. This is how you wear a condom, little man from India. Then I arrange him and climb onto his little dick. He goes magically from passive silence to gripping, digging, jerking back and forth with crazy noises.