Whore Diaries: My First Two Weeks As An Escort

by Tara Burns

  “Love me,” he says, between grunts, “please love me. I need love.”

  So honest. Usually people are rapists because they don't want to admit the gaping hole of need inside them. He's thrashing around like a dying fish so I just squeeze him. Squeeze.

  It only lasts a minute and then he's a baby in my arms, his head nestled into my chest, breathing, breathing. I pet him, rock a little.

  When I get off him I reach down and grip the condom at the base of his cock, pull it out with him and then pull it off in one motion and set it on the edge of the tub. He looks down in amazement. “Where it go? In the water?”

  “Here,” I hold it up.

  “Oh,” he says, “oh,” and we get out of the tub.

  “Thank you loving me. I need love.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “we all need love.

  He says again how much he needs love and how much I loved him a few times while he gets dressed. Then he looks shyly down at his penis, poking out the top of his sweat pants, and up at me.

  “I should put soap on it?” he asks.

  Sure. I give him some hand soap and he soaps it up and sticks it back in his pants. Weird. He tells me I should use soap too, it's important to be clean. That's why I use condoms, I tell him. Condoms. No diseases. Condoms.

  “But where it go? In water?” he asks.

  Oh, suddenly I understand. He thinks he lost that latex protection after all. I show him with my hand gestures how I took it off. Oh, he says, oh oh oh.

  He asks if I'm in school and I say yes on a whim. He asks about other girls and says oh, they're too skinny. You have niceness. I make a muscle with my arm and he says yes, yes. And I hug him and open the door and push him out finally, because he doesn't go on his own.

  When I text clear Brazil texts me to clear the fuck out, she has a customer waiting in the parking lot. We pass in the hallway, her on the phone telling her customer she's gotten caught in traffic and she'll be there in five minutes and call him and tell him the room number. I like this, when we are so busy that one of us is always making money. For five hours straight, we do this – her, then me, then her, running to switch places in the room and car. Then the phone stops ringing. We go get our other coworker and post more ads on the internet, but still the phone doesn't ring.

  The three of us climb under the covers on the bed and the driver passes out on the couch. The poor guy sleeps like three hours a day. There are things on the teevee. I read my book. But after a while a new movie comes on, and we watch a young Lebonese American girl getting molested over and over and over again. Child porn under cover of lifetime special. I hate this culture.

  The girl in the teevee is dark, shy, mysterious, lovely. She doesn't know how to say no. She isn't allowed to say no. Then she runs away from her father and hides in her nice neighbors house and has to hide while her father tries to break the door down. Once when I was her age I hid in the basement of a youth shelter while the counselors fought with my dad and waited for the cops. This is how it is for lots of us, I guess, a rite of passage in our history.

  I look at Brazil to see if it was like this for her too and she giggles, “this is so crazy! Who even comes up with this stuff?”

  Toxic Mimic

  I tell dozens of men who don't show up to call me from the parking lot and then I can't keep them straight when they really show up. There is John coming in ten minutes, and I've told two men to call me back in ten minutes, because “my friend” might be using the room but if her guy doesn't show up I'm all theirs. I'm the one using the room, of course, but it's not polite to tell them you'll be fucking someone else right before them. Ten minutes, and he doesn't show. The phone rings and someone asks if they can see me. Yes, come right over, call me from the parking lot. He'll be here in five minutes. No sooner do I hang up than the next guy calls. They have the same middle eastern accents. I don't know either of their names. It'll be about 45 minutes, I tell him. Six fifteen. Yes, six fifteen. No later than six fifteen. Really, six fifteen, and what's your name anyways? Rob. Okay Rob, six fifteen.

  When the next guy calls from the parking lot I ask if he wanted to see Mac and me both, or just me. He hems and haws and says he can't talk where he is. He can't talk in his car? Just say one, or two, for one or two girls, I say, and he says two. We are not going to line up. This isn't Thailand, Mac always tells them, though I think it's Vegas, the land of legalized, legislated brothels, where they have to line up. This is Canada, where whoring is legal and fast, like flipping burgers, and I'm fucking handfuls of guys every day to make sure I'm really okay with escorting.

  When we open the door he's a sweet rasta guy with crazy hair and bright colors and a big smile. He couldn't talk in the car cause his friend thought he was giving him a ride to see his sister at our hotel. He adores our feet. All of them. He tries to choose by looking at both of our feet, but we're both perfection. He only brought enough money for one of us, but he wants to run up the street to the ATM. Sure, we can wait. It'll make me late for six fifteen Rob, but who knows if he'll even show up.

  I look at the camera he brought. It's one of those old fashioned ones with a spot for a little tape. There is no tape in it, and he swears it's not recording anything and he can't get off without it. I don't see any place for a little digital card or anything. He says that he used to have baby monitors, which the whores weren't afraid of since they never record, but one day he got pulled over driving, and the floor on the passenger side was filled to overflowing with porn and baby monitors, so the cops thought he was a pedophile. They took him down to the station for questioning and he explained to them that he was notat all interested in children. Just that the only way he can get off is to watch prostitutes' feet through a camera screen, leaning over to sniff them sometimes. The prostitutes didn't let him use digital cameras or anything cause they didn't want to be recorded. The police advised him to ditch the baby monitor and get an old camcorder like this with no tape. They were mean to him, too, the female detective kept asking if she had nice feet, and they all laughed at him.

  We watch him run out to his car and open the driver side door and lean in. No one drove him here. I think maybe there's a child in the car, but Mac thinks that he's afraid to talk on the phone because he thinks he's doing something wrong, and she's probably right. Mac is a genius who understands all the nuances of these things. She's also my friend who found this collective in Canada and called to tell me to hurry and come make money with her.

  He comes back with no more money, and we say no full service, but he can look at our feet through his thing and one of us will give him a hand job for the money he has. Okay.

  Okay. First he rearranges the lamps in the room for optimal lighting, and then we sit on the edge of the bed and he sits on the floor. He points the camera at our feet and tilts the screen up so he can watch it. He sets one of my shoes next to him, and one of Mac's shoes in his lap, both of which he sniffs deeply. He asks us to lie down and not look, he doesn't want us seeing him. We would laugh. The poor guy is so embarrassed, and the worst part, I think, is that the whores who laughed at him probably didn't mean to hurt his feelings. They just misread him as having a humiliation fetish. So we lie back, expecting him to start licking and sucking our feet, like most foot fetish guys. But nothing happens. We look at each other questioningly and whisper, “is he touching you?” “no, is he touching you?”

  “I'm just looking,” he says, and in responding I take the opportunity to peek. He is, indeed, looking at our feet in his viewfinder and jacking off. I lie back down and Mac and I make funny faces at each other and try to remember what time we started and what time it might be now. Then he has us stand up, so he can see the muscles in our feet. We stand and point our toes and go up on tiptoe and down and turn and wiggle our toes. He moves the camera back and forth between our feet, gasping at this realization of fantasy.

  I think this is when I realize that this is not just a foot fetish and it's not just a camera fetish. It's a toxic mimic of a foot
fetish, of a real, participatory sexuality where you touch and connect with other human beings. It's a couple levels removed from actual experience, an obsession that leaves him empty and always wanting more. That's why these things are so addictive – you think you're getting what you want, but it's just a toxic mimic of the real thing. Really, I just want to jump on his cock and look deep in his eyes. I imagine holding him and making eye contact, or at least give him a foot job, but the poor guy would probably jump out of his skin if he had to interact without a camera between us. This is exactly why I want to be a whore, I think. The next time something like this happens I will know the perfect thing to do.

  He asks us to lie down on our stomachs this time, with our feet hanging off the bed in front of him, and how long does he have left. Ten minutes, we say, and he says, oh, oh, okay, please don't laugh at me, I'm sorry I'm like this. So we lie there and once in a while he touches or sniffs a foot, or gives a furtive lick. We are still not looking at him and I wonder how we are going to touch his cock without looking and if he ever has sex.

  Finally he chooses me for the hand job by tapping my foot. I sit next to him and he gets excited. This is the best part of the ritual, please don't laugh. He brings the desk chair and sets it in front of Audra's feet. He arranges the camera with our shoes propped around it and one of his own socks draped along the side of the screen. This is very important and complex, and he has to readjust the shoes a few times. Then he tells me not to look at him, so I look at the camera with him, and he jacks off, and I put my foot in the frame so that my foot and Audra's foot can look all sexy together. Foot necking.

  “Okay,” he gasps, “tell me to cum.”

  “Do you want me to be mean?” I ask. Cause, you know, some guys want that. Cum, you disgusting little worm.

  “No, just tell me to cum.”

  So I tell him. I tell him in every sexy soft way I can think of. Yeah baby, come all over our feet. You're so hot I want you to come for me. Come for me right now. I run out of ways to tell him to come and I wish Mac would help out with her genius, but she's lieing on her stomach and doesn't see my looks. Finally I prop my foot up on the bed and lie back and rub my clit, making those gaspy sex sounds. He looks at me and the camera and me and the camera and me and the camera and me and the camera, and I tell him to come again and he says Oh, yes, he's coming, I can touch it now. So I wrap my hands around his huge uncut dick and he spurts all over.

  “Ack, it's in my eye!” He jumps up holding his face.

  I want to laugh, but I don't. He says he's sorry for being like this, and we are amazing, and he wants to come back and see us every day. Maybe tonight if he can get the money.

  As soon as he's out the door I call Rob, who turns out to already be saved in the phone as R230, and I tell him sorry that it's now six forty five, but it was Mac and her client using the room and I couldn't help it. He says it's okay, he'll be there in ten minutes, and everyone runs up from the car. We realize that R230 was here yesterday, and walked out on Maggie because of the smoke smell and being allergic to smoke. I am starving and just want to go eat with everyone else except that I need the money.

  When R230 calls I tell him he was here yesterday and rejected the room for smoke, and I do have a window open but it is the same room. He wants to see me anyways. He's seen my website and he's intrigued. So everyone runs down to the car and R230 comes up and gives me an amazing back rub, and we talk about tantra, and I touch him all over, and he climbs on and fucks me. His penis is the perfect size for my gspot, but he gets off too fast. Another frustrating appointment, but I'm up a pile of crispy sparkly Canadian money.

  “Clear,” I text everyone in the car.

  “We're on our way back,” they text back.

  “With meat?” I ask. I'm a hungry meatatarian.

  They come back and we drive around and take a couple calls, but the phone is slow and the men are irritating. We turn both phones off and go to an all you can eat ribs place before taking Mac and I home. I sleep on Mac's shoulder in the car. Last night we slept at the hotel room and I haven't had more than a few hours sleep in days and I'm exhausted. It's late when we get to the house I'm staying at with Mac and wander down to the basement, hoping for a perfect pillow pile and a sleepy raver boy named Butterfly to cuddle with, but no. Butterfly has attained a folding cot and a girlfriend while I've been gone, and they're using all the blankets. I try to sleep on the cushy chair with my feet on their feet, but that doesn't work and I move to a bean bag stashed behind drums and they give me more blankets and I sleep great except for the drum stand digging into my back.

  Upstairs people are having loud sex. Next to me on the cot people are having quiet sex. I curl into the softness and let the sounds rock me to sleep.

  Cocksucker

  “I saw in your ad you do domination,” he says. “What do you do?”

  I hate this question. I do a gazillion different things that fall under the category of domination, but mostly what I do is what turns the person I'm with on. Professional domination is an awkward dance: the men already know what they want, my job is to intuit it and then force them into it without acknowledging that I'm catering to their desires. What the hell, I answer anyways.

  “Lots of thing: control, humiliation, pain, sissy training, slave training, body worship, diaper play, discipline, small dick humiliation, financial domination, cock and ball torture, restraints, spankings... what are you interested in?”

  Of course he doesn't know and he bumbles around with his overly assertive body language and tells me a long and winding story about how he had a Mistress who Used him. When she saw clients, she would call him to come lick her pussy clean afterward. When she went on work trips, he drove her. When she needed her pussy licked, she called him. Basically he has a fantasy about having a sexy friend who pretends to be dominant while giving him everything he wants, and he wants to orchestrate almost every detail. He is fat and old and owns a business selling the elements of signs to companies. Like, he would sell you a bunch of letters, or paint, or whatever you needed to make a sign.

  I'm not even really sure how I ended up in this room with this guy. Did I talk to him? Did Maggie text with him? I might be getting too tired to give a shit.

  I decide to give him a whirl in the jacuzzi. “First,” I tell him, there are a few rules. “You may address Me as Goddess. I'm not your Mistress yet, and if you ever earn the right to call me that I'll let you know. Second, my command is your wish. My pleasure is your purpose. Do you understand?”

  “Yes Goddess.”

  “Good. Now, I've been working so hard all day long and my muscles are so sore. You can't have your Goddess being sore, can you?”

  “No Goddess.”

  “Good. Now I'm going to get in the hot tub and you're going to get in behind Me and rub out my knotty muscles. This is your first opportunity to serve Me and your first test.”

  “Yes Goddess.”

  I strip and climb into the tub, add a little shampoo for the bubble factor, and he gets in behind me. His hands are soft and impatient, little balls of dough rolling across my back just waiting for the sexy part. Bad slave. He asks if I'm coming back to Canada.

  “If you buy my ticket,” I say.

  “Will you order me to do it? Will you make me pay for your ticket?” His little cock hardens against my left butt cheek.

  “Only if you turn out to be worthy to serve Me,” I laugh. “This is your test.”

  He is failing the test so I decide to give him what he's looking for. I push him to the bed and order him to worship my breasts. He sucks and I'm bored, so I order him down to my cunt. Holy fuck, it turns out he is well trained in this area. His tongue is like a vibrator. I pretend to cum a couple times because I've got to act out this whole kinky script as I choreograph it in my mind. When I tell him to stop he lies down and starts jerking his little cock. A real submissive would beg permission first, would know he had to earn it.

  “Will you tell me I'm a homophobic homosexua
l?” he asks.

  At the core it's always so fucked up and sad. We're all so damaged. “You're so homophobic and fucked up you have to pay women like me to strip you down to your real gay self. You know you want to suck cock. You know you wanna be fucked in the ass by a real man. But you just can't admit it without being forced, can you? Say it! Say “I'm a fucking homo and I want to suck cock.””

  “I can't!”

  I lean over and bite his nipple. Hard. Harder. I guess I don't have to be into it or even particularly awake to bring out the hidden parts of some guys.

  “Okay, okay! I'm a cock sucking homo! I want it in the ass! There, I said it!”

  I open my mouth long enough to laugh. “That doesn't mean I'll stop.” When I bite down again he cums. It hits me in the hair. I go wipe it out with a baby wipe.