by Burns, Tara
Whore Diaries II: Adventures In Independent Escorting
Whore Diaries II: Adventures In Independent Escorting
E-book 1st Edition 2012
Text and cover page Copyright © Tara Burns. All rights reserved.
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There are many people without whom this book wouldn't exist:
Dream, who saved my life and sanity so long ago.
Carrot, the best writing friend ever.
Mac and Jane, the best whoring friends ever.
Kaz, who feeds me.
My secret blog readers who have cheering me on all these years.
The amazing editor who has taught me so much about commas and must go unnamed because stigma sucks.
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
BALL BUSTING
SEX FAIRY
JUST TRY IT
POWER
MY SLAVE
MORNING SEX
STICKY MONEY
HOMETOWN
RIGHT NOW
REAL HYPNO
MORE BALLBUSTING
VIRTUE
MY PEE BITCH
PROFESSOR
JIM
BECOMING INNOCENT
AFTERWORD
INTRODUCTION
My friend died. He was a beautiful poet who built rock walls and lived in the woods in a cabin he handcrafted full of care and light. The last time I saw him he read me a few pages of his memoir, 600 pages of poetry. Every sentence held the most perfect arrangement of words.
I told him I was afraid, sometimes, that life was so beautiful that if I didn't write it all down I might lose it. Life is not always so beautiful, and I could fall into the rapids, be tossed about, and sink to irreversible depths where beauty becomes the most impossible distant memory. Really though, should I spend my life rushing to write down every beautiful thing?
Yes, he said. The answer is to write down every beautiful thing, and the rest, too.
I started writing. After every walk, every dream, and every client I saw. Just to save the beauty of it, because I see some sexy, complicated, beautiful people.
And the rest. One of the smartest ladies I know once said that being a hooker is sometimes like being a plumber: it's gross, and you just hold your nose and get it done. That doesn't make the profession less valuable or necessary.
My friend didn't know that I'm a whore. No one does. Most of the time I'm just a small, isolated creature in the big eternal wilderness, living far from roads and cities. My days are filled with the simple, hard basics of securing heat, water, and food with my body.
Then every couple months I travel hundreds of miles to a big city and turn tricks. My city days are filled with the simple, hard basics of securing security itself, in the form of green paper, with my body.
These are my work journals.
BALL BUSTING
The alarm on my cell phone starts dinging at 10 in the morning. It's a very zen gong sound for a very cold morning waking up in the van. I don't have all my warm blankets in the van now because I don't live in the van anymore. The warm blankets are all home in the cabin piled on the bunk bed or folded under it. Luckily, I slept in all my clothes and parka. I crawl up to the front seat and sit, trying to wake up. Things are not as convenient in the van as they used to be.
There's a text from my one o'clock client asking what hotel I'm in. I don't know yet. But I parked in a parking lot with Wi-Fi last night after I dropped Dream off at her friend's house. I love the hotel from last time, and I want to go back. Maybe that's dumb though, maybe they will notice that I come to town once a month and am always coming downstairs to sneakily let men in the back door and always have bunches of condoms in the trash. I mean, I flush most of them and I always take the trash with me when I leave, so they probably don't even notice. Still, the best thing to do is go to different places and not be recognized.
So I look up the other hotels clients have recommended and call them all. One is downtown and has no parking, another isn't in the best area, and they're all the same price as my favorite. So I go back again. I text my client back that I'm at the same place as last time. He'll think I got in last night and am relaxing in luxury, like the upscale princess ho I am. I wonder how many of those really expensive two grand a day real princess hos are actually sleeping in vans and cheap rooms when they aren't cultivating their princess images.
I stop for essentials on the way. Razors for shaving my cooch, nail polish, eyeliner, a travel toothbrush, clothespins, and rubber bands for the BDSM guy. Town things.
At the hotel, I have to wait for two princesses who want the front desk lady to print out directions for them. They look like whores or dancers to me, though I guess in the lower 48 all the big city women dress the way they do. Heels, skinny jeans, bejeweled asses, and tight tops with trendy little coats. Down there it's normal, but around here people are like, “What the fuck? Does she think she's in a fashion show or something?” My modus operandi is to check in in my grungy woods clothes, be all sexied up in my room for clients, and then come and go in my grungy woods clothes so I don't attract any whore suspicion. The front desk lady asks the princesses where they're from, and they say Los Angeles. She nods as if that explains it. Note to self: If ever questioned about whoreishness, claim Californication.
By the time I get to the room, I only have an hour before my client's arrival. That sounds like a lot, but it's not when you're going from not having seen soap in a month to well-groomed professional companion. The first thing is to put on nail polish, sitting on the toilet and calling a friend back about a dog throwing up blood. I slap the polish on all messily because you can scrape off the parts on your skin once you've been tub-soaked. I jump in the bathtub and shave. I can't find my volcano rock, so I use my fingernails to scrape huge rolls of dead skin from my legs and arms. Don't want to leave marks, though. Much shaving. Soap on the pits and cunt and ass. Running out of time. I jump out wet and let the tub drain. I have dandruff. I want to put my hair up wet and sexy-messy to disguise it, but I don't have a hair clip. I need to get a whore bag with lots of organizational pockets.
I find the corset and restrain my titties; I can't find the little black skirt. Oh well, a cute black thong with a bow works. Throw everything in the closet to hide it. Condoms and candles by the bed. Dildos lined up for ass play. Rubber bands and clothespins discreetly pinned to the bed for a nice touch. Stockings for my dry sandpaper legs. Fuck, where's the makeup?
The phone rings. He's here. I haven't even had time to reread his emails and meditate on my holy whorishness. I give him the room number and tell him to come on up, and then I hide the phone. It doesn't match my woodsy image, even though it's actually practical to have a phone that functions a little like a laptop without needing as much electricity. One more run through the room and I notice the bathtub is coated in hair shavings and big chunks of dead skin. Oh no! Very unprincessy! I grab the ice bucket and try to wash most of it down the drain before he knocks.
He's a lawyer who goes around suing corporations and paying women to hurt him. He wears polar fleece. I imagine he has a bicycle that he doesn't ride as much as
he wished. He has a shaved head and polar fleece jacket and he always books two hours. He asks where to put the money, even though he himself has lectured me to never talk about “the gift.” I shrug. Wherever. He puts it by the sink.
He's one of those good communicater BDSM guys. Successful lawyers are always good with words. I let him ramble on about how he wants to be controlled and used for my pleasure, teased, denied, and kicked and kneed in the balls. The questions I ask are more to show off my good communication skills and BDSM terminology and expertise than to get information. I already know everything I need to know about this guy.
“Take your clothes off,” I order.
“Yes, ma'am.” He's grinning and throwing his clothes off. I have to remember not to be too evil-mean. Nurturing mean. That's the thing -- girl-next-door domme. Nice, huh?
I have him lie down and I remember that the first time I saw him I thought his cock was really big and I was like, “Oh, thank goddess I don't have to put that in me!” but now it's just normal sized. I'm so amused by my lack of heterosexal experience sometimes -- the crazy thing is that I'm apparently great at sex with guys without really knowing what the fuck I'm doing, but they like me and they leave me nice reviews.
“Oh, nice cock,” I say, and I mean it this time. It's the perfect size with the perfect curve.
I climb up between his legs and pet his cock softly with my fingertips. How sweet. I make some sexy “mmm” sounds and punch him in the balls. Lots of stroking and petting and lube and punching and squeezing and twisting. I wrap the rubber bands around his cock and snap them up and down the shaft, tie up his balls and shoot them with rubber bands, and put rubber bands on his nipples and slap them. Between all that, I lick my way up and down his stomach, nibble on his ears, pretend I'm going to kiss him and laugh instead at the last second. In between groans, gasps, and breaths, he tells me how beautiful and creative and sensual and dominant and amazing I am. He wants to take me away on a vacation, he says, and serve me for a week or a weekend. I tell him that's a lot of my time and he would first have to prove himself worthy. Really I'm thinking that would save my ass with the IRS and a few trips like that would pay off the land. Maybe if I had money I could figure out what to do with my disabled auntie.
He hyperventilates, and I tell him to breathe. Guide him into that grounded space at his core. This is the only time he feels real, really feels. Sometimes when people tell me nothing is real and reality is an illusion, and therefore, nothing really matters, I want to tell them that I could make them feel real. I could show them a place so deep and true inside themselves, they could never deny it. I think Viktor Frankl said something like that, but he was an intellectual, a survivor, not a sadist for hire.
“You don't deserve to cum,” I tell him. “You haven't earned shit.”
I climb up to sit on his face and punch him in the balls while he eats me out. I cum sweaty and hard, pushing myself down onto his nose, and tell him to move down to the bottom of the bed with his face down, ass up, and balls hanging over the edge.
“Don't move,” I say, and I get into drawers and rustle things around mysteriously while I count his money and send my friend a text to check the dog's capillary refill rate again.
I grab my little whip out of the drawer and swat it lightly across his ass. Draw it ever so lightly back and forth, swat, tickle, stroke, knee in the balls. I make him say, “Thank you, Goddess” every time I knee him. It's only been 45 minutes, and I have to figure out a way to stretch this out, so I stick a toy in his ass. That's something that takes up time. Now I can kick him in the balls or ass twizzle-stick dildo. Then he has to pee, and I make him hold still for a while again afterwards. An hour and 20 minutes. I tell him he's not allowed to cum, and I climb on his cock and make him hold a vibe on my clit while I ride it. I love my life. I wish this guy would tip. He never does, and since he's Mister Healthy Communicator when not in scene, I'm not sure how to prompt him without being rude. Too bad my friend Mac isn't here with her advanced hustle skills; she'd know how.
An hour and 35 minutes. He likes to take a shower after. I climb off and punch him in the balls again. “Your challenge,” I tell him, “is to get yourself off while I'm punching you in the balls.”
He does. Perfect timing, too. Then he takes a quick shower and tells me I'm the only kink game in town and to let him know if I ever need any legal advice and he worships me. I ask him about Dream's SSI applications, but that's not his kind of law.
Then he leaves and I'm $500 richer and there's another guy coming in an hour, a guy who will need to touch my skin and find it soft, so I find my volcano rock and jump back in the bathtub.
SEX FAIRY
For these people, I'm making an exception to my rule about not doing outcalls. They live in a fancy neighborhood far out of the city. Not fancy enough to overlook the ocean, but fancy enough for spaced out cookie cutter mansions.
June emailed me a couple months ago, a long email that went on and on like water explaining how after 10 years of marriage, she and her wonderful husband had begun exploring sexually and she'd always wanted to be with a woman, but she wasn't sure how she'd react, and would it be okay if she smoked pot because she gets really nervous? Also, her husband is kind of fat but he's a very good man and takes such good care of her and her son, and she loves him. They'd been watching porn, smoking pot, reading books, and gaining communication skills, and now they wanted to try an encounter with another woman. But it had to be real! They couldn't be with someone who would fake it! And they must smoke pot or they will be nervous! I was supposed to meet them last month, but then June started bleeding early.
At first her emails were sweet. I was excited to be part of their sexual education and exploration. I'd been thinking about posting a casual encounter ad for a couple before I got their email, which made the prospect of a paying couple even better. Get paid to explore your fantasies! My life is the best!
Over time, her emails started to wear on. She asked questions upon questions, and had to describe the details of every sex documentary she had ever seen, like a phone sex customer who tries to get off by emailing about what they want instead of calling.
Now, after all these emails, I'm finally pulling into their driveway. Henry is waiting outside for me, waving. Of course. Inside, there's an envelope with my name on it right on the bench where you sit to take your shoes off. I shove it in my pocket and hang my coat in the closet. The closet is full of coats. If I had a closet that size, it would be an eighth of the space in my cabin, I think, and an eighth of my possessions would be coats. Their golden retriever is in a crate, whining and writhing with excitement.
“Oh, you don't have to crate her for me,” I say, and Henry lets her out. She wags her whole body up to me and sits to be petted, which is hard because she can barely restrain herself from leaping for joy at a new person. I kneel to let her kiss my face and wiggle around, and then I join June on the couch. June is cute. Cute like apple pie with long, permed hair, a dutifully toned body, and cheerful smile. She says she's nervous.
We drink wine and they smoke and they ask what they are supposed to do. Should they go away so I can count the money?
“Oh, I was just going to trust you,” I say. “But I can use your restroom and check it?” I have this philosophy that it turns guys off when I count the money, so I don't. I smile at them and tuck it into a drawer as if I trust them completely and am too classy to double check. Really, it's not that I trust them, but that I take a longer view. If they short me, I can just not see them again, but if I offend them, I probably can't undo it, and I potentially lose $500 per month per guy. So I go to Henry and June's bathroom and I count the money. Five crisp hundred dollar bills and two fifties. I text my friend, who's back at the hotel room, that they are cool and we are still drinking wine and talking about sex.
When I come out of the bathroom, I'm naked, and I curl up closer to June. She is so nervous, and I don't want to scare her, but I do feel a sort of responsibility to get t
hings going. She tells me again that sometimes Henry's dick goes soft and we should just ignore it, it's just a thing that happens, we definitely shouldn't call attention to it. Then Henry says again that they want me to understand there are no goals for the evening. Nobody has to cum, and if we don't do anything it's okay. Then she tells me again that it's really the marijuana that's opened her up to her sexuality, explaining, “but sometimes it makes me paranoid.” I want to laugh so much, but I don't. I tell her she has nothing to be paranoid about and she's 10 times hotter than me on the dominant culture's scale. Then he tells me again that there are no goals and she tells me again that we should just ignore it if his dick goes soft.
Maybe I need to be more creative with questions, to keep Henry and June from repeating themselves all night. So I ask and they tell me that Friday nights are their thing, the one night a week they have to themselves when they lie in bed and watch the porn channel and do things that nobody who really knows them would ever imagine. They are thinking about getting matching tattoos that say, “Living For Friday.”