Part 1. April Fool’s Day
I’m nervous. I’m about to go into business for myself as an escort, a sex worker, a prostitute, a fetishist—a whore.
I’ve been working on my ad all week, and researching the concept for over a month—reading a book called Callgirl, perusing other women’s ads and john’s reviews, looking up area escort services…it’s a freak jungle out there.
I got fired from an office job I held for five years last fall for flashing a bartender on a business trip in San Francisco. Give me a break—it was off the clock, and we were in San Francisco for god’s sake, a city where transsexuals sing Bruce Springsteen covers in Irish pubs. Seemed like a sexist move on the company’s part in my opinion, since a male manager who showed pictures of his girlfriend giving him a blowjob to co-workers during a working lunch only got reprimanded.
But it was probably an excuse to get rid of me, since they wanted to relocate the company to CA, and have laid off or fired many employees since then. At least my discharge was appropriately scandalous and more brag-worthy than “I was late all the time,” or, “I did a bad job.”
I was without work for a couple months, then signed up with a contracting firm who, for all intents and purposes, pimped me out to a big corporate fuck place. After I spent two months staring at my cubicle wall and obsessively checking my personal email in an attempt stave off insanity, not to mention the death fantasies I’d amuse myself with on the drive home, they finally laid me off since the project they hired me for got cancelled.
I started looking for another office job. Then, in the middle of submitting my resume to project manager jobs at electrical companies and receptionist positions at law firms, my heart sinking with every click of the “send” button, I thought, you know, I’d rather suck dick than work for a company so they can make money off of me. I’d rather be doing something interesting, something I like, than spend everyday selling my soul in a mind-numbing environment. So many corporations care more about $money$ than their employees, and so much of that work is
Also, I’d been in the habit of casually dating several guys at a time who I’d met off the Internet for the past couple years. Why not get paid to basically do the same thing? In fact the three men I had been dating the past few months (a cop, a doctor, and a lawyer) were nice and all, but I wasn’t really getting anything out of my trysts with them.
What at first was fun for me started to feel like I was delivering my pussy to them for their enjoyment. If I wasn’t getting something out of the encounters, why not change that? Since I’m not looking to settle down, I figure it will be fine to work as a prostitute for a while. I figure I’ll do it for a year at most, but maybe stop after a few months, who knows. I’m the boss.
I’ve confided in a few people. My ex-boyfriend cried when I mentioned I was thinking of doing it, so I immediately stopped talking to him about it. I told three close girlfriends, and they are leery but keenly interested to know how it goes. I’ve told a handful of male admirers who live far away, and they all warn me sternly to be careful (they must know men all too well to feel that way). Oh, and to share ALL the dirty details with them.
Oddly, I confided in one of the guys I’m dating and he practically cried, too. But not for the same reason! He GOT it – he understood my mission, which is hard to put into words, but he was able to feel it: to spread good feelings, to share myself with others, to buck stereotypes. I believe that anyone who comes in contact with me will be changed person. I think by doing this I will make more of a difference than I have been able to accomplish at several of my jobs.
I’ll give the men an ego boost, lift their self-esteem, give them good feelings that they will in turn pass on to others, provide them with self-worth. I think they could easily spend their money indulging in a kink and leave feeling creepy, but with me, they will feel OK about themselves, maybe even better. I might teach them a thing or two, and that is money well spent.
I’ve talked about it with my parents, too. They are open-minded and accepting—I’ve brought women home to meet them, men in drag, a poly couple I was dating, it’s all good.
I said to them, “Look here. I work as a contractor 40 hours a week for a recruiting agency who pimps me out and makes money off me. Plus, I hate my job. I might as well work for myself and whore myself out to five rich old men, work only a few hours a week, and make twice the money.”
My dad agreed. He said, “You could get some regulars and do it right…”
“KENNETH!” my mom exclaimed. “You’re talking to your DAUGHTER.”
“Well she wouldn’t be a hooker,” he said huffily. “She’d be high-class, like a…call girl.”
“Escort,” I corrected.