Quickie

Had a call from the dreaded 'One and Only' ex that we all seem to acquire at some point in our love lives. Mine is a fair few years older whom i met when i was quite young and misbehaving. It's been the most painful, passionate and complex relationship i think i'll ever have.
In typical fashion he pretended to be interested in what was happening in my life, subtly suggested we 'hook-up' and then got angry when i called him on it.

Didn't he think i'd realise he was after a shag when i looked down and saw his dick in me?

I've decided that in future if he wants sex from me he'll have to pay just like everyone else. That's only fair.

Son of a Bitch.

Reasons

Firstly a quick note about this blog - Updating may be a bit spasmodic at times as i'm juggling uni, friend commitments, and hooking all at once without much time for relief. So apologies there. This is really just a place to vent about the things that i can't really speak to anyone else about.

Casing point: a few nights ago i had a bad one. Not a bad bad one (i.e enforced, violent etc...) but a shit one nonetheless. I'd been having a bad day; awkward time of the month, parents being fucked about uni stuff, the usual things that bring a girl down. And he was a new client.

So first he argues about the price for a very long while (guys, don't do it. We don't have to sleep with you) he even suggests that his bedroom prowess would make up for my monetary losses. (er... no) When he finally concedes he wants to talk and asks me rather intimate details about my life - and not the usual kinky 'Did you and your best friend ever touch each other' kind of thing, more 'Where do you study, what course do you do, where do you come from?'. (Don't bother, i'll only lie) When we finally got down to the sex it was like fucking a robot. A robot who kept pinching my arse really hard. (Things like that with someone/a client that you're into is ok, but not when you've put me through all that shit) I have actual big bruises on each cheek now.

I returned to my dorm, locked my door and punched the pillow repeatedly. I wanted to scream so i buried my face in the duvet. There is no one here i can talk to or bitch about the bad times to. I'm not looking for sympathy - fuck no - if i didn't get something out of it i wouldn't do it. I just need to tell someone these things before it has an impact upon my already brittle sanity.

K?

Bar Work

"Hey baby, wanna feel my balls slapping your ass?"

I gave a courteous smile and turned to face the other end of the bar, sipping slowly and resignedly on my cocktail. It was only Monday and already the week was shaping up to be pretty shit. I don't make a habit of picking up guys in bars (in case you were wondering i usually take the Internet route) but when times are slow and you need some cash i guess it beats standing on a street corner.

When cruising in a bar I take hints from the Amsterdam whores. You seek out a client yourself, picking him rather than the other way around. Lots of eye contact, beacon him over a little. Then of course comes the part where you hint at what the deal is. Some get it, some don't. Of course you chat a little first, make him like you - want you - act like something out of a Playboy article. (Never thought it would happen to me... legs that wouldn't quit... mouth that would leave you dry... fucked every which way till sunrise) When you're both on the same wavelength you're pretty much home dry, just a case of finding somewhere to go. (His place, if not a motel on him - although i have been known to go for it in the alley on special occasions)

Well Monday was a long night. I didn't get with Mr Ball Slapper surprisingly enough - although he reiterated his request at least five times that night - instead a cute little blond accountant who i almost felt i was taking advantage of.

I said almost. He got Anal.

Introductions

My ex-boyfriend once told me that I had a body built for sex. It wasn’t the most thin, or the most athletic. My breasts weren’t the biggest and I’m a tad below average height but, regardless of all these things, I have to admit he was right. I’m hourglass, golden hair, full lips, shapely legs and I can murmur words that will make any cock spring. Also I can lie, very well.

And as a result I do what I do now.

I study, work and play in London, England. I’m 19 and sell my body for money.

There, that wasn’t too difficult.

I don’t fit what people would think of as the ‘typical’ profile for a hooker. I’m well educated, have enough money to be comfortable without too much excess and come from a decent middle-class family. It’s just something I decided to try one day, charging the people I fucked instead of giving it away for free.

Okay, so that’s a lie, but it is the first and only one I’ve told you.

I prefer to use the term ‘hooker’ as opposed to the other options [call girl, prostitute, prozzy, whore, rent-a-cunt etc…] and I think this stems from a desire to keep it separate. Hooker sounds dirty, sounds bad and amoral. It’s a persona I can adopt through the use of a single word that allows me to separate those activities from the rest of my life.

Last night I caught a taxi back from a job. Nothing out of the ordinary; just your basic Show up Spread it Do it deal. I remember looking out of the window as we drove through the streets and seeing a woman leaning against a lamppost. She was smoking a cigarette, dressed in a long coat and thigh high boots. The orange light illuminated her in that beautiful glow that makes me adore the night streets so much. She was watching the traffic stop, start and go by with the detachment of someone who has been waiting for a very long time. I looked down at my own black fitted coat over short red dress and knee high leather boots and, for some inexplicable reason, had to fight the sudden urge to laugh.

I am London. I am a hooker.