Girl for Hire. Various
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I provide, as though I’m going to defrost his freezer or offer to rewire his house. It’s very rare that the client will be forthright enough to say: ‘How much for a blow job? How much for straight sex? How much for anal?’
To some extent, I’m pleased about that.
Conversations without euphemism tend to strip away the mystery of the sex act and make the whole encounter seem more like a tawdry and vulgar transaction. When we talk in euphemisms it’s as though I’m sharing some sort of telepathy with the client. We’re talking about costs and services and extras, and we’re meaning my mouth around his cock, or half an hour with our sweaty naked bodies writhing together, or his length sliding into the depths of my ass.
‘The cost depends on what you want. Half an hour of my time will cost you a straight hundred. It’s another hundred for each part of a half-hour after that. If you want anything kinky then I might have to charge extra.’
I always meet the client’s eye when I say the word ‘kinky’.
If I can give a suggestive smile too it helps build rapport. And, if the client happens to have a kink that I haven’t tried before, it’s convenient for me to get paid for my experimentation.
It was through the suggestiveness of a client that I discovered the pleasures of wielding a whip. It was through one customer’s need to administer a ‘kinky’ spanking that I found out how pleasurable it is to have my buttocks turned warm crimson by the slap of a large manly hand.
And so, after I’ve mentioned the word ‘kinky’ I give the client a moment to recall if he has any vices he’d like to explore. It’s another of those moments that makes me hold my breath. I’m aware I could be on the verge of encountering another life-changing experience. And, if the client’s suggestion sounds too depraved for my simple tastes, I can always ask for extra money to compensate me for the experience.
If he thinks it’s my first time, the client is always happy to pay extra.
I always talk about time when I’m making negotiations with a client. I never talk about specific acts if I can avoid such details. But, whilst I’m talking about the cost of my time, I think about the image of my bare body pressed against the naked body of the client. I try to send him a mental picture of my mouth against his and our bare flesh sliding smoothly and rhythmically together.
I’m not sure whether or not that particular trick works. But I’ve rarely been turned down once I’ve started discussing terms.
Most of the time I’m paid in twenties.
Once I’ve rubbed the money between my fingertips – resisting the urge to smell the musk of those notes that have been passed from hand to hand and used to secure countless transactions before – I’m just about ready to begin. And I say it to myself like a mantra: always get the money up front.
I have to get the money up front because I’m not a slut. I’m a whore.
* * *
2. Always have sex under an assumed name.
‘What do I call you?’
It’s a common enough question. And it’s one to which I always try to avoid giving an honest answer.
‘Call me Magenta.’
‘That’s not your real name.’
‘It’s real enough for the moment, isn’t it?’
My working name is Magenta. If the client presses me to know what my real name is, I tell him it’s Maggie. Usually the client is happy to call me Magenta and he calls me that for the remainder of his time with me. When the client calls me Maggie it seems to let him believe he’s having sex with someone other than the persona I usually play in a stranger’s hotel room.
I don’t mind.
Whatever gives him the satisfaction he craves. If it makes the client consider giving me a tip afterwards then he can call me anything he likes. Whatever it takes to help fulfil his fantasy.
And that’s really what the job is all about.
From the moment the cash is safely stuffed into my purse, I allow myself to be the subject of the client’s fantasy. My smile grows broader. I give in to the thrill of electric excitement that tightens the air. And I start to tease myself out of the clothes I’m wearing.
Sometimes the client expects a striptease.
There are other times when the client is happy for me to screw him whilst I’m fully clothed, with just my skirt hitched up to expose the tops of my stockings and the crotch of my thong wrenched to one side so he can slide his sheathed erection into the wetness of my hole. But most times the client is curiously satisfied to watch me undress whilst he comes to accept that we’re about to fuck.
It’s not an automatic understanding. The client seldom assumes that sex is going to go ahead until I start to unbutton my blouse. And then you can see the lascivious smile of desire flicker in his eyes. He stares appreciatively at Magenta’s body knowing he’s paid for her for the pleasure of her company over the next thirty minutes.
And that thought really does make me wet.
The first time I had sex for money was back in college. There was a guy called Peter and I’d fancied him for an age. From the first day I’d been studying alongside him I’d wanted him. And, even though it would have been the reprehensible behaviour of a slut, I would have happily fucked him for free. More than that, I would have paid him if I’d thought he would have fucked me for the money.
But Peter was a rich college boy with no need for the little money I could have scraped together. He was tall and dark and boyishly good-looking. A wealthy relative had left him an endowment that made him seem like a lottery winner on the campus. And, to my frustration, Peter and I had fallen into the trap of being platonic best friends rather than passionate lovers.
I’d spend study nights round at his apartment and he’d provide pizza and bottles of cheap lager. I kept promising myself that I’d make a move but it never seemed like the right time. It wasn’t until there came a night when we were both amicably drunk that I plucked up the courage to say something bold.
We’d been watching an old movie on TV: Pretty Woman. It’s the film where Julia Roberts plays a whore to Richard Gere’s client. As sex was a main topic throughout the film, I took the opportunity to ask Peter if he’d ever paid for sex.
He laughed. It was a strong sound that made me yearn for him. Swigging from his bottle he said, ‘I’ve never paid for sex. What about you?’
I shook my head. I had expected to catch myself blushing but I seemed beyond embarrassment. ‘Women don’t pay for sex,’ I reminded him. ‘Women are the ones who get paid.’
He considered this and then nodded as though my point made sense. ‘Then I’ll rephrase the question. Have you ever been paid to have sex?’
I studied him levelly. ‘Are you offering?’
He laughed again. This time I saw it was bashful laughter. He clearly sensed we were overstepping the boundaries of our platonic relationship. And, whilst that was something he had been trying to avoid, it was a barrier I was desperate to breach.
‘Are you offering?’ I repeated. ‘I won’t be offended if you try to put a price on the contents of my pants. You never know. It might be more affordable than you think.’
His cheeks were touched by twin spots of colour. It was quite endearing. ‘I couldn’t afford someone as classy as you.’
‘Are you sure? Why don’t you put some notes in my hand and see what happens?’
His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. His eyes shone with a smile that made me desperate for him. And I could see that he was seriously considering my suggestion.
‘Put some notes in my hand,’ I urged, ‘and I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do for that amount of