Sunday, December 30, 2012

Moving on

I can’t believe Christmas is over. Sometimes when I sit around of holiday-decorated table of friends and Cole’s family, I forget about what I do for a living. It’s like a double life I push out of my mind when I’m not in my studio and then it surprises me when I remember—like realizing that you left the stove on once you’ve boarded a plane. Compartmentalizing things isn’t so bad though. That’s what a therapist once told me that it’s called. And I’ve become pretty good at it.

I’ve given my landlord 60 days notice. I only need to give 30, but I figure why not get it out of the way. Plus, it prevents me from backing out. Cole will have already moved into his new house and he claims he wants to have enough time to make a few repairs in the carriage house.

I’m nervous, but excited. I won’t miss this apartment at all: the noise, the island of cracked concrete or the drab interior. The carriage house actually has some greenery, privacy, and little outdoor patio. I’ll have to be sure not to wear out my endearance to Cole and his family.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Four-Hand Erotic Massage with Aubree

I got a call today from and old massage parlor friend, Aubree.

“What’s up, Girlfriend?” she says in a high-pitched, giddy, you-are-my-best-friend voice.

It’s been years since I’ve even spoken to her and we had a little tiff over one of her clients starting to see me. By the time I left, we weren’t even speaking.

She pretends that there’s been no ill feelings between us.

Aubree and I worked at American Dolls about three years ago (and yes, I'm changing the name of the can safely assume all names are changed in this blog). Aubree was there when I first got hired and there were two other girls who worked pretty steadily and then the other occasional girl who worked, got fired, and a new girl was hired.

I had been stripping for a couple years and was tired of the shoes, the smoky atmosphere and it was getting increasingly difficult to find someone to watch my daughter while I worked.

It was an odd transition. I was making the switch to illegal work and initially I worried about being busted with my picture on the front page of the paper, but it quickly became apparent that the house mom, Nancy, had it under control, essentially worked a deal with some of the police, I think. She never discussed but that was the word among the girls.

In some ways, Nancy was more of a mom to me than my own mother, encouraging me to be safe, not take shit from customers, and stay free from drugs. She also gave me a piece of advice: from day one of sex work, you should start saving for retirement because in this world, it comes a whole lot quicker than age 65.

Nancy didn’t share a lot about her life, but I’m guessing she started out as a stripper and like most girls, made the leap into illegal sex work. She had grown children and perhaps had a drinking problem because every time we went out as a group, she ordered a Coke.

One of Nancy’s rules of the parlor, or “spa” as she liked to call it, was that girls didn’t own the clients. The men belonged to the business and Nancy wouldn’t tolerate the girls being territorial. This didn’t stop Aubree who had been there the longest and seemed to feel like she was the house mom, that she made the unwritten rules. She also had no respect for Nancy, referring to her as a hag, as if she wouldn’t be 56 someday. And with all the partying and smoking Aubree did, it would be unlikely if she didn’t look worse than Nancy when she got to that age.

I'm actually glad Aubree has called. Honestly, I had wondered more than once what Aubree had done. She's no longer at the spa, she's been "touring."

For those who don’t know, “touring” is extremely common for sex workers, basically going from town to lucrative town and spending days, weeks or months on one spot. Strip clubs are used to girls that tour and given the flighty nature of strippers, don’t make them commit to a certain amount of nights. Touring also helps capitalize on men’s desire for variety in the sex world. If a new girl is in town and advertises on Backpage, she’ll usually get quite a response, much more clients in a day than if she lived there.

The down side of touring is that it’s lonely and you basically live out of a hotel. Your body also becomes a high-traffic zone. It’s lucrative though and for those who like to party, meeting guys and strippers to party short-term can be thrilling. For Aubree, who has a tendency to get in cat fights, short-term friendships probably are less work.

Touring obviously only works for girls who don’t have children or whose children have been taken away from them.

So Aubree tells me that she want to do four-hands with me. Just like it sounds, four-handed massage just two girls massaging the guy, and is quite popular with some men. It’s that thrill of being with two girls, cooing all over him.

Nancy offered four-hands at the parlor, but obviously working as an independent, it’s impossible for me to offer. In many cases, guys will tip heavily if there is any girl-on-girl action such as kissing, both gentle nibbles or deep French kissing if you were looking for a bigger tip. Even light girl-to-girl touching gets guys steamed up over the notion of a lesbian fantasy.

I always viewed four-hand rubs as a change of pace, and in general, yes the tips were better than a session done alone.

Doing any business with Aubree has the potential of stirring up old and new drama. That’s just how Aubree is, she’s always at odds with someone. However, as I’ve recently learned, I’m a consummate opportunist, so I’ll at least let Aubree give me the sales pitch.

“Why?” I ask, purposefully sounding disinterested. If she wanted me to do this, she was going to have to sell me on it. Though the truth is that it’s always best to keep offering whatever diversity a sex worker can, particularly since touring is not an option for me.

“I’ve had some customers ask me,” she said, dropping the fake cheery sound to her voice and getting a bit more business-like. “And they want a blonde. Just think, we could be the perfect combination: the Anglo-Saxon Goddess and the Exotic Princess.

Aubree has an olive-complexion and Kardashian curves and with her being in sex work, she’s had a few enhancements: boobs, veneers, eyelash extensions, French-manicured tips, whereas the extent of my beauty routine is a little lemon juice in my hair and lying out in the sun. Men love her, as long as they don’t try to be in a relationship with her, and if so, they are fleeing for the hills within a few months.

Admittedly, I’m interested. Even with me signing Jack on as my Sugar daddy. I just can’t afford to turn down income opportunities. I'll let you know how it goes. With all the details.


Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Are Sex Workers Consummate Opportunists?

Today I read that sex workers are consummate opportunists. I can't find the source. I was wandering aimlessly on the Internet looking for good sex worker blogs and found it, which by the way, where have all the hooker blogs gone? Even Otis Papers, which is told from the male perspective, is a mere shell with all posts deleted.

In any case, consummate opportunist, is an interesting description particularly because if you take consummate as a verb instead of the adjective it's meant to be here, then yes we are good at consummating and we get paid for it.

But seriously, consummate opportunist is a fancy word for a person who's a user. Users are the worst. It's the most selfish you can get. It almost implies being unaware of one's selfishness because others realize they are being used. Stripping for example could be considered a job that sharpens one's opportunist radar because each guy is a potential step closer to getting the rent paid. A good stripper, however, does not make a guy feel used after he's spent the night draining his pockets. How do I know? I've never heard a guy complain about feeling used at a strip club.

This blog, article or whatever it is...I'm gonna keep searching for it and if I do find it later, I'll kinda annoyed me because although sex work is what it is, that shouldn't necessarily me us girls are a bunch of users in our regular life. We are salespeople right? If a shoe salesperson tries to peddle a pair of boots on every person that walks into the store, does that make said sales dude an opportunist? Oh, I get it, what the author of that article is claiming is that we can't stop ourselves from selling once we've left our place of business, perhaps that's because our product, our ahem, tits and vaginas, are attached to our bodies, and really our commodity is relatively eternal.

I'll admit that this author made me think and fume just a bit, which is actually uncommon for me because I know what I am. I'm a former stripper, a sex worker, and now that I'll be sleeping with Jack for money, I guess I'm a whore. But, I am not, and I repeat, am not, a user. Cole might be letting me have dirt cheap rent and Jack might be paying me a ridiculous amount of money to be with him, and granted, neither of these men know about each other, but that doesn't mean I'm a consummate opportunist.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Maybe Going Back to School!

Yesterday, Saturday, I helped Cole pick out a sofa for his new place. He wanted me to pick what I liked, so I did: an L-shaped, dark beige (kid and pet friendly!) faux suede couch. The perfect option for a home full of kids, pets, and guests. I’ve never lived anywhere large enough for me to own such a sofa, but Cole’s new place is plenty big enough for it.


Spending so much time with Cole has inspired me to look into a new profession: dental hygiene. I read online somewhere that it’s a growing field, particularly with all those baby-boomers who grew up without fluoride in their water and the average pay is supposedly pretty good, like $60,000, which I don’t expect to make right away, but that’s a great salary for Analise and me. It’s a profession that also doesn’t require a four-year degree, just a two-year associates and there is a college with a dental hygiene program near me. I am currently working on my application, which is an online submission. Money, of course, is a concern and I hope I can get enough financial aid to cover my costs. I have to apply first before I can find out what kinds of loans are available.


This might be the best long-term option for me, even if Cole and I never date. At some point, I won’t be able to do erotic massage any longer.


The few people who know what I do suggest to “start looking for another job.” Unfortunately, my resume is nothing but strip clubs and massage parlors, except for one summer that I worked for a swanky golf course selling beer from a cart and dressed in a manner to encourage tips. I don’t want any future employer to know about my stripping past. And indicating that I’m an independent massage therapist on my resume makes me uncomfortable because it begs the question of a license. However, if I go to school for dental hygiene, I imagine my boss will only be interested in my school performance and there will be no need to explain gaps in employment. This is my plan and for once, I am very excited.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012


“Put on this blindfold,” Cole says to me after we’ve been driving for fifteen minutes. I was lucky enough to find a reliable baby sitter, a sixteen-year-old who lives in the complex, and one of the few who’s actually willing to focus on Analise instead of texting. And as usual, Cole insisted on paying. I usually decline his offer and then find the money shoved in my purse with a sticky note and smiley face.

“You are kidding, right?”

“Just humor me. It’ll just be a few minutes,” he said. “I have a surprise.”

“A surprise in the suburbs?”

“Put it on,” he says with a laugh and then pulls over. “I’m not going any further until you put it on. What’s the matter, don’t you trust me?”

I give him an “oh please” expression and put on the yellow bandanna.

“Do you wear this with sweatbands when you go to your step aerobics class?” I ask.

“Ha ha, quit stalling.” He puts his hand in the dip of my shoulder next to my neck and squeezes, releasing just a bit of tension.

“Ok, fine, but this better not be a Tom Cruise thing,” I say, resisting the urge to put on the blindfold in such a way as to allow a one-eye peephole.

Within minutes, the car stops and I feel Cole’s hands around my waist as he unlocks my seat belt.

“Stay tight and I’ll get your door.” Cole and I had plans to go to Japanese restaurant. Sushi is my weakness and a rare treat. He was definitely taking the long way to get there.

I hear the door open and slide my hand into his reminding me of an eighteenth-century gesture where the man rushes to open the door of the carriage for his lady.

“There’s a step up,” he says as I pause for his directions and feel the height of the curb with my foot. With the blindfold on, I am keenly aware of his warmth and smell. An inhale within inches of him gives the scent of chopping among evergreens.

He puts his arm around me as I feel like I’m walking on a flagstone path.

“We’re almost there,” he says as he removes his touch and I hear the jingle of keys in his pocket. I feel suddenly cold

He tries what sounds like one key, and then another, and gives the door some shimming as if it’s either a new key or an old door.

“Step inside,” he says.

“Can I take the blindfold off?”

“Just a couple more steps. I want you to be all the way in.” He pulls me into a room that sounds echoey and smells closed up. And then lifts my blindfold.

I look around and I’m in an empty room with floor-to-vaulted-ceiling windows that look out onto tall trees. Though currently leafless, it gives one a secluded feel.

“Do you like it?”

“Cole, I love it. Is it your’s?” I turn to him and see him looking around as if imagining his plans to remodel.

“Yes, well, not yet. Not exactly. I’m closing on Friday. I’m actually not supposed to even be in here, but it’s a foreclosure so I figured no one would mine.”

I walked around the living room and imagined all of Cole’s things in there making it homey. There was even a fireplace with a mantle.

“You’ll be able to hang Christmas stockings on an actual mantle,” I said.

“Yes, one lonely stocking,” he said with a laugh.

“Not true, I’ve seen Colby’s stocking.” Colby is Cole’s spoiled rotten Lab mix, rescued from the pound, of course.

I did a mini-pirouette to face the open kitchen. “I didn’t even know you were this close to buying, you didn’t say anything about this place when we had coffee.”

“It just came on the market last week. It’s a foreclosure and my Realtor recommended acting quickly.”

I couldn’t help but open the cabinets even though I new there was nothing in there.

“It’s in great condition for a foreclosure.”

“I’m going to remodel the kitchen, replace the oak cabinets,” he said with hands on hips and with a familiar look of concentration.

I couldn’t believe I was standing in a house was Cole’s, almost. This was a grown-ups house, not someone my age, but that’s Cole for you, always working hard, achieving goals and oblivious to all the women that would love to be a part of his life. In a year, I’m guessing he’ll have the kitchen as well as a bathroom remodeled.

“I have a question, a favor, to ask of you.” I like to do favors for people but whenever a person has to prep me first, I get nervous. It’s a statement I hear frequently from clients, typical favors are: take off my panties, let them suck my nipples, dirty talk, and others, not that I thought Cole was going to ask such a thing, but it’s an automatic reaction I have these days: my thighs automatically clench together when I’m asked about doing favors.

“I know how to do the remodel, but I need some help with decorating. A woman’s touch.”

“I’d be happy to help.” He looked somewhat relieved at my response.
I'm excited for Cole and flattered that he wanted to show me his home. It's times like these that I feel like we're a couple. It's even possible to forget that we're just friends. Hopefully, some day, because I can't imagine anything better than living in this house with Cole and Colby.


Saturday, December 1, 2012

Maybe Moving Out of My Apartment

I spent Thanksgiving with Cole, his sister, and his parents.Cole has the kind of family I wish I could provide for my daughter and seeing her with them makes me both happy and ashamed. Analise is a natural extrovert and she basks in the attention from Cole’s family. Part of me feels that is makes it more apparent how my situation falls short and I also worry that a falling-out between Cole and I would take this, yet another disappointment, away from her. At times, I also think that this would likely be a typical Thanksgiving for me if Cole and I were together.

My big news however is that Cole offered for me to move into his parents' carriage house, which is where he is currently living. He's house hunting right now and hopes to be out of there right around the time that I would be renewing my lease. Initially, I told him I certainly couldn't take his offer, but he was insistent, claiming it was his parents' idea. He's done quite a bit of renovation since I last say it. He showed me around when I was there on Thanksgiving and I have to say, it's a huge improvement over my current place, as well as ridiculously low rent. It's tempting, but it also makes things a bit more complicated between Cole and I. He works for his dad, so it's not like he'd ever be stopping by. I told him I'd think about it, but I have to admit, it's an irresistible (and incredibly generous) offer.

Monday, November 19, 2012

Feeling the Burn

I’m think I’m getting burned out. I know I say I love erotic massage, but there are some days that I think I just can’t do it any longer. Like when I get a call from a less than desirable client.

Today was such a day and I am still staring at my phone trying to determine if I should return his call or permanently block his number. On Google Voice, blocking is easy and permanent with one click. The caller merely receives a message, “This number is no longer in service.” It’s the perfect solution for non-confrontational types such as myself. I feel badly when I hit the “block caller” tab, but often it’s a relief. For most people I block, it’s an easy decision: no shows (officially known in the hooker world as NC/NS—no call, no show), guys who can’t keep fingers out of my underpants, or other oddities. I also block people who sound drunk when they call or ask what size my breasts are over the phone.

And then there are the guys who I’m very hesitant to block. They show up, they are nice, but there is something that makes me cringe when they call. In today’s case, it was the guy who likes a finger shoved up his ass. Way up there. Even with a glove, this is a disconcerting maneuver, and also appetite-suppressing. From the minute he walks in the door until he comes, he wants his butt plugged, by my gloved finger, actually his preference is ungloved and the more fingers the better. As I’ve mentioned, his wife wants nothing to do with satisfying this quirk. Perhaps it makes her feel a little uneasy that her husband clearly wants a very large penis in his ass. I do feel for him though and have continued to see him.

On the plus side, Dale is a very pleasant, outgoing, and good-looking. But a couple things bother me: he’s a non-tipper and has made repeated offers to serve as a “married boyfriend.”

This might seem odd, but it feels disrespectful to me, on both accounts. Many erotic masseuses charge more for any butt play and I think most patrons are aware of this. Dale has mentioned other experiences so I know I’m not his first. He never brought up the insertion issue until I had already begun his massage and his wallet was in a heap of clothes on the floor. I obliged, thinking that he’d tip. Nothing. And if a guy doesn’t tip the first time, he’ll definitely never tip again.

And then the second time he booked, he made his “married-boyfriend” offer, which sounds like something a very stupid girl would do, giving up her pay for what? He made it seem as though it would be so fun. I wouldn’t have to worry about it “getting too serious.” My response was simply a smile, and yet he now brings it up at least once at every session: an offer to play with his ass for free. Now that I write this, I just made my decision. I’ll have to let a few clients go to keep my sanity, even if it is the week of Thanksgiving and I need to make up for lost work.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Pre-Holiday Special

Thanksgiving Break is almost here and Analise will be out of school for six solid days. I I’d love to take a vacation and actually go somewhere, but as I look at the balance in my checkbook, I realize it’s not in this year’s budget. I’m hoping to take her to San Diego by Spring Break. Despite the fact that I live in California, I haven’t seen much of it, and now it’s more important to me that at least Analise is more well-traveled than me.

As a source of motivation, I have a couple photos of places I’d like to take my daughter: of course San Diego is one and the other is the Dominican Republic. I keep them in my studio so that I can look at them while my mind is wandering while massaging my client. I look at them now, and feel my mood lift.

Even though I can’t afford to go to a tropical location, I’m looking forward to taking a break from work and spending time with Cole. And Analise is beyond excited about going to Cole’s parents’ house. And I will vow to take my mind off Jared and my legal problems.

Despite the fact that most people would rather die than do what I do, I still feel like I have a lot to be grateful for. I’m managed to stay current and even a little ahead of bills, which is a far cry from where my mom is. She’s always having her cable turned off or cell phone disconnected. She claims it’s “not fair” for one reason or another. Growing up, she found some sort of loophole where utilities couldn’t be turned off for non-payment if children were in the home. It seemed foolish to in she’d have to pay at some point, but in her mind it was the logical thing to do.

I try to work extra before the holidays to make up for the lost income. I generally offer specials to boost business. Sometimes a $20 discount helps, but often I find that offering fully nude for an additional $10 is what really pulls them in. I hate doing fully nude rubs. It’s where’s I have the majority of my problems and I only offer it as a last resort. I have a client who comes to see me occasionally, but as soon as I advertise the nude option, he books in an instant.
And so that's my plan for Monday and Tuesday of next week. I'll let you know how it goes.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Cash Money

Last week, I made $660 in one day from four clients. In cash. I might never stop doing this. In the morning I was fretting about money and by 7 p.m., I was able to pay the remainder of my beginning-of-the-month bills.

I charge $140/hour, which is basically the going rate in my town, just a smidge more than the non-English speaking trafficked girls. I have dropped my price before, but never noticed much of a difference in business so $140 is the perfect price point. About half of guys tip, usually $20. But Joe was different. He laid down a $100 tip at the end of the session.

Joe was from out of town on business—a common source of clientele and needed an evening appointment. Analise was having a playdate so I was able to work until they brought her home at 7:30 and Joe booked for 6.

Joe was on the young side for a client, mid-thirties at most and had a slight wide-eyed expression when I greeted him. I wasn’t sure if this was because I wasn’t what he expected (too small? too brunette? too unsexy?) or simply just his way of being. Whenever I have a new client I always worry that the person might be an undercover cop. I’m more anxious than ever now that Jared and I are fighting for custody. Being charged with prostitution would certainly not bode well in custodial proceedings. And apparently hand jobs fall under the prostitution laws, or so I’ve been told.

I try to feel a guy out, so to speak, when they are new, and therefore potentially vice. The thing that makes me most nervous is when the guy doesn’t talk much. It’s probably just nerves, but it’s contagious, and my runaway thoughts make me question if he’ll let me put my clothes back on before he handcuffs me. Will I have to stay the night on one of those bedbug-ridden cots? Who will I call to bail me out? Probably Robert since he doesn’t have a wife.

All this thinking was going on while Joe was facedown and I was straddling his legs, rubbing his back while allowing my body to glide against his. The more turned on a guy audibly appears, the less I think I might be arrested. It’s likely an erroneous assumption, but I figure a cop can’t enjoy a sting. Joe was a non-talker, non-muttering though, as least when he was facedown.

Once he flipped over, he seemed more relaxed, yet still internal. I don’t expect clients to talk to me. It’s their hour.

I slid my body against his lean and toned front finally forcing a murmur from him. I finished him and he put his clothes on quickly, not lingering on the massage table like most do.

“How much do I owe you?”


He smiled and left, leaving his huge tip. Definitely not a cop. And I need not to be so paranoid. And I hope to see him again.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Thanksgiving with ?

My mother has decided that she’s not going to celebrate Thanksgiving. She claims she’s been doing the cooking and cleaning for years and she’s taking a break. Period. End of Discussion.

My mother and I have very different memories of Thanksgiving. I recall my grandmother doing the bulk of the cooking, particularly because we lived with Nana until I was thirteen. Nana passed away from breast cancer when I was twenty-one, when my daughter was only three, too young to have any memories of such a wonderful woman.

I’d offer to have Thanksgiving at my apartment, but the thought is claustrophobic. I only have four chairs, which is not a big deal, but I don’t have room for anything more than five. And this is how Cole came to my rescue once again.

He invited me to his parents house for the holiday.

I adore Cole’s parents, Ted and Sandy. They’ve been married thirty years. I don’t see Ted as the kind of husband that would want to—or rather need to—come see a girl like me. From what I’ve observed, Ted and Sandy have a tangible attraction, as well as friendship and perhaps more importantly the unified front of raising two happy and productive children to adulthood.

Cole also informed me that his Hillary, his sister, will be there.

Hillary is a stunning blonde who moved to Los Angeles to be a photographer. She has an agent and everything, and lives with other young, model-actor types. Although she could easily be intimidating because of her looks, successful job and non-traditional ways, she always brings a sisterly love to our interactions and invigorates any family get-together.

“Well I definitely want to go then.”

“Good, because she says she’s not flying all that way if she doesn’t get to see Analise.”

Cole has the kind of family I wish I could provide for my daughter and seeing her with them makes me both happy and ashamed. Analise is a natural extrovert and she basks in the attention from Cole’s family. Part of me feels that is makes it more apparent how my situation falls short and I also worry that a falling-out between Cole and I would take this, yet another disappointment, away from her. But I realize we really have nowhere else to go and what’s Thanksgiving if it’s just the same meal at our apartment.

Cole seems relieved I agreed to go and mentions how excited his parents, particularly his mother will be. Every time we go to his parents’ house, Sandy buys a little something for Analise, as if she’s her own granddaughter. I also realize how much more Cole has to offer a future spouse than I can.

“How are things at your apartment?” Cole asks.

“Fine, why.”

He shrugs as we walk towards a section of couches.

“You aren’t going to renew your lease, are you?”

“I might have to. At least another year.”

Cole worries about where I live. I can tell he doesn’t want to insult me by indicating I’m living in a dump, but he has concerns over the goings on in the complex. And he doesn’t need to even hint that it’s not the best place for a child.

Cole is currently living at his parents place while he saves up to buy a house. He doesn’t actually live in the same house as his parents; he lives in the guesthouse, which is a little rustic, somewhat of a sophisticated barn with plumbing.

“Why don’t you consider moving into the guesthouse?”

“With you?” I ask.

He raises one eyebrow and laughs. “If you want, yes, but I was thinking after I buy a house. My parents don’t even use it.” He pauses to see my reaction and then continues with what seems rehearsed. “I know the place isn’t much, but if you want to live there, I can remodel the bathroom and do a few other things. It would be free.”

I really didn’t see this coming.

“This is really generous. I don’t know,” I say, looking into my lap and twisting my napkin until tiny pieces tear.

“You haven’t been there in a while, but it already looks much better.”

“No longer a fancy barn?” I ask.


How did I ever get so lucky as to deserve a guy like Cole?

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Robert, Potential Sugar Daddy #2

Right before an appointment with Robert, I always lather my nipples with Oragel. Robert is a nipple plucker and his sixty-something fingertips are drawn to them immediately as we begin a session. I’ve been told repeatedly that I have luscious nipples, they are supple, and bright pink. I never knew this about myself until I started stripping and I started getting compliments about my nipples, often my breasts as well, but the nipples were where the men focused praise. Maybe not all men care about nipples, but Robert certainly does and rather than diminish his pleasure by moving his hand away, I opted for a numbing cream.

I love my nipples being touched when I’m turned on, particularly licked, but when I’m not turned on, well, that’s an equally opposing reaction.

I can’t take credit for the Orajel idea, I got that one off the Stripper Web forum, where other girls complained of the same thing and another offered the numbing cream idea.

Nipple-plucking notwithstanding, I love Robert. I really do. He’s had an exciting life and has a good read on people, particularly me. In a somewhat unsettling way, he’s like the dad I never had. Since I’ve never really had a father in my life, it’s hard for me to even think of what that relationship would be like, and obviously it wouldn’t be what Robert had in mind, but there are some looking-out-for-me things he does. Robert has clued me in on a few financial matters such as Roth IRAs and all that other boring, yet necessary, stuff. I take his advice every time, even though I’ve never even heard of an IRA until he came along. Maybe I shouldn’t trust him so implicitly, but I sense his concern is genuine.

My time with Robert is always pleasurable, but it’s not the same as with Jack, who I have a tangible something-something with. Maybe it’s just that there is too much of an age difference with Robert, he’s in his mid-sixties I have surmised, quasi-retired, and looks every bit his age. His hands are liver-spotted and wrinkly with the kind of nail thickness that comes from acrylics or age. I have made a conscious effort not to look down when his hand is on my breast—that flesh against my own never-seen-the-sun skin is a jarring contrast and always brings me back to what I am: a woman for hire. And frankly, I don’t want that reminder.

So when I get to the end with Robert, his release specifically, I look at him and smile. I can’t muster dirty talk and usually he spares me the need to say anything by closing his eyes while I massage his genitals. In a weird way, I feel good that I'm doing this for him. Robert is a widower and I don't get the impression he's much for the dating scene. I believe he always pictured himself as married. For him, some of the finer details of sexiness have been skipped, such as toe-nail clipping or pubic hair trimming, but that's just him and I accept it.
Robert has let me know on more than one occasion that he is willing to exchange a direct deposit subsidy for a relationship. He's realistic about the arrangement and I've always responded as "I'll let you know," if I ever decided to go that way.The thing about Robert that makes the deal a bit more enticing is that he does not possess an erect penis. He can have an orgasm and even ejaculate, but it's never stiff enough for penetration (or so I assume, I've never tried). Before I became an erotic masseuse, I never knew this scenario was plausible (non-erect and still producing), yet I've seen it from other older guys. It's usually an issue of medications, specifically blood pressure. Quite a few of these men have said that Viagra just gives them an enormous headache and what good is an orgasm if you have a raging migraine? In short, a Sugar Daddy relationship will Robert would probably involve messing around, but not sex, maybe toys. I don't know but somehow I figure it's a whore loophole that's enticing.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Dinner with Jack

I’ve had the luxury of having dinner with Jack before. To recap, Jack is a once-a-week regular who has been coming to see me for the past year. That’s a lot of sessions. And Jack respects my boundaries. He happens to be in his mid-fifties or so and married to a woman who has no interest in sex.

Jack has wonderful taste in food and let’s me pick wherever I what, “Get whatever you want,” he always says and once I made a selection, he always chides me to get the biggest size or an appetizer. These extras are the type of thing I’d never allow myself to consider, particularly growing up. An appetizer to me has always been the small snack you eat before a fancy meal so you can order something cheaper, but with Jack he acts so carefree like it’s not going to matter one iota to him; it won’t cut into his spending money or be a sad, sorry surprise when he gets his credit card bill. It took me a few times to eventually indulge Jack in picking something of what I actually wanted, not what I thought he’d want me to pick, because he was paying.

The only bad thing about meeting up with Jack for dinner is that he tends to get there early. I try not to be late when meeting anyone, particularly clients, but I’ve noticed with Jack that even when I show up five minutes early, he’s always there, looking up at me and smiling, relaxed as if he owns the place.

Jack is all grace, which might seem like a strange thing to say about a guy, but trust me, if you saw him in action, you’d know what I’m talking about. He’s the kinds of guy that could get a flat on his Lexus, change the tire swiftly, coolly and competently and manage nary a drop of dirt on his freshly-laundered, crisp dress shirt. I’m fairly certain that he’s never left his zipper undone (and trust me, I’ve seen plenty of my clients leave in a daze and neglect that area) or trip on a slightly upturned sidewalk edge. And then there is me. Which is why I hate crossing a room with Jack looking at me. It’s feels like moving through water. I’ll tell the hostess that I’m meeting someone and she’ll smile as if Jack has told her lovely things about me and then point in his direction. At which point his Alexa-radar triggers and he looks up, smiles, and I immediately feel as if the entire restaurant is looking at me. I’ve been told I’m paranoid, btw. I smile back and move through the room, skirting around tables and people in a haphazard, twister sort-of-way.
“Hey Beautiful,” he says as he pulls the table out with one smooth gesture, allowing more room for me to squeeze behind and sit down. He puts down his phone and gives me his full attention.
“It’s been a long time,” he says.
It’s been two weeks.
“I figured you were away when I didn’t hear from you last week.”
“Oil convention,” he says.
Jack sells some sort of equipment to oil companies, a process called fracking, and it has worked out well for him. He's self-employed (like me) and the thing I love about him is that he is entirely self-made. He never went to college and yet he's making a very good living (what I am striving for), despite the fact that he never went to college.
I won't bore you with our whole entire dinner talk, but I told him I was interested in his Sugar Daddy proposal and he was excited that I was interested. And surprised. He suggested that I think about exactly what I had in mine and he'd think about what he wanted. And then meet again to iron out the details.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Man At My Door: Part II

(Part I is the previous post)
Although I had the heat turned way down, I felt myself get hot and my voice climbed as I continued to answer the operator’s questions.

“Does he appear to have any weapons?”

“I don’t think so. It sounds like he’s going to the back door,” I said as I ran to the back of the apartment to double-check the lock. “I really need help. He’s trying to turn the door knob” My daughter watched me with big eyes and I attempted a false smile to ease her worry. She knows me well though, and reciprocated a weak, mirthless smile. It’s times like this that I wish I had a husband or at least a boyfriend. Specifically, I’d love to have Cole. He’s have that creep in a stranglehold in two seconds or some other maneuver he learned as an Army Ranger.

The operator repeatedly assured me that someone was on the way and to stay on the line with him.

“Police have made contact with him,” the operator told me. “He’s in a car out front.”

“Who is he? Isn’t this illegal?” I asked. “Trying to turn someone’s door knob? Sticking his hand through my mail slot?”

“They’ll explain that to you when they come to the door.”

Two officers approach and I opened the door before they had a chance to knock.

A process server, that’s who it was.

“Are you going through a divorce?” one of the cops asked. He was attractive and mild-mannered and I couldn’t help but look at his ring finger and noticed his wedding band. I felt a tiny bit jealous of his wife.

“I’m having custody issues,” I said, still shaking a little bit. It never occurred to me that a process server could get that aggressive. And Jared had not given me any sort of heads up that I would be served. Jared was never really one to let you know what he was up to.

“Process servers can be really pushy,” the officer said with a wince, “And this one definitely seems to be that.”

The officer said he didn’t blame me for not wanting to open the door and said the server is obviously not able to enter the house, but again, they can be really pushy because they only get paid if they actually serve me.

“He could do it during the day,” I offered.

The police left, telling me that they suggest that the server contact me during office hours. I sensed that didn’t have much control over him. How was it okay for him to practically bang my door down.

A few minutes later, the server was back at the front door. “You’ve been served by posting,” he said, as he shouted through the door. Why didn’t he just do that in the first place? “Have a good evening,” he said as I heard him stomp down the stairs.

After about fifteen minutes, I opened the door pulled the papers from the door, which were taped on with hot pink and black animal-print tape, something Snooki would use.

It was a request to submit a DNA sample. Me and my daughter. I was somewhat relieved, because I realized that paternity would have to be established first, buying me a little time. At least it wasn’t a summons to appear in court. I still don’t have a lawyer and, more importantly, I don’t have $3,000 for the retainer.

After I read my daughter a story and put her to bed, I sent a text to Jack, my 50-something potential Sugar daddy, “Want to meet for dinner?”
His answer was nearly immediate, “Of course Sweetheart, what’s up?”

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

A Man At My Door

Lately I’ve been fantasizing about going far away to some place like the Dominican Republic (I hear the people are friendly) or Jamaica (the waterfalls and caves are supposedly breath-taking). Not with a sugardaddy, just me and my daughter. Get away from California and forget that anything in the United States exists. I still have not made my decision about which SugarDaddy to pick and most days I think I can manage just with body rubs. but most times I believe I’m just procrastinating. I need the money and I’m stressed.

Last night, right after dinner and my daughter’s bath, I heard my doorbell ring. The doorbell is just about the only thing that works smoothly in this place. As a rule, I don’t answer the door after dark. It’s election time so I assumed it was an over-zealous volunteer. Then I heard two loud, and RUDE, if you will, wraps on my door. This individual had to open the screen door to knock on my wood door, allowing the screen to slam, sounding only slightly louder than his two other knocks. My daughter immediately jumped up and ran over to the window and pulled back the curtain.

“He looks nice, let’s let him in,” she said, dressed in her Halloween pajamas.

“Go sit down,” I insisted, using my furious face to show her I meant business. I had gone over the “no talking to strangers” talk a million times, and yet she always forgot once she saw a new face.

I stood on my tiptoes and looked through the peephole, perhaps the only saving grace of this crappy apartment. He looked older, with a gray combover. Often people come to my door instead of the apartment below, but those girls were young and I doubt this was a potential suitor. Did this person know me? I couldn’t make his attire with the fishbowl effect of the peephole, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform of sorts or appear to be carrying a pizza.

“What did he do when you looked at him?” I asked my daughter more gently.

“He waved at me. And he had a clipboard.”

I had no idea who this could be.

And then he began ringing my doorbell repeatedly. Was he trying to break in?

I have a fear of this sort of thing, partly because of what I do for a living. I often don’t give men what they want or sometimes I do, which can lead to persistent and unwanted guests if they find out where you live. I’ve never had stalker problems, but I know plenty of strippers who have.

And the idea of putting my daughter in danger from my choices makes me nauseated. I grabbed the phone and called 911, hoping that this wasn’t a former client who would expose me. But why would he be carrying a clipboard? Although he did fit the demographic of eighty percent of my clientele.

“What is your emergency?”

“There appears to be someone trying to break into my house.”

And then I heard a loud crash outside. Was he trying to climb a tree? Get on the roof and fell off?

To Be Continued.... (sorry, but I have to go.)

Sunday, October 7, 2012

My Sponsor

I love the very beginning of Fall: cool temps and frosty leaves, but this weekend Winter rushed in too quickly turning the hardwood floor of my apartment into something not worthy of bare feet. I asked Cole to take out my window ac units (one in my daughters room and the other in the living room), which is quite a feat considering I live on an upper level and those things are heavy as a chevy. I hate acting like the helpless female, but I have no idea what I'd do without Cole. And he expects nothing from me, not even a "friends with benefits" thing. It's somewhat ironic that the only guy I actually do want to be intimate with, is the only one who never asks for it.

"How's business?" he asked, as he pulled the ladder out from the bed of his truck.

"Good." I hate when he asks about my "massage business." I'm always tight-lipped, hoping to get off the subject quickly. And knowing me the way that he does, he picks up on this.

He pauses, ladder still in hand. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, it's fine." He thinks I'm not making enough. He worries.

"Because if you need it, you know you can always..."

I put up a hand before he finishes. He's always offering money, but I just can't take it. I'd rather find a SugarDaddy. And honestly, I think it's come to that. Body rubs are great money, but some days it's hit or miss. I've considered going back to stripping but I'm a little off my game and somehow going back to the club feels like backtracking. And who would I get to watch my daughter late at night? In the old days of stripping, I had a live-in boyfriend who handled that. Getting a boyfriend just so that I can go back to stripping doesn't seem very honest. So I'm now seriously considering the SugarDaddy thing, which at least is an up-front transaction: my time and body for your monthly money. One of the more clearly defined relationships in my life. I have two options I'm considering: one is a well-groomed, spiffy, 50-something married man and the other is a 60-something, even wealthier widower who LOVES a woman's body but I know from our sessions that he can't get it up. Not even with pills. So there you have it. I'm a list maker so I've drawn up columns of pros and cons. I'm let it marinate but it looks like I have no other option that to take the plunge so that I can get that $3000 retainer for a family law attorney.   

Thursday, October 4, 2012

The Slippery Slope

When I first started stripping, I swore I'd never let a guy touch my breasts for money, let alone touch him. I was eighteen when I started out and I saw how jaded the girls in their late-twenties were: They'd do anything for money. I once walked in on a veteran stripper giving an white-haired man a blow job in the VIP room.

"Don't go there," I always told myself. It's a slippery slope.

Given that, I'm weighing my options with my new money crisis: getting $3,000 for a family law attorney, as well as funds to get my daughter in after-school care so I can work more hours. My mother tells me that I should just skip the lawyer and defend myself, but the idea of losing custody of my daughter drives me crazy.

"You worry too much," my mother says as she tips back her cocktail and resumes watching the Home Shopping Network.

Maybe I don't have anything to worry about because Jared wasn't around for 90 percent of our child's upbringing, but now that he's clean and sober, married, and gainfully employed (auto mechanic), he thinks he can provide a more stable home. The scary part is that he lives in Michigan and me in Cali, so any amount of custody will take her away from me. Honestly, if I lost custody, I'd move to Michigan to be with her, but that's the last thing I'd like to think about.

I've so overwhelmed that I'm feeling desperate, admittedly. It's the whole "don't go shopping when you are hungry," thing. But the only way I can stop being "hungry", money-hungry that is, is to have more money. And I have a couple clients who have offered to ease that burden.

One option is to go full service for some of my preferred clients. These are guys that I've seen repeatedly and I've gotten along with well in sessions. I generally get offered $300 for full service and honestly some of them I find quite attractive. The other option is a the monthly-stipend to be a client's girlfriend, although I think honestly mistress would a more fit description. There would be sex, but also dinner and possibly vacations. Dinner and vacations sounds lovely, but it's also more a time commitment, which means finding someone to watch my daughter. I'm not sure what I'll do, but I'm giving it some thought.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Skipping the 9th Step

It's been a while. Where did the summer go? I've been busy as hell scrambling to both make more money and find affordable after-school care. I used to love picking up my daughter at 3:30 when school let out, but now I need to earn more due to my mounting legal bills. My daughter's father, Jared, has decided to step back into her life. Apparently he's found Jesus or some shit after he leap-frogged his way through a 12-step program. I think he must have skipped step 9 because I don't recall getting a phone call asking forgiveness. Instead I was sent legal papers from his attorney in the beginning of August.

Legal stuff always scares me. I don't understand what's written and what to do. I called Legal Services, who informed me that they couldn't help. I hear that a lot. Particularly from my mother these days, who told me that she could no longer babysit for me.

"I'm done raising kids. No more babysitting for me."

I like the way she calls it babysitting when it's her own grand-daughter. The thing I loved about my mother's "babysitting" was that it was FREE and that she good about letting me drop off my on short notice, which is how most of my clients book. These are busy men and when they have an unaccountable hour, they often call me. I usually don't have time to find a babysitter if they want to see me within the next hour or two.

So, the combo of needing more money and my mother bailing on me has been stressful. You'd think I should be able to make enough at $140 per session, but it seems to be one thing after the other and the lawyer's retainer alone is $3000. That's quite a few handjobs. I need to get creative.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Backpage versus Craigslist

I advertise on Backpage primarily, which works well. A few months ago, I thought I'd give Craigslist a try. And I have been amazed at how much business it's generated. There are a couple extra complexities, however, mostly that my Craigslist ad has to be much more subtle than my Backpage ad, which requires men to do more interpretation. It's amazing all the bitching women do about men being clueless....not remembering birthdays, forgetting important signficant other details,and yet when it comes to decoding a body rub girl's Craigslist ad (benighly posted under the therapeutic section, ahem, as if a legit massage), they have the cunning wherewithal of a CIA agent. There are exceptions however. There are newbies. And my ad seems to confuse them and their questions confuse me, as to what they had in mind, that I'm left bewildered. I'll admit it, even so curious as to break my rules and have a very mince-no-words Q & A. Which was the case with Curtis.

To clarify, my Craigslist ad is extremely censored. There are a LOT of words that will get your ad rejected. It would probably make sense to actually read the terms and conditions, but shit, who has time for that? Instead, I just try to get as close to the forbidden as possible. Which has led to a lot of trial error. What I have learned: all photos must show me buttoned up, with a face shot (of course I won't show my face so I generally choose a photo from the web of a girl who looks vaguely like me: green eyes, blonde hair.), no mention of Full, Body, scented, desire, escort, BP, reviews, etc. This issue of a fake photo is new territory for me. All my BP ads are me, but I don't show my face. This fake photo stuff also requires guys to read between the lines. I don't want anyone showing up and getting pissed that it's not me. Amazingly, I have found that most men recognize that I'm just trying to advertise an idea of me...Caucasian, smiling, young, and cute. The closest thing I can do to communicating that it's a happy ending massage is the price ($140/hr) and mention that a shower is available (have you ever showered after a legit massage? Me neither.)

Believe it or not, some men have never heard of Backpage, so Craigslist drums up some new and financially solvent customers. Somethimes the Craigslisters will ask, "Why is it so much?"

"Because I'm topless." Not illegal, by the way.

Often they will get the picture, but sometimes not. And then there was Curtis, who I had no idea what he was wanting.

My ad states NO TEXTS (texters usually are no-shows) and so I received this text from Curtis:

"I know you said no texting and I apologize! I am new in town, well educated, divorced and meeting a regular meet up! I like your pics! Can we set up a meeting at 4 today?"

Meeting? This text sounds like a date, which is a whole different service than what I offer.Or maybe not, and I hate to turn away business.

"I only schedule via phone." This statement usually prompts silence from the sender, even though they are clearly in close proximity to their phone. Surprisingly, Curtis called. He sounded sweet, normal, a tad nervous as if I was a girl he met at a bar the night before. He asked for a face pic and I responded that I didn't send those.

"I don't want a massage," he said.

"I'm not an escort," I responded.

"I don't want an escort."

He paused, asked some more questions and then quickly said he had misinterpreted my ad, apolgized for wasting my time and before I had a chance to respond, he was off the phone.

I then got a flurry of texts from him, apologies and then this one: "I don't understand then? Why the sexy pics? I am not a cop!! Just a biz guy looking for a quality, affordable companionship."

Could he be a hand job and dinner guy?  I do that. I like that.

I responded that I offer a body rub for $140/hr. He responded again that he didn't want a massage, an escort or "body wrap," but again reiterated that he wanted "other" and could I help?.

Um, what else is there?

"I want this to be a regular thing," he wrote.

Regular things are good for business. But what the hell is he talking about? I asked via text.

"Just a companion to meet my needs...I am single."

I'm still thinking, perhaps he's worth a try. I've mentioned before no sex. We'll see what happens.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Cole's Referral

As you may recall from an earlier post, Cole is my best friend, a guy in fact that I'm in love with. Cole and I have never had the best timing. When he's been single, I've been dating. When I've been single, he was in the army. We met when I was dating Hank. And Hank and Cole were roommates. Hank was a bit of a dud as a boyfriend, choosing to go to bed at 10:30 ritually, even on a Saturday night and I'd stay up to watch movies with Cole. Eventually we skipped the movies and decided to talk. I couldn't figure out how a guy like Cole was single.

He is handsome, intelligent, caring, and is amazing with my daughter. Having a child so young, most guys don't have any idea how to interact with her. Not Cole. He treats her better than I could ever hope for with her real dad.

Cole now works for his father, who owns a construction company. Business was lean right before Cole left for Iraq, but now the company is back on track, which was perfect timing for when Cole got back.  Somehow he always knew he wanted to take over his father's business, and him and his father, Ted, have always managed to get along well. I envy that. Both the getting along and knowning what you want to do. I've never known. I still don't. Although I'm an erotic masseuse, I sense I can't keep doing this forever, at least not when I'm old, or even 45, I imagine. Some days with my post-baby body I feel like I'm pushing it, but it's my clients that seem to have more confidence in my body than me. But in any case, the whole point of this entry is that I have this jam I find myself in occasionally: getting a "massage" referral. I'm not a legit certified massage therapist, even though I tell everyone I am. So it completely freaks me out when I have to fake a massage. As odd as it may sound, I'm more at ease, getting naked and giving a guy a hand job. I've been doing it for years, with no complaints.

So the other day, Cole asked me how business was.


"Would you like to be busier?" he asked.

"Of course," I said, which was the truth. My business is great, but I'd love to add a few more clients. At $140 per hour, who wouldn't?

Cole told me that his Aunt's friend was looking for a massage therapist. Shit. Not only do I have to fake a real massage, but it's a woman, which seems very foreign to me.

At the heart of the matter, I feel badly. I respect the field of massage therapy and here this person, this Aunt, will expecting someone who has gone through upteen hours of training. It's times like this that I feel most rotten.

I've actually thought about getting a massage license, but when I looked into the requirements and what the massage schools charge for a one-year program (roughly $15,000), it just wasn't worth it. I told Cole I got my license while he was overseas and my mother doesn't take enough interest in my life to notice that I seemed to have jumped into massage therapy overnight.

So I have no choice but to take on Cole's Aunt's friend. I guess I'll go to the library and get a few books out on massage.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

A Gift for William

Tomorrow is Friday and I will be visiting my brother William. William is my big brother of only 2 years. And unfortunately he's in a mental institution, of sorts. My mother likes to think of him as just "away" or "recouping" but it's been six years with no improvements, so I'd say this is where its at.

They say William has schizophrenia. My mother says the whole thing is hogwash and it's the medications that make William crazy, but I saw changes in William long before my mother was willing to admit it. William's once-clean apartment turned into a hovel that would have made even a hoarder cringe. And then there were the conspiracies. At first, I just thought he was taking after my mother thinking that everyone was out to get him and there was a reason behind a reason as to why he needed to pay this bill or not park his car there. But then his explanations, paranoias, if you will, became more elaborate. And then there was that tiny problem of him needing to take it public, like out in the street, which did not go over well with his neighbors, or his boss, until he found himself without his job at the car wash and out on the streets.

It wasn't until he was living in his car that my mother decided to step in. She believes in tough love and was convinced that the lower William sank, the closer he was to pulling himself up from his bootstraps. I disagreed. Which I don't do too often, particularly to my mother.

Unlike my mother, I don't dread my visits to William. He is always happy to see me and we manage to have things to talk about. Sure, there is a bit of sadness to see that this is the extent of his life: he'll be lucky if he makes it as far as an assisted living facility. And he shares a room with an elderly man who chirps whenever someone raises their hand to gesture, sneeze, or put on a coat, but William seems accustomed to this. It's normal to him, even if it makes my mother exhale loudly and roll her eyes. The hardest part I think for my mother is to see the change in his physical appearance: bloated and obese from the medications. He looks like a killer, a little like those grainy photos of my father than my mother keeps in a shoebox.

In any case, William appreciates any small gift I bring for him, more than anyone else. It's tricky giving gifts to William. It can't be anything that could be used to hurt himself. I've made the mistake of giving him home-made jelly in a mason jar. Glass. A potential weapon. Pens and pencils. Once again weapons. Crayons and chalk are okay. Everything has to be dull, dull, dull.

One of the best things I like about visiting William is that he doesn't ask me anything about myself. He doesn't ask me about my job. Or my love life. I don't have to lie to him. And that really, is the best gift.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

My Client Leonard

While giving Leonard his massage, with him face down and naked on my massage table, he lightly places a hand on my calf, almost as if to anchor himself. Most people frantically touch every inch of me, but Leonard seems content with just holding my calf, lightly, and if he's feeling extra frisky, he might slide his hand up to the area just a couple inches above my kneecap.

He tells me that even this simple gesture is something that his wife of 30 years forbids.

It's a story I hear all the time: a sexless marriage. But usually sexless just means not enough sex for the man, which always seems to be incongruent to the husband desires. Add a child or two under the age of six or a hysterectomy and sex wittles down to nothing. Leonard's case seems even more severe. What he describes is almost a repulsion, and yet he stays married. I never fully understand it and I secretly fear I could somehow find myself in such a relationship. How could someone stay married with someone who won't even let them touch the leg?

"Your breast, which are perfect, by the way, are the only breast I see," Leonard told me. Apparently, Mrs. Leonard goes into the walk-in closet to discreetly disrobe. I see why Leonard secretly thinks she is repulsed by him.

And yet, I find 60-something Leonard lovely. He's thoughtful, intelligent, and provides a great session with his conversation. He also has one of the most expressive reactions to coming. It's clients like him that make me feel like what I do has some value.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Oops I Did It...Again

When I last left off, I felt strongly about not inserting my bare fingers into Jack's ass. But I caved. Which is the story of my life. I'm a sucker for a good sob story and I feel for these guys who don't get what they need from their wives.

Jack told me his wife was unwilling to tickle his fanny, let alone do insertion, claiming it was "gross," which is a word that seems the quickest way to shut someone down. Someone's gross is another's kinky.

"Have you tried bribing her?" I asked.

Jack nodded vigorously. Purses, shoes, you name it and he's offered. Is this woman crazy?

So, given all that, how could I hold back? So I did it. Because I do the things wives won't. And most days I'm okay with it.