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.