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.