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 business...you 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 repost....is 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

Blindfolded


“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.