www.postmoderncourtesan.com
delightful rant thi s morning about the difference between professional sex workers and life style sex workers. I read it with great interest, and then reflected on the mass of correspondence I receive with regard to this site. I realize that is a difficult thing for many people to accept. But I'm not working my way through school or picking up pocket money for the weekend, or any other more socially acceptable main gig fo r which I escort as a means of support. I know I'll get a lot of grief f or saying this, but it's difficult for me to comprehend the lifestyles o f those providers who do it whimsically. This is not to say I don't beli eve a person can hold down two jobs, quite the contrary, but it's the at titude with which some people (whom I only know through their emails to me beseeching advice) think of and treat their escorting that makes it d ifficult for me to believe they have repeat customers, or customers wort h having. Agency busts no twithstanding, I advise almost all of them to at least visit an agency b ecause I don't know how many high paying clients they'll find in craigsl ist or advertising in the Village Voice. This seems to turn a lot of the m off because they're more interested in finding big money big soon with out big risk or big vetting. I mean I guess you could work the hotel bar s in some of the fancier places about town, but do you really want to be working a hotel bar? Similarly are the people who can't believe I have no ambition. That I'm n ot using my body to pay off the grand schemes I have for my mind. I thin k those people are unaware of what it takes to do the job I do. No appointments, no personal details, not even phone number s I don't have a filofax and my outlook calendar only contains personal information, not business. I leave no paper trail, you cannot download my computer files and discover salient information about any of the men I see - and if you're saying to yourself that someone could read this we bsite, I'll remind you that it wouldn't take much work to convince a jud ge or jury that this is a work of fiction - look how many of its readers believe it to be so. In addition, I have an annual sales goal, if you will, based on how much it costs to live and how much I intend to invest (I actually live very s parely so that the bulk of my earnings can become savings, and I try to live on 10% of what I earn annually). Then I have the ultimate sales goa l: how much it will take until I can comfortably live off a portion of t he interest my money earns without adding to the principal. I've been do ing this for a little over two years and I anticipate another three. It' s not that I wouldn't mind doing this past that, but I wouldn't have to. I can envision a situation in which I stop seeing the bulk of my client s but continue to see one or two who have been longstanding and enjoyabl e So what comes next, they all ask? Pretend, if it makes it e asier, that I'm in medical school, but I don't know if I'll open a pract ice, work in a research hospital, go to work for Pfizer developing the n ext hot penis drug, or volunteer in Afghanistan treating mine victims - or if I'll decide I don't want to practice medicine but write and speak about it. For those of you who ask when the book comes out, perhaps when this is over, I'll write about it, or give speaking tours, or work as a consultant on movies, or as a marriage counselor, or as a sex toy desig ner, or perhaps I'll open my own restaurant. But for the time being, this is what my life looks like, and I treat it w ith no less seriousness or devotion than I would any other job. In fact, it gets a little more attention because without my attention the busine ss would fail. It is not an easy job, and not just because of the physic al responsibilities: eating right, exercising, and, oh, yes, having sex with men, but for all the things I've tried to demonstrate are part of t he job as well: compassion, attention to detail, comportment, conversati on, empathy. So if you're a woman thinking about this lifestyle, please think about it carefully and realize it's not as simple as you think.
Comments (10) December 10, 2004 What happens next I was more sobbing than crying. I felt hi s hands untie mine and my feet and he was holding me and saying my name and I couldn't stop sobbing. My arms and legs were aching from being sus pended in the same position so long (a recounting of the time would late r prove we had been in the bedroom over three hours). My cunt was sore, my breasts felt bruised, my lips were dry. When my ears finally accustomed themselves to aural stimulation I heard D aniel saying my name. My sobs subsided, became whimpers, became ragged b reathing. Now you can see why I wasn't eager to do that in the office." "I thought you had died and I was tied to a bed in your wife's house!" You would have called an ambulance and the hospital would have called Mara." I was just trying to tell you tha t in an emergency not to worry. "Waiting at the hospital for your wife to show up so I can tell her you w ere fine until you came inside of me and then you had the heart attack?" "Olympia, if I were in the hospital having suffered a massive coronary, I 'm sure Mara could wait a moment or two before worrying how I came to ha ve the heart attack. But I had a suspicion that it might and I would rather n ot have the local sheriff alerted." My trembling limbs and sore parts started to protest, but I looked up int o his eyes which were stridently staring me down and I remembered that h e had said he loved me, so I responded, "yes." Did I tell you how every time you come it looks different? I started crying again, "oh, Daniel, I love you so much. " We didn't eat dinner that night, but instead fell asleep. He held me as I drifted away, a burning in my eyes and a hitch in my throat. He was sitting in the kitchen reading the paper and having a cup of cof fee, as if this were all normal. He offered me a cup of coffee and a cro issant from the bakery in town. I'm asking you straightforward questions, k indly give me straightforward answers." "For christ's sake, Daniel," I started screaming, "you're fucking married . We're in your fucking house where your wife lives, with pictures of yo ur children. "Do you think you have that much control over whom you love?" He stood up and approached me and grabbed me by the arm, "but you do. Pulling them off hapha zardly and mauling the skin that lay beneath them. He pushed me to the g round and started kissing me everywhere while simultaneously divesting h imself of clothing. He pulled me on top of him and I felt him find his w ay inside me. His thumb was massaging my clitoris and his other hand was pressing my back so that it arched. Thrashing atop him as he held on tightly, pushing every bit of himself into me. He rolled me off him and held my face up t o his, My being married has nothing to do with this. I love you and if you love me, it shouldnt matter to you either. He put on some Mahler and lit a fire in the living room. We spent the afternoon talking, drinking first coffee and then bourbon. He told me about his childhood, a reality I couldnt imagine. He told me of all-boys boarding school and the possibly non-consensual homoeroticism of such an environment in that day (and probably today, bu t I have no basis for judgment). He told me what it was like to live und er apartheid and how he couldnt wait to leave as an adult. How he moved to the States and met Mara, who was twelve years his junior. How they had come to live in New England, teaching at two close enough colleges to share one home. He to ld me of his parents, both dead, and his sister who stayed in South Afri ca and fought for the abolishment of the apartheid laws. He talked nonst op for hours, compressing a lifetime into an afternoon. I became more comfortable stretched out on the living room floor. He kiss ed the backs of my legs and asked me about boyfriends. I didnt want to admit to the few lovers I had had already. I tri ed to change the subject, Have you ever done this before? Ive never been interested in being a predator in the classroom. If this isnt a habit and i...
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