I was a thirty four year old virgin when I first visited a prostitute.
I've always been shy and a bit of a computer geek, and somehow I missed out on opportunities at college and university that might have got my sex life off to a start. Once I graduated I ended up in an IT job, full of other single male geeks. None of us had much in the way of a social life, but I was furthering my career so it didn't seem to matter much. It was only when I hit thirty that I started to worry about the other things missing from my life. At that point, my age and lack of experience were a major worry. I was tempted by online dating, but knew that anyone I might meet would be more sexually experienced than me, and this became a major stumbling block.
At one point, I seriously considered sexual surrogate therapy, but in the end the price put me off. It did, however, make me start thinking about paying for sex, but at a different level. Websites and forums are what I do, and mostly how I interact with other people, so it didn't take me long to find forums devoted to escort work. I researched diligently, read up on the pros and cons, and the dangers, health and otherwise, of seeing escorts. The forums were an eye opener. The escorts posting sounded genuine, even relatively normal, and not the junkies I'd expected. I made up my mind to go for it.
It was still nearly a year before my first experience. I finally selected a woman in a town miles from home, about ten years older than me. I chose a more mature woman, as I felt it would be easier, somehow, to confess my inexperience to her than it would be to a younger girl. The experience itself was mixed. My performance was as you might expect from a first timer, but she was sympathetic and understanding. She didn't clock watch, and I enjoyed her company as much as the sexual activity. I left with a feeling of relief that I'd got it over with, that I was no longer a virgin.
After that, I found other girls local to me. I've had some fantastic experiences and none of the girls have fitted the media mould, here in the UK at least, of trafficked Eastern Europeans or drug addicts. There was the single mum of 19, who was saving to put herself through a college course to get a professional qualification (and she did, successfully, and gave up the escorting to take a less well paid job in her chosen field). There was the recent graduate, making some extra cash while deciding what career path to take. There was the swinger, who had decided that if she was going to do it anyway, she might as well get paid for it. There have been several students, who will leave college without the debt that weighs down their peers.
Overall, more of the experiences have been good than bad. I accept that I'm working at the middle to upper end of the market, but most of the girls I've seen have been intelligent and good company and I put that down to the amount of effort I put in to selection. I'm generally very careful in who I choose, and the less successful experiences have always come when I let myself make a rushed decision.
My plan was for it to be a short term fix, a start towards a normal life and a way of catching up with experiences I should have had ten years ago. It's worked so well, that it's becoming a lifestyle choice. I think I prefer it this way.
Showing posts with label DRUGS. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DRUGS. Show all posts
Monday, December 29, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
I Found A Trailer On The Outskirts Of Town
Both my marriages were mistakes in a way, especially the first one. Right out of college, I really had no clue what I needed or wanted, or what I had a right to expect from marriage. Every time she criticized me, the only response I knew was to resolve to cut that part of my personality out of the relationship. It didn't take long for me to become a resentful shell in the marriage, just playing the role she seemed to expect me to play. For her part, she only seemed to want sex when she was drunk, and she was never willing to confide in me what turned her on sexually, saying, "If I have to tell you, it spoils it."
So it's no surprise that I was deeply sexually frustrated and didn't know how to correct that within the marriage. I missed getting the judgmental gene that has most of polite society looking down their noses at sex workers, so somehow (I don't remember how; this was back in the mid 1970s) I found a trailer on the outskirts of town where I could buy some time with a woman.
She was lovely and had the softest skin I've ever touched. I had a lot of difficulty getting hard, though, and then a lot of difficulty climaxing. I asked for a change of position three or four times, and she got exasperated and said, "This is the last time." In spite of the buzz kill, though, her beauty and the fact that the money made up for my shortcomings allowed me to climax, and the pattern was set. This was the way I could count on to give me uncomplicated sexual release with a partner for the rest of my life.
I can't afford it very often now, because I've figured out that the ones who charge $250 an hour are the ones who offer the closest thing to a real girlfriend experience, and that makes it all so much better that it's worth having to wait a lot longer between appointments. I get to pretend she really likes me and that she enjoys what I do for her enough to want to see me again for that, not just the money. Between appointments I sometimes recall my favorite sessions, and embellish them with even more of what I really want, especially the precise words she could say at just the right time to be the perfect turn-on.
I want to tell you about the most memorable of the girls. She called herself [redacted], and she worked at a massage parlor in [redacted] called [redacted]. I don't think I'm giving any useful information away; this was back in the 1970s. She was gorgeous and she did layouts for the men's magazines; I have a copy of [redacted] from that era with a pictorial of hers in it. I wish I had found videos she was in, but it was hard enough getting her to tell me which [redacted] issue I needed to look for. Anyway, she was over 6 feet tall, and since I'm 6'5", that was a big advantage. She had long blonde hair and a figure like Sophia Loren's, enhanced to about F-cup tits. But her surgery was new enough that there was no scar tissue, and they looked and felt natural.
Her body was literally my ideal fantasy. I didn't know enough about where my sexual hot buttons were to ask for precisely what would have turned me on the most, but I can do that now in my maturbatory reveries. On her own she managed to show me a couple of moves that made me cum instantly. I was able to connect with her three times over a period of a year or two before she vanished, and I've always wondered what happened to her. Conversation with her was very difficult; I think there were drugs involved, but I couldn't be certain. She may have just been reluctant to be at all personally revealing with me.
I've been lucky and, as far as I know, none of the women I have dated or married has found out about my extracurricular activity. I wish I could combine the two worlds somehow, or at least make real relationships more satisfying. But it's so much easier when the only thing the woman really expects from me is money.
So it's no surprise that I was deeply sexually frustrated and didn't know how to correct that within the marriage. I missed getting the judgmental gene that has most of polite society looking down their noses at sex workers, so somehow (I don't remember how; this was back in the mid 1970s) I found a trailer on the outskirts of town where I could buy some time with a woman.
She was lovely and had the softest skin I've ever touched. I had a lot of difficulty getting hard, though, and then a lot of difficulty climaxing. I asked for a change of position three or four times, and she got exasperated and said, "This is the last time." In spite of the buzz kill, though, her beauty and the fact that the money made up for my shortcomings allowed me to climax, and the pattern was set. This was the way I could count on to give me uncomplicated sexual release with a partner for the rest of my life.
I can't afford it very often now, because I've figured out that the ones who charge $250 an hour are the ones who offer the closest thing to a real girlfriend experience, and that makes it all so much better that it's worth having to wait a lot longer between appointments. I get to pretend she really likes me and that she enjoys what I do for her enough to want to see me again for that, not just the money. Between appointments I sometimes recall my favorite sessions, and embellish them with even more of what I really want, especially the precise words she could say at just the right time to be the perfect turn-on.
I want to tell you about the most memorable of the girls. She called herself [redacted], and she worked at a massage parlor in [redacted] called [redacted]. I don't think I'm giving any useful information away; this was back in the 1970s. She was gorgeous and she did layouts for the men's magazines; I have a copy of [redacted] from that era with a pictorial of hers in it. I wish I had found videos she was in, but it was hard enough getting her to tell me which [redacted] issue I needed to look for. Anyway, she was over 6 feet tall, and since I'm 6'5", that was a big advantage. She had long blonde hair and a figure like Sophia Loren's, enhanced to about F-cup tits. But her surgery was new enough that there was no scar tissue, and they looked and felt natural.
Her body was literally my ideal fantasy. I didn't know enough about where my sexual hot buttons were to ask for precisely what would have turned me on the most, but I can do that now in my maturbatory reveries. On her own she managed to show me a couple of moves that made me cum instantly. I was able to connect with her three times over a period of a year or two before she vanished, and I've always wondered what happened to her. Conversation with her was very difficult; I think there were drugs involved, but I couldn't be certain. She may have just been reluctant to be at all personally revealing with me.
I've been lucky and, as far as I know, none of the women I have dated or married has found out about my extracurricular activity. I wish I could combine the two worlds somehow, or at least make real relationships more satisfying. But it's so much easier when the only thing the woman really expects from me is money.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
I Am Deathly Afraid Of Intimacy
In the simplest terms, I got into girls because ... I lost *the* girl.
I lost her, and I cried every day.
I missed her, but what's more, deep down inside, I felt like I really had *lost* her.
I started seeing girls I guess to soften, to dampen the pain, to somehow recreate that intimacy. (Which, of course, as you well know, never happens.)
What's odd is, there was one time I met a girl, who, upon us talking (I talked to lots of these girls, heard their stories), told me she was doing this to prove to the world that she was a good lover. I knew from the way she talked about a broken-up relationship that she somehow felt she wasn't a good lover with her man, and this was her way of proving to the universe (i.e. herself), that she was good, adept.
I still ask myself what was I doing going to those girls. It was to deaden the pain of losing the one I cared for the most.
It was a loss that still shatters me inside. It still hurts.
I guess we reach for many vices, many addictions -- alcohol, drugs -- to kill the pain. To not let ourselves feel it.
I guess I'm tired of feeling it, the pain. But my head is inexorably screwed up, and I see there is a component to my body that is addicted to this stuff. All at the expense of intimacy.
I guess intimacy is what I miss most. I am deathly afraid of intimacy because I loved her so much and I lost her, that putting myself out there -- putting my heart out there again -- terrifies me.
It sounds silly to write it as words. It sounds superficial, somehow. Like it doesn't mean much. But the pain, it's hard to write about, hard to articulate as words.
It's more a feeling, a terror, a place my brain doesn't want to go.
But I have to admit, I miss her. I miss *that* -- that joy, that closeness we had. I miss it more than anything. I miss it more than the world.
I have to admit to myself that this is an addiction. The last time I cuddled with a woman, I can't remember when. I miss it. I miss having a family. I miss having love. I try to remember what that's like. For some reason I have problems thinking. There's a part of my brain that is unable to process this. This is definitely a cognitive problem, related to the addiction.
But I know I got into it as a way to escape the pain. I just wish the pain was not there anymore.
I hate my family. Because I once reached out to them for help and they turned me away. What are you supposed to do, when you need help, and ask for it, and are told no? That hurts as much as the addiction.
I guess I am stuck in blame, but the alternative, to take full responsibility for my life, means to be completely alone. And "alone" is what gets me reaching for it again. I've thought of a twelve-step group, a group to talk about these issues, perhaps this is what I need.
Moreover I just need friends.
I want my life back.
I lost her, and I cried every day.
I missed her, but what's more, deep down inside, I felt like I really had *lost* her.
I started seeing girls I guess to soften, to dampen the pain, to somehow recreate that intimacy. (Which, of course, as you well know, never happens.)
What's odd is, there was one time I met a girl, who, upon us talking (I talked to lots of these girls, heard their stories), told me she was doing this to prove to the world that she was a good lover. I knew from the way she talked about a broken-up relationship that she somehow felt she wasn't a good lover with her man, and this was her way of proving to the universe (i.e. herself), that she was good, adept.
I still ask myself what was I doing going to those girls. It was to deaden the pain of losing the one I cared for the most.
It was a loss that still shatters me inside. It still hurts.
I guess we reach for many vices, many addictions -- alcohol, drugs -- to kill the pain. To not let ourselves feel it.
I guess I'm tired of feeling it, the pain. But my head is inexorably screwed up, and I see there is a component to my body that is addicted to this stuff. All at the expense of intimacy.
I guess intimacy is what I miss most. I am deathly afraid of intimacy because I loved her so much and I lost her, that putting myself out there -- putting my heart out there again -- terrifies me.
It sounds silly to write it as words. It sounds superficial, somehow. Like it doesn't mean much. But the pain, it's hard to write about, hard to articulate as words.
It's more a feeling, a terror, a place my brain doesn't want to go.
But I have to admit, I miss her. I miss *that* -- that joy, that closeness we had. I miss it more than anything. I miss it more than the world.
I have to admit to myself that this is an addiction. The last time I cuddled with a woman, I can't remember when. I miss it. I miss having a family. I miss having love. I try to remember what that's like. For some reason I have problems thinking. There's a part of my brain that is unable to process this. This is definitely a cognitive problem, related to the addiction.
But I know I got into it as a way to escape the pain. I just wish the pain was not there anymore.
I hate my family. Because I once reached out to them for help and they turned me away. What are you supposed to do, when you need help, and ask for it, and are told no? That hurts as much as the addiction.
I guess I am stuck in blame, but the alternative, to take full responsibility for my life, means to be completely alone. And "alone" is what gets me reaching for it again. I've thought of a twelve-step group, a group to talk about these issues, perhaps this is what I need.
Moreover I just need friends.
I want my life back.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
I'm Only Going To Be Alive Once
I am now in my mid 40s. In my early 20s, a time when I had very little sex experience, I'd gotten married. We were incompatible sexually, never really comfortable together that way. Still, we had a big group of friends and family. Because of that (and just plain fear of change,) we stayed together for several years.
During this time of sexual frustration at home, I became obsessively interested in streetwalkers. At first I would just go to different parts of town where street prostitutes worked and watch them. Then one day I paid for a blowjob and it was on— every chance I got I was out getting street sex. In the car, in alleys, doorways and parking lots, in the hallways of apartment buildings, once in an airshaft of a public housing project, in the cab of an abandoned truck and sometimes in scary hotels.
It was an adventure, and there was a "thrill of the hunt" almost as fun as the sex. I knew all the different parts of town where girls would be, and which types would be there— from the classier ladies to the crack smokers and junkies.
The really rough, druggie girls were fascinating to me because they were exotic and intense. (After all, I grew up on a farm and had just moved to the city a few years earlier.) I did this in such a compulsive gonad-stupor that I only later gained the minimal empathy required to realize what hellish lives many of these women must have had. I realize now what karmic awfulness I was implicating myself in.
Still, I'm glad for many things I got to experience— the kinds of girls and body types I would have never otherwise been able to explore. Beautiful fat girls, black girls, tiny small girls, tall-like-a-basketball player girls, asian girls, classic blond bombshells, punk rockers, beautiful mature-aged ladies, etc.
Prostitution is often thought of as a disease risk, but I never met a street-girl during this time who didn't carry condoms and insist on their use. I never felt endangered, aside from the possibility of getting jumped or carjacked in some of the neighborhoods I went to for sex (which never happened either.)
Some of the situations were completely odd, but totally fun. I remember running into a cute, funny, curly-haired girl on the street once. I would have never guessed that she was turning tricks until she made the first move of propositioning me. We went up to her room and I laid on the bed for a great blowjob. It was only after this that I noticed that she had a ferret on a leash scrambling around in the folds of her little fur coat.
My obsession pretty much ended when my wife and I divorced. I moved on, found a girlfriend with whom I had harmonious sex so excellent it made furtive back alley transactions seem uninteresting. I didn't look back.
Flash forward twenty years. In the wake of a breakup from another relationship and a series of professional failures, I find myself looking in the Erotic Services section, and eventually I meet up with a few girls advertising there.
It's been a very different set of experiences than before. It's much more expensive (though I feel I've gotten what I paid for.) These girls have been very professional, without signs of drug addiction or desperation. There has been a leisurely pace and a general good humor and friendliness that I didn't experience in the old days. Through the internet it's much easier to access different, diverse and exotic types that would be difficult to find otherwise. Finally, it takes a little research and investigation to find the experiences that are right for you, so be careful and use common sense if you're going to do this.
I met with a gorgeous older woman in her fifties. She was incredible. like nothing I ever encountered in streetwalker days. Gentle, cheerful, thoughtful. She seemed to truly enjoy having sex and talking with me. It was so much like a 'girlfriend experience' that it felt completely natural that I go down on her, which, again, she at least appeared to enjoy. She finished me off with a lovely blowjob. Laying around talking with her, I felt really comfortable. Walking up the block, I still could smell her scent on me. I realized that this had not only been the best sex I'd had with a prostitute, but some of the most memorable sex that I've had in my life, period.
I met with a preop transexual, who was stunning, friendly and awe-inspiring in fishnets and boots. I thought I would be freaked out, but she immediately put me at ease. I had a really fun time learning that the 'girl with something extra' experience was not really for me.
I met with a heartbreakingly beautiful latin lady who gave me a fantastic sensual massage ending with a perfectly controlled handjob. We sat naked in her studio for more than an hour after, idly talking. I could have proposed marriage then and there.
Most recently, a pretty blond BBW welcomed me to her place with cheerful jokes. She encouraged me to come multiple times and there was lots of giggly moving around and shifting of positions. Afterward, we swapped life histories.
As a sensualist, prostitution gives me access to experiences which would be otherwise impossible for me. As a human, it temporarily provides for me a kind of companionship I spend long periods without. I'm only going to be alive once, so I really might as well. (The judgement of others is really the only thing stopping me, and that's pretty easy to circumvent and/or disregard.)
During this time of sexual frustration at home, I became obsessively interested in streetwalkers. At first I would just go to different parts of town where street prostitutes worked and watch them. Then one day I paid for a blowjob and it was on— every chance I got I was out getting street sex. In the car, in alleys, doorways and parking lots, in the hallways of apartment buildings, once in an airshaft of a public housing project, in the cab of an abandoned truck and sometimes in scary hotels.
It was an adventure, and there was a "thrill of the hunt" almost as fun as the sex. I knew all the different parts of town where girls would be, and which types would be there— from the classier ladies to the crack smokers and junkies.
The really rough, druggie girls were fascinating to me because they were exotic and intense. (After all, I grew up on a farm and had just moved to the city a few years earlier.) I did this in such a compulsive gonad-stupor that I only later gained the minimal empathy required to realize what hellish lives many of these women must have had. I realize now what karmic awfulness I was implicating myself in.
Still, I'm glad for many things I got to experience— the kinds of girls and body types I would have never otherwise been able to explore. Beautiful fat girls, black girls, tiny small girls, tall-like-a-basketball player girls, asian girls, classic blond bombshells, punk rockers, beautiful mature-aged ladies, etc.
Prostitution is often thought of as a disease risk, but I never met a street-girl during this time who didn't carry condoms and insist on their use. I never felt endangered, aside from the possibility of getting jumped or carjacked in some of the neighborhoods I went to for sex (which never happened either.)
Some of the situations were completely odd, but totally fun. I remember running into a cute, funny, curly-haired girl on the street once. I would have never guessed that she was turning tricks until she made the first move of propositioning me. We went up to her room and I laid on the bed for a great blowjob. It was only after this that I noticed that she had a ferret on a leash scrambling around in the folds of her little fur coat.
My obsession pretty much ended when my wife and I divorced. I moved on, found a girlfriend with whom I had harmonious sex so excellent it made furtive back alley transactions seem uninteresting. I didn't look back.
Flash forward twenty years. In the wake of a breakup from another relationship and a series of professional failures, I find myself looking in the Erotic Services section, and eventually I meet up with a few girls advertising there.
It's been a very different set of experiences than before. It's much more expensive (though I feel I've gotten what I paid for.) These girls have been very professional, without signs of drug addiction or desperation. There has been a leisurely pace and a general good humor and friendliness that I didn't experience in the old days. Through the internet it's much easier to access different, diverse and exotic types that would be difficult to find otherwise. Finally, it takes a little research and investigation to find the experiences that are right for you, so be careful and use common sense if you're going to do this.
I met with a gorgeous older woman in her fifties. She was incredible. like nothing I ever encountered in streetwalker days. Gentle, cheerful, thoughtful. She seemed to truly enjoy having sex and talking with me. It was so much like a 'girlfriend experience' that it felt completely natural that I go down on her, which, again, she at least appeared to enjoy. She finished me off with a lovely blowjob. Laying around talking with her, I felt really comfortable. Walking up the block, I still could smell her scent on me. I realized that this had not only been the best sex I'd had with a prostitute, but some of the most memorable sex that I've had in my life, period.
I met with a preop transexual, who was stunning, friendly and awe-inspiring in fishnets and boots. I thought I would be freaked out, but she immediately put me at ease. I had a really fun time learning that the 'girl with something extra' experience was not really for me.
I met with a heartbreakingly beautiful latin lady who gave me a fantastic sensual massage ending with a perfectly controlled handjob. We sat naked in her studio for more than an hour after, idly talking. I could have proposed marriage then and there.
Most recently, a pretty blond BBW welcomed me to her place with cheerful jokes. She encouraged me to come multiple times and there was lots of giggly moving around and shifting of positions. Afterward, we swapped life histories.
As a sensualist, prostitution gives me access to experiences which would be otherwise impossible for me. As a human, it temporarily provides for me a kind of companionship I spend long periods without. I'm only going to be alive once, so I really might as well. (The judgement of others is really the only thing stopping me, and that's pretty easy to circumvent and/or disregard.)
Friday, July 25, 2008
I Partook
My wife at the time had left me, and my confidence was at an all-time low.
I got on one of those phone lines and replied to an "exotic Asian female" as she put it.
I show up at her apartment, and she ushers me to her back bedroom where she has a myriad of sex toys and an half full ashtray.
She comes into the room and starts smoking crack.
I had never smoked crack, but she offered, and my mind wasn't right, so I partook.
Next thing I know, we're high on crack and she's ready to do it.
It was very mechanical and I had trouble getting into it.
After 30 minutes, she said my time was up and we hung out and smoked yet more crack.
I ended up spending $600 for the evening and felt like a hollow shell of a man afterwards.
I got on one of those phone lines and replied to an "exotic Asian female" as she put it.
I show up at her apartment, and she ushers me to her back bedroom where she has a myriad of sex toys and an half full ashtray.
She comes into the room and starts smoking crack.
I had never smoked crack, but she offered, and my mind wasn't right, so I partook.
Next thing I know, we're high on crack and she's ready to do it.
It was very mechanical and I had trouble getting into it.
After 30 minutes, she said my time was up and we hung out and smoked yet more crack.
I ended up spending $600 for the evening and felt like a hollow shell of a man afterwards.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
I Am Very Reclusive
First, I am very reclusive and considered eccentric and odd by the few people I know. I don't drink or do drugs, I don't go out to bars and clubs, and never have. I grew up being picked on, insulted, beat up, laughed at by girls when I started asking them out, and was even made a fool at my high school prom by not only being stood up, but it being the focus of most everyone's entertainment while there, because of my condition, and other similar cruel behaviors from others, as I was diagnosed with a condition at the age of five that had gotten much worse as I got older (now managed with new drugs, and it's a genetic problem, not a virus or disease). Kids are brutal, and even grownups fear what they did not know. It leads you to avoid people, be alone, hide from them. Mix that with moving a lot as a kid, where you are always the "new kid in school," and it's hard. It's frustrating.
But about ten years ago, I was out on the West Coast and was out with some coworkers for lunch. They asked why I was not married with kids. Well, I gave them the long story about how I was kicked out of four different schools by teachers and school nurses who had no understanding of my condition, how kids picked on me for having to get special tutoring, as I would miss two days of school every week for doctor visits, and how it just made me develop into one who keeps to myself.
There was a woman there who overheard all this, and she asked me if she could ask me something in private. She asked about my condition. She understood it because she also had the same problem. She said we could arrange something. I was appalled, at first; however, she set some ground rules we both could live with. She was looking for a little help to make ends meet, and I could use some good company as a friend, as well as in the bed.
Simply put, twice a month during my year-long stay on the West Coast I had a guaranteed date. Someone to talk to, someone who wasn't afraid of sexual relations with me, someone who taught me a lot mentally and physically about women. Someone who was more than just a quick lay. She was also a friend. So, every time I was in town, I'd let her know, and we'd hook up. She was willing to do anything I wanted, as long as I helped her with her financial situation. It worked well for the short time I was there. And it felt great to go out with someone who was attractive, one of the beautiful people. Someone who never complained, didn't mooch off of me, didn't get fat, and was always willing. It was great. I'd happily do it again.
In fact, I think I am going to tonight.
But about ten years ago, I was out on the West Coast and was out with some coworkers for lunch. They asked why I was not married with kids. Well, I gave them the long story about how I was kicked out of four different schools by teachers and school nurses who had no understanding of my condition, how kids picked on me for having to get special tutoring, as I would miss two days of school every week for doctor visits, and how it just made me develop into one who keeps to myself.
There was a woman there who overheard all this, and she asked me if she could ask me something in private. She asked about my condition. She understood it because she also had the same problem. She said we could arrange something. I was appalled, at first; however, she set some ground rules we both could live with. She was looking for a little help to make ends meet, and I could use some good company as a friend, as well as in the bed.
Simply put, twice a month during my year-long stay on the West Coast I had a guaranteed date. Someone to talk to, someone who wasn't afraid of sexual relations with me, someone who taught me a lot mentally and physically about women. Someone who was more than just a quick lay. She was also a friend. So, every time I was in town, I'd let her know, and we'd hook up. She was willing to do anything I wanted, as long as I helped her with her financial situation. It worked well for the short time I was there. And it felt great to go out with someone who was attractive, one of the beautiful people. Someone who never complained, didn't mooch off of me, didn't get fat, and was always willing. It was great. I'd happily do it again.
In fact, I think I am going to tonight.
Friday, April 11, 2008
I Went Whoring on Good Friday
First of all English is not my mother tongue. I rate my English as fairly good, but it's not up to this kind of subjects. So, I may say funny things and, above all, write things meaning something different.
To write things to be ashamed of, curling toes.
Like when I went whoring on Good Friday. She was a petite East-European 25ish, fragile appearance, ill colour. A semblance of perfect victim.
She spoke French slowly, a little faltering. She dressed black imitation leather lingerie. I guess she was high - they must take something to makes them think that they are not there, that it's not them. I was drunk.
Price was low. I paid 50 € for a blow-job and to fuck her doggy style.
While she was giving head, I was sitting on the bed smoking. She had to rush to hand me some ashtray, she was afraid I could set the bed on fire.
Then she turned of the 4 paws, she moaned preparing for penetration. I could not find a comfortable position and I turned her on her back, in the missionary position.
She was ashamed to look at me or disgusted. Or maybe it was my breath. She kept on moaning, hoping in a quicker ejaculation. Her skin was covered with face powder, and released some sweet scent, like all whores. The neck tendon, a reflection on the skin and the suffering expression on her pale face, made me feel like I wanted to slobber on her. I can't recall if I called her names, Probably not.
I enjoyed seeing my cock penetrating in the middle of her thighs, I looked good in the mirror while I was riding her. But I couldn't find myself disgusting and couldn't get really excited.
After it was done, she tried to socialize, asked me if I enjoyed it, if I was OK and if I used to work out. She tried to wipe the sperm of my dick with a Kleenex, but thinking that it would have made her feel comfortable I turned my back and wore my pants.
I came out in the street with a smile. A bottle of Pouilly Fuissé had designed that grin on my face a couple of hours before. I had been experiencing a feeling of self-contentment since I finished watching Apocalypse Now (redux), kneeling in front of the television, with my arms wide open, ready for the Eucharist.
I guess it says a lot about myself and sex. Whores are handy sometimes, I enjoy seeing they fake they enjoy it, knowing they don't like me.
As far as I am concerned, sex is only a way of abusing people, of abusing myself.
This has only increased while growing older, while loosing sexual power. Not that violence really turns me on. Quite the opposite, lately I find myself fantasizing about tall androgynous women, overpowering me (though I guess it's not the exact masochistic fantasy)... and that's why I wrote this message to you (is that you in the picture?).
I realise that it may sound scary. Sorry, it was not my intention.
To write things to be ashamed of, curling toes.
Like when I went whoring on Good Friday. She was a petite East-European 25ish, fragile appearance, ill colour. A semblance of perfect victim.
She spoke French slowly, a little faltering. She dressed black imitation leather lingerie. I guess she was high - they must take something to makes them think that they are not there, that it's not them. I was drunk.
Price was low. I paid 50 € for a blow-job and to fuck her doggy style.
While she was giving head, I was sitting on the bed smoking. She had to rush to hand me some ashtray, she was afraid I could set the bed on fire.
Then she turned of the 4 paws, she moaned preparing for penetration. I could not find a comfortable position and I turned her on her back, in the missionary position.
She was ashamed to look at me or disgusted. Or maybe it was my breath. She kept on moaning, hoping in a quicker ejaculation. Her skin was covered with face powder, and released some sweet scent, like all whores. The neck tendon, a reflection on the skin and the suffering expression on her pale face, made me feel like I wanted to slobber on her. I can't recall if I called her names, Probably not.
I enjoyed seeing my cock penetrating in the middle of her thighs, I looked good in the mirror while I was riding her. But I couldn't find myself disgusting and couldn't get really excited.
After it was done, she tried to socialize, asked me if I enjoyed it, if I was OK and if I used to work out. She tried to wipe the sperm of my dick with a Kleenex, but thinking that it would have made her feel comfortable I turned my back and wore my pants.
I came out in the street with a smile. A bottle of Pouilly Fuissé had designed that grin on my face a couple of hours before. I had been experiencing a feeling of self-contentment since I finished watching Apocalypse Now (redux), kneeling in front of the television, with my arms wide open, ready for the Eucharist.
I guess it says a lot about myself and sex. Whores are handy sometimes, I enjoy seeing they fake they enjoy it, knowing they don't like me.
As far as I am concerned, sex is only a way of abusing people, of abusing myself.
This has only increased while growing older, while loosing sexual power. Not that violence really turns me on. Quite the opposite, lately I find myself fantasizing about tall androgynous women, overpowering me (though I guess it's not the exact masochistic fantasy)... and that's why I wrote this message to you (is that you in the picture?).
I realise that it may sound scary. Sorry, it was not my intention.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
I Couldn't Shut the Fuck Up
I'm 31 years old and married. I lead a very vanilla life, but I've been intrigued by sex since I was six and my same-aged next door neighbor asked me to pull down my pants so she could see up close the difference between me and her.
I met my wife as a freshman in college, and we were married sometime later. I've had one relationship in my life, and while it's not boring or empty of sex, I was tempted by the ads in the back of the weekly arts paper in my town. My first appointment was nerve-wracking. Here I was, walking into a "spa" with the intention of exchanging money for sex. I was nervous, I was excited, I was anxious, I was sweaty. And I couldn't shut the fuck up. Apparently, my chattiness scared off the five-four, freckly brunette who I picked out of a lineup of blondes. I paid $60 for a naked "body rub" and walked out with an erection. Two weeks later, I tried my luck again at a "body rub" establishment. Again, after running my yap too long, I scared off the girl (a large-breasted blonde who I would later learn went to high school with me). $40 later, I left frustrated. I returned a week later, this time only speaking when spoken to. I received a back rub with a long, slow, enjoyable hand-job and a promise that more would be available in the future. Our visits became more frequent and elevated to full-on intercourse on a massage table.
I've had sessions with roughly 25 different providers and had intercourse with about half. Some provided the "girlfriend experience." Others provided a quick fuck. Some couldn't even speak English (the Korean spas in D.C. are repugnant, but I've been twice). Mostly, there were a series of half-hearted hand-jobs. I have found few girls who "are into the work." Most aren't, and you can usually tell when you say hello. Each time, when presented with a girl who would rather be watching TV than fuck me, I could have walked away, making an excuse about leaving my wallet in the car or the lights on. But, I never have. Why?
It could be the self-destructive nature of the visit. Giving over $100, $120, $250 of my hard-earned non-profit salary for disinterested hand-jobs, blow-jobs full of teeth, or a quick fuck is the pinnacle of self-hate. The 60 to 90 seconds of orgasm is the only part that feels good. The rest--withdrawing the money from an ATM, handing it to someone else, pumping a drug-addicted, Marlboro-reeking twentysomething who couldn't be more disinterested in me, the walk of shame, the residual condom smell, the distraction of regret, the three or four days of beating up on myself, sneaking in the shower so my wife doesn't smell the rubber, smoke, hairspray, or cheesy perfume--is hell.
But, I keep doing it. Sometimes I go once a week. Sometimes it's once a month. Other times it's longer. But, I always relapse... and that's what it feels like: a relapse. As I type this, I'm thinking about the new large-breasted blonde at the body rub joint near my office, and our session last week, and I want to visit her right now. Except I can't. I just called, and she's home sick today.
I met my wife as a freshman in college, and we were married sometime later. I've had one relationship in my life, and while it's not boring or empty of sex, I was tempted by the ads in the back of the weekly arts paper in my town. My first appointment was nerve-wracking. Here I was, walking into a "spa" with the intention of exchanging money for sex. I was nervous, I was excited, I was anxious, I was sweaty. And I couldn't shut the fuck up. Apparently, my chattiness scared off the five-four, freckly brunette who I picked out of a lineup of blondes. I paid $60 for a naked "body rub" and walked out with an erection. Two weeks later, I tried my luck again at a "body rub" establishment. Again, after running my yap too long, I scared off the girl (a large-breasted blonde who I would later learn went to high school with me). $40 later, I left frustrated. I returned a week later, this time only speaking when spoken to. I received a back rub with a long, slow, enjoyable hand-job and a promise that more would be available in the future. Our visits became more frequent and elevated to full-on intercourse on a massage table.
I've had sessions with roughly 25 different providers and had intercourse with about half. Some provided the "girlfriend experience." Others provided a quick fuck. Some couldn't even speak English (the Korean spas in D.C. are repugnant, but I've been twice). Mostly, there were a series of half-hearted hand-jobs. I have found few girls who "are into the work." Most aren't, and you can usually tell when you say hello. Each time, when presented with a girl who would rather be watching TV than fuck me, I could have walked away, making an excuse about leaving my wallet in the car or the lights on. But, I never have. Why?
It could be the self-destructive nature of the visit. Giving over $100, $120, $250 of my hard-earned non-profit salary for disinterested hand-jobs, blow-jobs full of teeth, or a quick fuck is the pinnacle of self-hate. The 60 to 90 seconds of orgasm is the only part that feels good. The rest--withdrawing the money from an ATM, handing it to someone else, pumping a drug-addicted, Marlboro-reeking twentysomething who couldn't be more disinterested in me, the walk of shame, the residual condom smell, the distraction of regret, the three or four days of beating up on myself, sneaking in the shower so my wife doesn't smell the rubber, smoke, hairspray, or cheesy perfume--is hell.
But, I keep doing it. Sometimes I go once a week. Sometimes it's once a month. Other times it's longer. But, I always relapse... and that's what it feels like: a relapse. As I type this, I'm thinking about the new large-breasted blonde at the body rub joint near my office, and our session last week, and I want to visit her right now. Except I can't. I just called, and she's home sick today.
Friday, March 14, 2008
I Am Ashamed of Nothing I Have Done
I spent twenty years, eight months, and one day in the US military. The first ten of those years I was happily married to a sexual goddess. We made love, we fucked, we had casual sex with each other almost every day for almost every day of our marriage. The only times we didn't have sex was when I was down-range for three, four, or even seven-month deployments. The best sex in my life would be in the weeks following my return home from those deployments. We would make love and just plain fuck for a whole week. Little did I realize I was married to a sex addict; I asked the question I didn't want the answer to: have you been screwing other men while I'm away? I filed for divorce the next day, and did an ERD (early return of dependents) with my command. In one short week, I went from having mad/crazy love-making/fuck-fests almost every day to celibate guy.
I was stationed in Germany at the time and was only a short four hour drive to Amsterdam. Two months after having no sex and getting very tired of the whole masturbation thing, I made a drive up to Amsterdam with a few single friends. We had a purpose, and it was to get me laid. We arrived about 5PM and started off at the Hard Rock drinking insane amounts of Heineken. None of us had ever done anything like this. (Although I did pay for a virgin co-worker to have sex at a so-called Turkish women's prison in SE Turkey in 1992 during one of my several stints for OP Northern Watch/OP Provide Comfort). We needed to take the integrity-first edge off, so to speak. We started roaming the district a couple hours later. Since we were window shopping, we walked around for about an hour trying to find that "perfect" girl. I found mine first.
She was about 5'6", light brown hair, smallish but perky breasts, and not a day over 22. There was no negotiation: fifty guilder. At the time, the guilder-to-dollar exchange rate was about 2:1, so $25 for a session. I had no idea what a session comprised, but I was quite willing to part with fifty guilder to actually touch a naked woman. I went in, she closed the door, pulled the curtain and switched on a small lamp and turned off the overhead light. The room was tiny. It had a sink, a single bed and a chair. There wasn't much room for anything else. I sat down on the bed, and she took off my shoes and socks, then my shirt, and then she unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my 501's, and then slid my jeans and underwear off. She neatly placed all of my clothes on the chair, put my socks in the shoes, and placed them under the chair. Very neat, very proper, and very matter-of-fact. Then she examined my now very erect penis, and then she took off her bra and slid out of her panties. Kneeling there on the floor, looking up at me, was a thing of beauty. Not an ounce of fat, perfectly taught belly, spectacularly symmetric breasts, and a completely shaved pubic area. She stood up and laid me on my back on the small bed, my feet hanging over the edge. She placed a condom on my penis, then straddled me, and then slowly lowered herself onto me. She maintained complete control, riding me until I came, about 15 minutes.
She took off the condom, wiped me up and handed me my clothes. We chatted while I dressed, and in doing so, found we were both Czech. When I left, I asked if I could come back again later that evening. She said that would be fine, but she would be vacating the spot at 2200 hours when another girl would be taking over. That would be fine, she said. My friends were waiting for me when I left, asking all the standard questions (how was it? was it worth it?). We walked around trying to find "perfect" for the other guys. When one of them found one, we'd wait outside, until we'd all had our A-dam cherries popped. I found my first experience so exhilarating that I paid for sex three more times that night... once more with my Czech beauty. The next day was a carbon copy of the first: lots of beer and then sex with more girls. I visited my Czech beauty three times that weekend, and over the course of the next six months, I spent every other weekend in A-dam, buying blocks of time with her. Of course we spent a lot of time fucking, but we also spooned for hours, talking about life in America and life in Praha. I'd bring American cigarettes from the base commissary and cosmetics from the BX for her after the second weekend. (I asked her if I could bring something for her once, and then I'd always ask what else she wanted.) Those spring and summer months of 1996 linger in my mind for two reasons: I was single again for the first time in over 12 years, and I had amazing sex and spooning with "my" Czech beauty in A-dam.
I have been a john, off and on, since that crazy year. I've paid for sex with college girls in Seattle while on my way to Japan. I spent an extra two days in Frankfurt, returning from my last tour in Iraq, just to spend some Euros in one of the various Eros Centers. I've picked up streetwalkers for a twenty dollar blow job, and I've spent as much as five hundred bucks (not including a room and dinner afterwards). I've crossed the South Texas border for weekend sex jaunts. When I was stationed in Japan, I even took a week-long trip to Thailand for the single-minded purpose of fucking, fucking, and more fucking.
Here's what I've found out about myself, and life in general, in the process of being a john. I'm not a big fan of Asian women--although the Thai trip was completely otherworldly, in terms of no-holds-barred, freaky, whatever you ever dreamed of, off-the-charts-and-straight-to-hell sex--I prefer the end-of-century eastern European women of Amsterdam and Germany (Czechs, Poles and Russians). American girls charge too fucking much. As much as I love to perform cunnilingus, and I'd rather spend an hour giving before an hour of receiving, I've only done it with one working girl. I still do not have herpes (I'm certainly a very, very, very lucky man). I'd just as soon spend $300 to come right away and then spoon for 45 minutes as I would to have a whiskey-dick hard on and never come for an hour. You can, in fact, buy intimacy by the hour, even if one half of it is feigned. Lesbian crackheads do not give good head. One can try to hang a sign on us, the collective john, as perpetuating the global conspiracy of sex/slave traffic, and I'll grant that my Thailand trip may have/probably did contribute to some sort of thuggery. But in the end, I am ashamed of nothing I have done.
I was stationed in Germany at the time and was only a short four hour drive to Amsterdam. Two months after having no sex and getting very tired of the whole masturbation thing, I made a drive up to Amsterdam with a few single friends. We had a purpose, and it was to get me laid. We arrived about 5PM and started off at the Hard Rock drinking insane amounts of Heineken. None of us had ever done anything like this. (Although I did pay for a virgin co-worker to have sex at a so-called Turkish women's prison in SE Turkey in 1992 during one of my several stints for OP Northern Watch/OP Provide Comfort). We needed to take the integrity-first edge off, so to speak. We started roaming the district a couple hours later. Since we were window shopping, we walked around for about an hour trying to find that "perfect" girl. I found mine first.
She was about 5'6", light brown hair, smallish but perky breasts, and not a day over 22. There was no negotiation: fifty guilder. At the time, the guilder-to-dollar exchange rate was about 2:1, so $25 for a session. I had no idea what a session comprised, but I was quite willing to part with fifty guilder to actually touch a naked woman. I went in, she closed the door, pulled the curtain and switched on a small lamp and turned off the overhead light. The room was tiny. It had a sink, a single bed and a chair. There wasn't much room for anything else. I sat down on the bed, and she took off my shoes and socks, then my shirt, and then she unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my 501's, and then slid my jeans and underwear off. She neatly placed all of my clothes on the chair, put my socks in the shoes, and placed them under the chair. Very neat, very proper, and very matter-of-fact. Then she examined my now very erect penis, and then she took off her bra and slid out of her panties. Kneeling there on the floor, looking up at me, was a thing of beauty. Not an ounce of fat, perfectly taught belly, spectacularly symmetric breasts, and a completely shaved pubic area. She stood up and laid me on my back on the small bed, my feet hanging over the edge. She placed a condom on my penis, then straddled me, and then slowly lowered herself onto me. She maintained complete control, riding me until I came, about 15 minutes.
She took off the condom, wiped me up and handed me my clothes. We chatted while I dressed, and in doing so, found we were both Czech. When I left, I asked if I could come back again later that evening. She said that would be fine, but she would be vacating the spot at 2200 hours when another girl would be taking over. That would be fine, she said. My friends were waiting for me when I left, asking all the standard questions (how was it? was it worth it?). We walked around trying to find "perfect" for the other guys. When one of them found one, we'd wait outside, until we'd all had our A-dam cherries popped. I found my first experience so exhilarating that I paid for sex three more times that night... once more with my Czech beauty. The next day was a carbon copy of the first: lots of beer and then sex with more girls. I visited my Czech beauty three times that weekend, and over the course of the next six months, I spent every other weekend in A-dam, buying blocks of time with her. Of course we spent a lot of time fucking, but we also spooned for hours, talking about life in America and life in Praha. I'd bring American cigarettes from the base commissary and cosmetics from the BX for her after the second weekend. (I asked her if I could bring something for her once, and then I'd always ask what else she wanted.) Those spring and summer months of 1996 linger in my mind for two reasons: I was single again for the first time in over 12 years, and I had amazing sex and spooning with "my" Czech beauty in A-dam.
I have been a john, off and on, since that crazy year. I've paid for sex with college girls in Seattle while on my way to Japan. I spent an extra two days in Frankfurt, returning from my last tour in Iraq, just to spend some Euros in one of the various Eros Centers. I've picked up streetwalkers for a twenty dollar blow job, and I've spent as much as five hundred bucks (not including a room and dinner afterwards). I've crossed the South Texas border for weekend sex jaunts. When I was stationed in Japan, I even took a week-long trip to Thailand for the single-minded purpose of fucking, fucking, and more fucking.
Here's what I've found out about myself, and life in general, in the process of being a john. I'm not a big fan of Asian women--although the Thai trip was completely otherworldly, in terms of no-holds-barred, freaky, whatever you ever dreamed of, off-the-charts-and-straight-to-hell sex--I prefer the end-of-century eastern European women of Amsterdam and Germany (Czechs, Poles and Russians). American girls charge too fucking much. As much as I love to perform cunnilingus, and I'd rather spend an hour giving before an hour of receiving, I've only done it with one working girl. I still do not have herpes (I'm certainly a very, very, very lucky man). I'd just as soon spend $300 to come right away and then spoon for 45 minutes as I would to have a whiskey-dick hard on and never come for an hour. You can, in fact, buy intimacy by the hour, even if one half of it is feigned. Lesbian crackheads do not give good head. One can try to hang a sign on us, the collective john, as perpetuating the global conspiracy of sex/slave traffic, and I'll grant that my Thailand trip may have/probably did contribute to some sort of thuggery. But in the end, I am ashamed of nothing I have done.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
I Can't Speak for the Rest
It was a week long bachelor party in Colombia for a good friend of mine. The planning took months discussion, most of which centered around the hookers and how much fun it would be. We finally managed to book flights and though a business contact rented 2 apartments. One of our biggest fears, would it be difficult or complicated to get a hold of girls, was alleviated when we got into our first taxi on the way from the airport. I expect that five 30 year old buddies traveling alone in Colombia was a dead giveaway and the driver asked quietly if we wanted coke or girls. We quickly asked for both and a 5 day ride of depravity began. We where soon on our way to what we understood to be a club of some sort to pick up girls which we understood to be prostitutes of some sort. Unfortunately our drivers had underestimated our purchasing power and we ended up in some horrible local whorehouse on the outskirts of the city. The place was damp and dark with bare cement floors and people in varied states of inebriation and fornication spread around the complex. It was a violent shock to most of us as we realised that the money we planned to spend on the trip made us omnipotent with regards to getting a hold of any working girl down there.
We managed to explain to the drivers that we wanted a more classy place and ended up in a brothel with a plexiglass covered shower and women all over the place (can't get more classy than that). The women attacked us as flies to shit as soon as we walked in the door and this time we didn't hesitate to each pick a girl for the night. The one I had picked has some sort of a problem and disappeared into the back rooms leaving me with little time to find another. Just as I was about to give up and select randomly a tall, black girl walked passed and caught my eye. After a quick discussion with the madam of the house and a payment of maybe 300 dollars total we piled into the cars and headed back for a unforgettable night.
As we arrived all our anxiety and inhibitions disappeared. We felt safe in the apartments and the girls where pros contracted for a full night. At first we chitchated and drank a bit before taking each of our girls to a private room or at least a private corner for some fun. After a while the scene dissolved into some sort of high-school orgy. Everyone got drunk and high and at one point a friend was pretending to interview me with a camera while I screwed my ebony princess on the couch. Another buddy took a girl on the balcony in full view of any neighbor and no one bothered with clothes for the rest of the night. At one point during the next morning a telephone repairman knocked on the door and we had to ask him to wait while we carried two naked and semiconscious girls into the bedroom. I can't image what went though his mind when he entered the living room.
The following days became more subdued and the reality of what we where doing began to sink in for some of us. We discovered that all the girls had admitted that they where mothers and that they lived in the brothel while making money to support their kids who I imagined lived somewhere else. I can't speak for the rest, but the guilt of my total lack of self-control on the trip hits me in the gut every time I think of it. I know I can't change the economic situation for these girls, but I'm morally disgusted by how much I enjoyed sex with the most sensual women I've ever met while at the same time she has no choice in the matter.
We managed to explain to the drivers that we wanted a more classy place and ended up in a brothel with a plexiglass covered shower and women all over the place (can't get more classy than that). The women attacked us as flies to shit as soon as we walked in the door and this time we didn't hesitate to each pick a girl for the night. The one I had picked has some sort of a problem and disappeared into the back rooms leaving me with little time to find another. Just as I was about to give up and select randomly a tall, black girl walked passed and caught my eye. After a quick discussion with the madam of the house and a payment of maybe 300 dollars total we piled into the cars and headed back for a unforgettable night.
As we arrived all our anxiety and inhibitions disappeared. We felt safe in the apartments and the girls where pros contracted for a full night. At first we chitchated and drank a bit before taking each of our girls to a private room or at least a private corner for some fun. After a while the scene dissolved into some sort of high-school orgy. Everyone got drunk and high and at one point a friend was pretending to interview me with a camera while I screwed my ebony princess on the couch. Another buddy took a girl on the balcony in full view of any neighbor and no one bothered with clothes for the rest of the night. At one point during the next morning a telephone repairman knocked on the door and we had to ask him to wait while we carried two naked and semiconscious girls into the bedroom. I can't image what went though his mind when he entered the living room.
The following days became more subdued and the reality of what we where doing began to sink in for some of us. We discovered that all the girls had admitted that they where mothers and that they lived in the brothel while making money to support their kids who I imagined lived somewhere else. I can't speak for the rest, but the guilt of my total lack of self-control on the trip hits me in the gut every time I think of it. I know I can't change the economic situation for these girls, but I'm morally disgusted by how much I enjoyed sex with the most sensual women I've ever met while at the same time she has no choice in the matter.
Monday, January 28, 2008
I'm Not a John
I’m not a john. Never wanted to be one.
Not for any great moralistic reasons, not because it is bad or sinful or exploitative or anything like that, although I later developed some opinions on that. But because I never felt any attraction at all towards the idea.
For me, sex is basically a friendly act. You don’t have to be in love or anything, but for sex to be interesting for me, it has to be accepting and participatory; basically, if a woman isn’t actually interested in having sex with me, I’m not interested in having sex with her. So if I am paying someone to pretend to like me or be turned on, well, it feels about as sexy as cold mashed potatoes.
And all this would be fine, but because of my social work type job, over the years I have found myself on various prostitution groups; some working to help sex-workers, some to abate street-level prostitution, some to help underage sex-workers, and so on. And when you are doing that kind of work, well there is always the nagging suspicion that you are actually a john, rather like the pedophile/cub-scout leader. There seems to almost be an assumption that all men are potential johns, only being held back by money, or a spouse, or social conditioning, or religious/ethical beliefs. It is rather like the fundies that are so scared of gay sex: they almost seem to think that every man has a fag lurking within, struggling to get out and enjoy addictive gay sex.
Well it just ain’t so. And I really don’t like people thinking this way about me. But when you are actually working with sex-workers and ex-sex-workers, they seem to almost have an article of faith that all men have either hired a hooker, or want to. And that because of their work, they think that they are some kind of sex expert, and have a good understanding of male psychology. (Porn stars seem to get into the same way of thinking--one thing about sex work I think, is that it can warp your thinking.) Which isn’t true, they just have a good understanding of the psychology of johns, who are, I believe, a minority. (I also don’t believe the figures given for the porn industry--I suspect that the numbers are a lot smaller, and that there are a small percentage of porn consumers that consume the majority of the porn sold. But that’s just my guess.)
It is true, as Mark Twain said, that 90% of men masturbate, and the other 10% lie about it, and it is also true that there isn’t a man alive that hasn’t enjoyed looking at some kind of porn or other a few times if he has had the opportunity, but it is not true that every man is a potential john. Indeed, not every man is even a stripper spectator. I went to a few shows, and it was interesting at first in an almost anthropological sort of way, but once you’ve seen a couple of shows, you’ve seen them all, it gets dull as ditchwater listening to bad music, drinking over-priced drinks, and being surrounded by losers. I just don’t get the guys that are into that either.
I know from experience that street-level prostitution is a very nasty business. It is very dangerous work, where assault and rape is a matter of When, not If. It pays terribly, and workers are ruthlessly and violently exploited by pimps and gangs and dealers. And most of them are doing it out of desperation, usually driven by addiction.
There is a very old cultural myth, the hopeful belief in the carefree happy hooker, the prostitute with the heart of gold, the satisfied professional. And I am sure there are some, working as escorts and such, I have no direct knowledge, but in my experience, there are damn few working on the street. Most of the women working on the street that I have encountered are desperately unhappy; not unhappy because they are hooking, but more that they are hooking because they are unhappy, or perhaps that the same things that are making them unhappy are also driving them to sell their bodies.
My experiences have turned me from being bored by the whole notion of hiring a hooker, to being repulsed by the idea. When you have seen, when you know, why a hooker is doing what she is doing, what her life is like, only a monster or sociopath could want to engage in it. I’ve seen too many needle tracks, too many apprehended children, too many disappearances, too many bruises and cuts and fits of terror and panic.
In the cities I have worked in, and when I talk to my colleagues in other cities, the levels of street prostitution seem to be falling. There are probably a lot of factors behind this, but one of them seems to be smarter policing: most of the time the cops aren’t targeting street-walkers, they are targeting the johns. And johns tend to be a fairly frightened bunch, and easy to scare off with publicized busts and car confiscations and mandatory attendance at john-schools. But we really don’t understand the psychology at work; I really don’t think it is as simple as being horny and finding an outlet.
A group I was working with started recording the license plates of guys cruising the stroll, and we compiled a fairly large database before the government cracked down and stopped releasing information on the plates to us. But while we were running it, we discovered a few interesting things. First of all, the johns were coming from every part of the city, except the neighborhood of the stroll itself. Proportionally, they were coming from every neighborhood of the city: there was no distinction between high-income, middle-class, and poor neighborhoods. Which surprised us, we had figured the rich guys would patronize escorts, and poor guys wouldn’t have the cash. But it turns out that a desire to slum with a street-hooker crosses class and income lines. Which is I suppose bad news.
(And what probably helped in shutting us down was that a few of plates turned out to belong to fairly prominent/well-connected people in the community, hmm.)
The second thing that the data showed was that there weren’t all that many johns. What there was were high-repeat johns; the majority of the traffic were the same guys coming back again and again. Which I would take as good news; maybe I am right and most men are not in fact actual, and hopefully not potential, johns.
What we were starting to discover, when they shut us down, was that over half of the johns appeared to be married (and a significant number of the cars had baby or child seats in the back, ick). Hiring a hooker, it seemed, was not so much about seeking a source of sexual outlet, but a hobby or vocation or pastime of its own. Some men seem to like being johns, like hiring street workers for its own sake. Which seems rather strange to me. But perhaps some of the radfems are right about at least some men: they seem to like exploitative, power-imbalanced sex.
But please, they ain’t most of us.
Not for any great moralistic reasons, not because it is bad or sinful or exploitative or anything like that, although I later developed some opinions on that. But because I never felt any attraction at all towards the idea.
For me, sex is basically a friendly act. You don’t have to be in love or anything, but for sex to be interesting for me, it has to be accepting and participatory; basically, if a woman isn’t actually interested in having sex with me, I’m not interested in having sex with her. So if I am paying someone to pretend to like me or be turned on, well, it feels about as sexy as cold mashed potatoes.
And all this would be fine, but because of my social work type job, over the years I have found myself on various prostitution groups; some working to help sex-workers, some to abate street-level prostitution, some to help underage sex-workers, and so on. And when you are doing that kind of work, well there is always the nagging suspicion that you are actually a john, rather like the pedophile/cub-scout leader. There seems to almost be an assumption that all men are potential johns, only being held back by money, or a spouse, or social conditioning, or religious/ethical beliefs. It is rather like the fundies that are so scared of gay sex: they almost seem to think that every man has a fag lurking within, struggling to get out and enjoy addictive gay sex.
Well it just ain’t so. And I really don’t like people thinking this way about me. But when you are actually working with sex-workers and ex-sex-workers, they seem to almost have an article of faith that all men have either hired a hooker, or want to. And that because of their work, they think that they are some kind of sex expert, and have a good understanding of male psychology. (Porn stars seem to get into the same way of thinking--one thing about sex work I think, is that it can warp your thinking.) Which isn’t true, they just have a good understanding of the psychology of johns, who are, I believe, a minority. (I also don’t believe the figures given for the porn industry--I suspect that the numbers are a lot smaller, and that there are a small percentage of porn consumers that consume the majority of the porn sold. But that’s just my guess.)
It is true, as Mark Twain said, that 90% of men masturbate, and the other 10% lie about it, and it is also true that there isn’t a man alive that hasn’t enjoyed looking at some kind of porn or other a few times if he has had the opportunity, but it is not true that every man is a potential john. Indeed, not every man is even a stripper spectator. I went to a few shows, and it was interesting at first in an almost anthropological sort of way, but once you’ve seen a couple of shows, you’ve seen them all, it gets dull as ditchwater listening to bad music, drinking over-priced drinks, and being surrounded by losers. I just don’t get the guys that are into that either.
I know from experience that street-level prostitution is a very nasty business. It is very dangerous work, where assault and rape is a matter of When, not If. It pays terribly, and workers are ruthlessly and violently exploited by pimps and gangs and dealers. And most of them are doing it out of desperation, usually driven by addiction.
There is a very old cultural myth, the hopeful belief in the carefree happy hooker, the prostitute with the heart of gold, the satisfied professional. And I am sure there are some, working as escorts and such, I have no direct knowledge, but in my experience, there are damn few working on the street. Most of the women working on the street that I have encountered are desperately unhappy; not unhappy because they are hooking, but more that they are hooking because they are unhappy, or perhaps that the same things that are making them unhappy are also driving them to sell their bodies.
My experiences have turned me from being bored by the whole notion of hiring a hooker, to being repulsed by the idea. When you have seen, when you know, why a hooker is doing what she is doing, what her life is like, only a monster or sociopath could want to engage in it. I’ve seen too many needle tracks, too many apprehended children, too many disappearances, too many bruises and cuts and fits of terror and panic.
In the cities I have worked in, and when I talk to my colleagues in other cities, the levels of street prostitution seem to be falling. There are probably a lot of factors behind this, but one of them seems to be smarter policing: most of the time the cops aren’t targeting street-walkers, they are targeting the johns. And johns tend to be a fairly frightened bunch, and easy to scare off with publicized busts and car confiscations and mandatory attendance at john-schools. But we really don’t understand the psychology at work; I really don’t think it is as simple as being horny and finding an outlet.
A group I was working with started recording the license plates of guys cruising the stroll, and we compiled a fairly large database before the government cracked down and stopped releasing information on the plates to us. But while we were running it, we discovered a few interesting things. First of all, the johns were coming from every part of the city, except the neighborhood of the stroll itself. Proportionally, they were coming from every neighborhood of the city: there was no distinction between high-income, middle-class, and poor neighborhoods. Which surprised us, we had figured the rich guys would patronize escorts, and poor guys wouldn’t have the cash. But it turns out that a desire to slum with a street-hooker crosses class and income lines. Which is I suppose bad news.
(And what probably helped in shutting us down was that a few of plates turned out to belong to fairly prominent/well-connected people in the community, hmm.)
The second thing that the data showed was that there weren’t all that many johns. What there was were high-repeat johns; the majority of the traffic were the same guys coming back again and again. Which I would take as good news; maybe I am right and most men are not in fact actual, and hopefully not potential, johns.
What we were starting to discover, when they shut us down, was that over half of the johns appeared to be married (and a significant number of the cars had baby or child seats in the back, ick). Hiring a hooker, it seemed, was not so much about seeking a source of sexual outlet, but a hobby or vocation or pastime of its own. Some men seem to like being johns, like hiring street workers for its own sake. Which seems rather strange to me. But perhaps some of the radfems are right about at least some men: they seem to like exploitative, power-imbalanced sex.
But please, they ain’t most of us.
Monday, January 21, 2008
I Was on Anti-Depressants for a While
The first time was when I was 19, high on drugs and fed up with being a virgin. I did a lot of stupid stuff when I was a teenager, and this was one of the less stupid things. My parents were out of town, and I called an escort. An hour later a skinny, not unattractive blond woman at least six years older than me stood at my door. She was friendly, erotic and obviously quite experienced. It was good, though I wouldn't call it fantastic, and I wasn't a virgin anymore.
My experiences with paid sex have been varied since then. I don't consider myself a 'regular', as I don't have a fixed agency nor a specific brothel, and I don't do it more than maybe a few times a year. But I'm probably the type of guy the sex industry thrives on.
In my mid twenties I was on anti-depressants for a while. One of the side effects of the drugs was that I was perpetually horny, and ironically enough the drugs also made it very hard for me to reach orgasm. I went to a brothel I'd heard from through an acquaintance, the first time I'd ever been in a brothel. Until then escort agencies had been my suppliers of choice.
The girl was stunning. I could barely believe she was in the industry. She turned out to be distant, however, and a bit too professional. I didn't reach orgasm, which I assured her was no fault on her part, and the look she gave me told me she was well-aware that it wasn't her fault.
I quit the anti-depressants shortly after that, having overcome my demons in a more traditional way - by growing up. I continued with the occasional escapade with working girls, when I could afford it and was sufficiently deprived. As my career advanced and my salary increased, so did my visits to brothels become more frequent. I even gave a friend of mine a brothel-visit as a birthday present. He appreciated it.
In my country prostitution is legal and brothels have standards of safety and hygiene to adhere to. As such I've never been too worried about the health of the working girls I've been with, though of course condoms are always used. I wouldn't want to go without them. The thing is, I like going down on women. I like it a lot. The last time I made a visit, I chose this tall, thin brunette with nipple piercings topping her small breasts and a few tasteful tattoos adorning her lean frame. Her eyes smiled as she was introduced to me, and more than anything else that's why I picked her. I went down on her for a full half hour, and after she came (or expertly faked it) she panted that this didn't happen often to her. Whether it was professional courtesy or not, I appreciated the comment. The subsequent fuck was intense and a lot of fun, as if she wanted to repay me. A memorable experience.
And probably my last one. That visit was made when I'd been dating someone for a few weeks. The sex with my new girlfriend wasn't great and she didn't enjoy receiving oral, hence my urge to visit a brothel again. I cheated on her, and now that our relationship has grown it bothers me more than it did then. The sex is still bland, but that is something we can work on, and our emotional bond is much more valuable to me. She hasn't been with many men, and while she knows I've had a more active sex life than her, I haven't the heart to tell her most of my sexual partners were paid ones. Even in my country that's a taboo, a stigma that marks you as a loser. I disagree with it wholeheartedly, but that doesn't make the prejudice go away.
My experiences with paid sex have been varied since then. I don't consider myself a 'regular', as I don't have a fixed agency nor a specific brothel, and I don't do it more than maybe a few times a year. But I'm probably the type of guy the sex industry thrives on.
In my mid twenties I was on anti-depressants for a while. One of the side effects of the drugs was that I was perpetually horny, and ironically enough the drugs also made it very hard for me to reach orgasm. I went to a brothel I'd heard from through an acquaintance, the first time I'd ever been in a brothel. Until then escort agencies had been my suppliers of choice.
The girl was stunning. I could barely believe she was in the industry. She turned out to be distant, however, and a bit too professional. I didn't reach orgasm, which I assured her was no fault on her part, and the look she gave me told me she was well-aware that it wasn't her fault.
I quit the anti-depressants shortly after that, having overcome my demons in a more traditional way - by growing up. I continued with the occasional escapade with working girls, when I could afford it and was sufficiently deprived. As my career advanced and my salary increased, so did my visits to brothels become more frequent. I even gave a friend of mine a brothel-visit as a birthday present. He appreciated it.
In my country prostitution is legal and brothels have standards of safety and hygiene to adhere to. As such I've never been too worried about the health of the working girls I've been with, though of course condoms are always used. I wouldn't want to go without them. The thing is, I like going down on women. I like it a lot. The last time I made a visit, I chose this tall, thin brunette with nipple piercings topping her small breasts and a few tasteful tattoos adorning her lean frame. Her eyes smiled as she was introduced to me, and more than anything else that's why I picked her. I went down on her for a full half hour, and after she came (or expertly faked it) she panted that this didn't happen often to her. Whether it was professional courtesy or not, I appreciated the comment. The subsequent fuck was intense and a lot of fun, as if she wanted to repay me. A memorable experience.
And probably my last one. That visit was made when I'd been dating someone for a few weeks. The sex with my new girlfriend wasn't great and she didn't enjoy receiving oral, hence my urge to visit a brothel again. I cheated on her, and now that our relationship has grown it bothers me more than it did then. The sex is still bland, but that is something we can work on, and our emotional bond is much more valuable to me. She hasn't been with many men, and while she knows I've had a more active sex life than her, I haven't the heart to tell her most of my sexual partners were paid ones. Even in my country that's a taboo, a stigma that marks you as a loser. I disagree with it wholeheartedly, but that doesn't make the prejudice go away.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
I Had Taken Up a Part Time Endeavor Involving a Certain Amount of Sales
I was 18 or 19 the first time I had any extended time without sex since I had hit puberty. (Everyone knows those little towns where no one has anything to do but party or screw...) At the time, I had taken up a part time endeavor involving a certain amount of sales. A slightly older acquaintance and friend of friends was perusing my store and for some reason it just occurred to me that I'd just about do anything to get some. After some nervous half-jokes, I finally said something about it and made it clear I was serious. The young lady was not the most attractive in our group of friends, but I've never been entirely shallow, nor was I in a position to be picky. Needless to say, I received oral stimulation for what amounted to about $10 of merchandise. Years later, I'm still in contact with others who are in contact with her and that's the real story. Now some 7 or so years later she is quite attractive, although her jail time and record are not.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
I Guess You Always Wanted the Pretty Unattainable Mean Girl to Be Getting into Your Car for Sex
It's strange that I remember the first time, because it's been 15 years now and I really haven't thought about it in ages. Everyone in town knew where the main hooker drag was and my friends and I had driven by a few times and even hooted at the girls, but these girls seemed as unattainable as any others. These were beautiful girls, girls who looked like what I imagined strippers and dancers to look like, done up in the classic slutty boots, halter tops and other accoutrements of the classic hooker. We never stopped to ask how much they charged because we knew we couldn't afford it, and now that I think about it, I never saw someone pull over and pick a girl off, or drop one off. It was almost like they were advertising a service available elsewhere, and not really on offer themselves.
Once, years later when I was back in town visiting, I pulled over on a whim and asked how much. "$250 for a blow, $350 for a lay and $400 for a half and half." I naively asked what a half and half was and she curtly explained that it meant she started with a blow and then followed through with sex. Even the basics were out of my price range and I drove off. I never did pick up one of those goddesses, but in the long run it probably wasn't worth it.
I worked in a warehouse not more than a mile from the docks, and occasionally in the mornings I would notice used condoms in our parking lot or our loading dock. I asked my boss about it, and he said that at night there were lots of hookers in the area since it's all warehouses, no one really complains. He would just wash the condoms into the gutter, and said he really didn't care if they used the parking lot to turn tricks at night. Intrigued, I headed down there that night.
At first I couldn't find anyone, looking right around where I worked proved useless, but after driving around in circles for a while, I started noticing a couple of areas where girls would step out of shadows or alleyways as people drove by. They certainly didn't make too much of a show of themselves, but once you knew where to look, it seemed like there was a few dozen here and there. Some were old, fat, ugly or had that used up look that junkies get, but some just looked like normal girls. I think I cruised around there for a couple of nights before I finally got the nerve to stop for a girl.
Now, I was 19 at the time, and although I wasn't a virgin, I wasn't very experienced either, and I'd certainly never done anything like this. I wasn't ready in any sense of the word, I didn't have any cash on me, I was nervous and shaking a little and generally more committed to the voyeurism than I was to the act. Then I saw her.
She was not a goddess by any means, but she was really pretty. She had blonde hair, a nice figure with perky, medium sized breasts and was wearing a black cocktail dress. She actually looked a little out of place, a little less trampy than the other girls I'd seen that night.
I pulled over and asked how much. "$60 for a blow, $140 for sex." Get in, I told her. I had to go to the bank machine, but she didn't seem to mind. Up close she looked to me like a pretty girl from a small town, there was something fashionably dated about her hairstyle that made me think that. She didn't look like anyone I knew, but she had that look that a casting director would look for when casting a generic mean girl in high school. Pretty with just a hint of superiority seemed to be part of her natural look. There was something about that that I really liked, I guess you always wanted the pretty unattainable mean girl to be getting into your car for sex. I figured her to be maybe a couple of years older than me, but it could have just been her expression – jaded or a little hardened. I elected for blow job because it seemed like a better way to start and frankly, I really wanted a blow job.
She made me stop at a pay phone for a second, then we chit chatted as I looked for an ATM. She said she was from a small town not too far away and that she had a baby she was trying to support. She volunteered that she wasn't on drugs – I hadn't asked – and it occurred to me that I really didn't care if she was telling the truth. She was smiling when she told me these things, and I think it was obvious to her – by my age or by my demeanor – that I'd never done something like this before. I hit the bank machine, took out $80 and she directed me to a secluded spot where I pulled over. She wasn't rude, she had kind of a flirty way about her and she smiled a lot. I think she could tell I was nervous and she sort of took charge.
She told me to pull my pants down past my knees, I did. I was already hard and she started to put a condom on me. I realized suddenly that with a blow job, I wasn't going to get to see her naked, and suddenly that bothered me. "Wait, I want to play with your tits a little." She told me it would be an extra $40. I offered her the other $20 that I had and without a word she lowered the straps of her dress. I clearly remember her breasts, they were great. Perky, firm, not a hint of sag, big areolas with nipples the size of the tips of one of my fingers. I played with them a little, sucked on one, then the other and then let her get on with her work.
One note on the condom, when she took it out, and I realized that I was getting a blow job while wearing a condom, I didn't complain but I did feel a mix of relief and disappointment. I knew it wasn't going to be as nice as it would be without one, but at the same time, I knew it was as much for my protection as it was for hers.
I've always used condoms when with pros, with a few occasions where a girl surprised me taking my cock into her mouth. Even then, with what they call a bare back blow job, I've never been too comfortable with the idea. I don't want a disease, and if she takes care of herself, she's making it safer for me. Anyway…
She said one thing before going down on me. "Ya got a big dick. You should do porno movies." As she blew me I thought about that. Was that something that hookers were supposed to say? Was it true? I was pretty sure it wasn't. Anyway, in a couple of seconds it all became academic and I leaned back and let her do her work while I half heartedly fondled her breasts.
I didn't last long, she straightened herself out, took the condom off, wrapped it in a tissue and threw it out of the car. She offered me another tissue to wipe up, I did and drove her back to her spot. I cruised that area looking for her again, but never found her. Maybe she moved to a new area, maybe she quit or maybe something happened to her. I never even got a pretend name.
Once, years later when I was back in town visiting, I pulled over on a whim and asked how much. "$250 for a blow, $350 for a lay and $400 for a half and half." I naively asked what a half and half was and she curtly explained that it meant she started with a blow and then followed through with sex. Even the basics were out of my price range and I drove off. I never did pick up one of those goddesses, but in the long run it probably wasn't worth it.
I worked in a warehouse not more than a mile from the docks, and occasionally in the mornings I would notice used condoms in our parking lot or our loading dock. I asked my boss about it, and he said that at night there were lots of hookers in the area since it's all warehouses, no one really complains. He would just wash the condoms into the gutter, and said he really didn't care if they used the parking lot to turn tricks at night. Intrigued, I headed down there that night.
At first I couldn't find anyone, looking right around where I worked proved useless, but after driving around in circles for a while, I started noticing a couple of areas where girls would step out of shadows or alleyways as people drove by. They certainly didn't make too much of a show of themselves, but once you knew where to look, it seemed like there was a few dozen here and there. Some were old, fat, ugly or had that used up look that junkies get, but some just looked like normal girls. I think I cruised around there for a couple of nights before I finally got the nerve to stop for a girl.
Now, I was 19 at the time, and although I wasn't a virgin, I wasn't very experienced either, and I'd certainly never done anything like this. I wasn't ready in any sense of the word, I didn't have any cash on me, I was nervous and shaking a little and generally more committed to the voyeurism than I was to the act. Then I saw her.
She was not a goddess by any means, but she was really pretty. She had blonde hair, a nice figure with perky, medium sized breasts and was wearing a black cocktail dress. She actually looked a little out of place, a little less trampy than the other girls I'd seen that night.
I pulled over and asked how much. "$60 for a blow, $140 for sex." Get in, I told her. I had to go to the bank machine, but she didn't seem to mind. Up close she looked to me like a pretty girl from a small town, there was something fashionably dated about her hairstyle that made me think that. She didn't look like anyone I knew, but she had that look that a casting director would look for when casting a generic mean girl in high school. Pretty with just a hint of superiority seemed to be part of her natural look. There was something about that that I really liked, I guess you always wanted the pretty unattainable mean girl to be getting into your car for sex. I figured her to be maybe a couple of years older than me, but it could have just been her expression – jaded or a little hardened. I elected for blow job because it seemed like a better way to start and frankly, I really wanted a blow job.
She made me stop at a pay phone for a second, then we chit chatted as I looked for an ATM. She said she was from a small town not too far away and that she had a baby she was trying to support. She volunteered that she wasn't on drugs – I hadn't asked – and it occurred to me that I really didn't care if she was telling the truth. She was smiling when she told me these things, and I think it was obvious to her – by my age or by my demeanor – that I'd never done something like this before. I hit the bank machine, took out $80 and she directed me to a secluded spot where I pulled over. She wasn't rude, she had kind of a flirty way about her and she smiled a lot. I think she could tell I was nervous and she sort of took charge.
She told me to pull my pants down past my knees, I did. I was already hard and she started to put a condom on me. I realized suddenly that with a blow job, I wasn't going to get to see her naked, and suddenly that bothered me. "Wait, I want to play with your tits a little." She told me it would be an extra $40. I offered her the other $20 that I had and without a word she lowered the straps of her dress. I clearly remember her breasts, they were great. Perky, firm, not a hint of sag, big areolas with nipples the size of the tips of one of my fingers. I played with them a little, sucked on one, then the other and then let her get on with her work.
One note on the condom, when she took it out, and I realized that I was getting a blow job while wearing a condom, I didn't complain but I did feel a mix of relief and disappointment. I knew it wasn't going to be as nice as it would be without one, but at the same time, I knew it was as much for my protection as it was for hers.
I've always used condoms when with pros, with a few occasions where a girl surprised me taking my cock into her mouth. Even then, with what they call a bare back blow job, I've never been too comfortable with the idea. I don't want a disease, and if she takes care of herself, she's making it safer for me. Anyway…
She said one thing before going down on me. "Ya got a big dick. You should do porno movies." As she blew me I thought about that. Was that something that hookers were supposed to say? Was it true? I was pretty sure it wasn't. Anyway, in a couple of seconds it all became academic and I leaned back and let her do her work while I half heartedly fondled her breasts.
I didn't last long, she straightened herself out, took the condom off, wrapped it in a tissue and threw it out of the car. She offered me another tissue to wipe up, I did and drove her back to her spot. I cruised that area looking for her again, but never found her. Maybe she moved to a new area, maybe she quit or maybe something happened to her. I never even got a pretend name.
Monday, January 7, 2008
I Was a Naif at Sex
I was 19-23 and in Europe/Asia on Uncle Sam's dime. I was also a naif at sex (one prior experience). I landed in Europe first, specifically Frankfurt, Germany, for a month before heading to my permanent duty station. Outside of the main train station in Frankfurt was the city's sex district, probably 2 or 3 city blocks square. I utilized it weekly, picking out a huge brothel that was only known as Crazy Sexy. You walked in via a parking garage into a huge, nearly barren room: to the right of the entrance was a bar, to the left was a series of arcade machine. Throughout the room were the main supporting concrete pillars for the building. The floor itself was concrete. The air was always thick with hash smoke, the walls lined mostly with young G.I.s. On the main floor were all the girls - Crazy Sexy advertised 300 women. I got it in my head that I would come once a week until I had been with all 300. Impossible and stupid, but that's what I tried.
The typical experience for me was enter, have a drink, catch a contact buzz and decide who appeared fetching to me that night. Once the woman agreed (had to be her choice; prostitution in Germany was legal and if the lady in question said no at any point you would meet the polizie) we went upstairs (3 stories) to her room. We undressed and the woman would wash me and inspect for and STIs - then the prophylactic went on - always.
I would guess it was never no longer than 15-20 minutes before you would start to hear the click click click of the German shepherds the bouncers walked up and down the hallways, your cue to finish up.
I went at least weekly, sometimes twice or three times a week, when I was not in the field. This held true for the 2 years I was in Europe.
Asia was the same only more relaxed. I think that's right. In Asia it was normal to go into a barber shop, on base, and receive an $8 haircut, with $2 more for a manicure, and an additional $5 for oral sex - all at the same time. There were at least 5 chairs filled at any time. Sex on the economy was similar to the Europe experience, except the 'foreplay' was different - there were more subtle patterns to the initial greetings and information exchange before the actual sex...
Individual experiences were always different, some slightly, some markedly, but the common denominator throughout was the absolute zero tolerance of violence toward any of the women - it was worth your life in some places. Conversely, I heard about places - especially while in Asia - that not only countenanced violence, but offered it a la carte.
The typical experience for me was enter, have a drink, catch a contact buzz and decide who appeared fetching to me that night. Once the woman agreed (had to be her choice; prostitution in Germany was legal and if the lady in question said no at any point you would meet the polizie) we went upstairs (3 stories) to her room. We undressed and the woman would wash me and inspect for and STIs - then the prophylactic went on - always.
I would guess it was never no longer than 15-20 minutes before you would start to hear the click click click of the German shepherds the bouncers walked up and down the hallways, your cue to finish up.
I went at least weekly, sometimes twice or three times a week, when I was not in the field. This held true for the 2 years I was in Europe.
Asia was the same only more relaxed. I think that's right. In Asia it was normal to go into a barber shop, on base, and receive an $8 haircut, with $2 more for a manicure, and an additional $5 for oral sex - all at the same time. There were at least 5 chairs filled at any time. Sex on the economy was similar to the Europe experience, except the 'foreplay' was different - there were more subtle patterns to the initial greetings and information exchange before the actual sex...
Individual experiences were always different, some slightly, some markedly, but the common denominator throughout was the absolute zero tolerance of violence toward any of the women - it was worth your life in some places. Conversely, I heard about places - especially while in Asia - that not only countenanced violence, but offered it a la carte.
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