I GAVE JABBA THE HUT A BLOWJOB

I was on the hunt for a sugar daddy. Enter trusty Craigslist.org. I found a guy in the adult services section. We emailed a couple of times. He described his situation in detail and told me exactly they type of arrangement he was looking for. His wife, the “love of his life,” had passed away, and he didn’t want to remarry, but he got lonely. He said that he’d had this arrangement with two other women in the past. According to him, they both went on to do great things.

 

His offer was twenty thousand a month, plus a new car, full medical, and an expense account (apparently I would be on his company’s payroll). He also promised jewelry and travel. He described the diamond-band ring—which he bought all his “ladies.” I was to wear this ring whenever I was in his company. He also wanted proof of an AIDS test. He would provide one as well, and I wasn’t allowed to see any other men. He only needed to see me once or twice a month. If his offer was legit, I wouldn’t need any other johns or clubs. I figured I could easily hide my personal enjoyment from him. It all sounded doable. He said he would meet me for one drink and if he liked me, he’d arrange a second “interview” and book a hotel room.

 

I met him in the middle of the day at the bar of the Holiday Inn in Burbank. I’m generally not a fan of the daytime meet-and-greet. It means I have to make a tricky clothing decision. The goal is to look sexy without being inappropriately overdressed. I’m also not great at doing day makeup. I’ve perfected my stripper face, but it doesn’t translate into the real world, certainly not at the Burbank Holiday Inn lounge during lunch hour.

 

I went to Macy’s and charged a sundress on my account, which I plan to wear and then return. Macy’s is a great place for medium-end hooker clothes. I also picked up some cute flats. In my experience, most johns tend to be short and nothing screams prostitute like a pretty woman towering over a stout, older, bald dude. My sincere apologies to any couples matching this description who are, in fact, in love.

 

So there I was at 2 p.m. on a Wednesday ordering a whiskey sour and looking for my sugar daddy. He had described himself only a little in our emails. Of course I had sent him a picture. Most men won’t even bother with a second email without an image. He said that he was a regular at the hotel and knew everyone who worked there, so when a hefty white man came in and ordered “the usual,” I guessed it was him. I was anxious and ready to get it over with. This is why madams exist. Who wants to deal with this bullshit?

 

We said hello and took a seat at one of the old, round tables in the dark, depressing bar. We made idle chitchat. He’s nice enough. I would guess he’s in his fifties. He had thinning grey hair and pinkish skin and he weighed at least four hundred pounds. He made it clear again that this was the verbal interview portion and that I would need to pass it in order to meet him a second time. After that, he would decide. Whatever dude. Let’s just get through this, I thought.

 

He proceeded to tell me the same long story he’d already described in his email. It’s not like I could say, “Hey, man, I already know this shit. Do you think I’m pretty? Do you want to fuck me? Can’t we just cut to the chase?” So instead, I just sat there counting the minutes, wondering where I was going to grab dinner that night. I tried to be as charming as I could be in the middle of the day but I’m not a day girl. I’m usually in sweats and a pigtail around this time, trying to stay away from the sunlight.

 

He thanked me for meeting him, and we went our separate ways. I couldn’t really tell anything by his demeanor. I called Hattie on my way to the car and told her I didn’t think I got the part. I lightly kicked myself for taking the time, showering, putting on makeup, and driving to Burbank for free, but I had to keep the big picture in mind. I was surprised when a couple of days later he emailed to say that I had passed the first interview and we set up our second one. This time, he said the Holiday Inn just off the 405. He added that he wanted to make sure he had “chemistry” with the lady whom he chooses to “adopt.” Chemistry. Are you fucking kidding me? This guy is pasty and seriously obese. The only chemistry we’re going to have is whatever it takes in order for me to get the job. I’m a hooker; chemistry is my profession.

 

We didn’t discuss finances for the meeting, which made me itchy, but I kept my eyes on the prize. I also assumed, this not being his first rodeo, that he would know the drill and compensate me. Never assume anything in life. Men call me a hustler for my forthrightness. I call it being smart. But even I get caught up in protecting their feelings over my interests sometimes. I’ve run across a couple of men who respected my being upfront about the payment, but most get turned off. It’s a delicate balance keeping them happy and making sure I’m taken care of too. Personally, I like getting the financial part out of the way so the fun can commence.

 

I drive to the hotel, which is coincidentally next door to another hotel where I used to meet a past john. I’d had a cocktail before leaving the house to calm my nerves. I parked and found his room. We say our hellos and he turns the TV off. I tune the radio to my favorite jazz station (I do this in every hotel/john situation—they don’t play commercials and no one wants to fuck a stranger in silence).

 

I slip out of my heels and peel off my skirt. He’s lying on the bed, propped up on a pillow—his gigantic body looking even bigger than before. It’s a king bed but looks like a double. I climb on top of his massive body and wonder how in the fuck I’m going to physically do this. He is easily the largest man I’ve ever been with. No matter, I’m fearless! I can do almost anything I set my mind to. I kiss his pudgy lips. Eew. I put my boobs in his face. I try to give him a makeshift lap dance as foreplay, but it’s bizarre and nearly impossible. I’m not even sure where his penis is. I remove his beige socks, then his boxer briefs. His cock is tiny. Of course it is. There’s no way I can have intercourse with him. I take my panties off, but it’s really just so he feels like he’s getting the full experience. I kiss him again, and he fumbles around with my pussy with his pudgy left hand in a totally annoying manner. He’s kinda pinching it between his fat fingers. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I went south. I did it to get his uncoordinated and untalented fingers the fuck away from my bits, and to get this nightmare over with.

 

I grab the condom on the side table, wishing I had one of those finger condoms that nurses use. It doesn’t even have to unroll all the way in order to cover him. Whatever, I hold it in place. I start to suck his baby penis. It’s awful down there. He obviously showers but still has the smell of fat folds. I guess a person can only reach so much of their crevices when pure mass is in the way.

 

Thankfully, it didn’t take long. He seemed slightly embarrassed, so I took that as my cue to climb off and trot to the bathroom. I grab a small towel and hand it to him, and then I leap back inside and shut the door to wash out my mouth and take a few deep breathes.

 

I return, all smiles and warm skin. He hadn’t moved an inch, which was a small red flag. I lay on the bed half naked next to him, hug his rolls of fat and kiss his cheek. After about three awkward minutes, I get off the bed and start to get dressed, slowly, waiting for him to make a move from the bed to his briefcase full of cash. Jabba doesn’t move a muscle. Now I’m starting to panic. Did I really just give head to this monstrosity for free? When my heels are the only item left, I ask him casually about some sort of financial compensation for my time. He hems and haws, then finally rolls off the bed. He walks with elephantine steps over to his wallet and begrudgingly takes out some bills for me. Thank Christ he had hundreds. What an asshole. Millionaire my ass. He treats me like I’ve committed some cardinal sin, that by asking for money I have ruined my chances for any future together. Bullshit. I was pissed. I left and never heard from Jabba again.

 

About a year later, a good friend of mine told me about a man she’d been communicating with from a sugar daddy website. They hadn’t met in person yet, but she was excited to meet him. She described the exact situation Jabba had laid out for me. Without telling her the tale, I said she should forget him. He was a fake and a waste of time. Ah, the perils and pitfalls of prostitution. 

 

 

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