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I got a new guy on the line. He came as a reference from another “john” who wasn’t a match for me (I guess I had done something right). In fact, I thought the original trick might be bullshitting when he said he had a friend for me. But sure enough, I got a phone call from a Carlsbad area code—and since no one ever calls me (I hate talking on the phone) —I had a hunch it was the buddy. Plus, the referral mentioned that his friend was older, and since cold calling is so old school, I figured it was a good guess.

I almost never pick up unknown numbers, but panicked, because I couldn’t remember what my outgoing message said—whether it said my real name or not—so I hit the green thing.

He was pleasant...we made a date to meet two weeks from then. I appreciate a planner (and a patient man). Most men ask to see me that night or the night after, which drives me batty. I like having time to mentally prepare for a new client. Might sound strange, especially after this many years in the biz, but I’m just that type of call girl.

A few days before the date, he called to say that he had to reschedule. I was bummed, but thankful he didn’t do it hours previous. He mentioned something about surgery, so I text him the day of to wish him well. Good customer relations and all that.

Perhaps a week or so later, he called (why can’t this guy just text?!) to reschedule, and during the conversation he admitted that he was currently in rehab and asked if that was okay. I reckon the “surgery” was really a rehab debacle/intake. I responded, “Not a problem for me. But I guess we shouldn’t meet at a bar then?” This is definitely a huge no-no in program, but I’m not here to sponsor. He’s an adult. He can make his own decisions. However misguided they may be.

“We could have lunch, but we should probably do it after we have our date” he offered.

“That’s smart”, I said.

“There’s a nice boutique hotel six blocks from the rehab, if you could book us a room, I’ll reimburse you.”

I usually never do this with a man I don’t know, it’s a risk, but I said, “Sounds good. I’ll look it up.” I had a good feeling about this guy, and sometimes that’s all I need. Not to mention the reference (who paid above my average fee).

I booked the room, and suggested via text (turns out, he does know how to text, thank god), that we skip lunch. I trusted him. I doubted he was either a cop or a killer. And if he was a cop, than cuff me, fuckit. Honestly, I was happy to dive straight into the deed. Fuck the small talk over ice water. I told him I would text him the room number as soon as I checked in. In reality, I gave myself thirty extra minutes to chill, wash up (the drive was going to take at least an hour in traffic), and drink some vodka.

The first date...

I text him the room number, he said he’d be there soon. I sat nervously on the bed, swigging from a tiny bottle of Stoli and chewing new pieces of gum. Although I want his money, I don’t want the guy relapsing from kissing me. He had made it very clear that his big thing was kissing, that he was “very oral”.

The knock at the door came. I opened with my smiles and whatnot. Unfortunately, Los Angeles was in the middle of a satanic heat wave, and I’m a sweaty person normally, so between that and the first time nerves, I also greeted him with a melty face and moist scalp. I just prayed I looked halfway presentable.

He was basically what I was expecting: Nice face. Light grey hair, pink Polo shirt, khaki shorts, loafers with no socks, and a diet Coke in his hand (what is it with sober folks and diet Coke?). We said hello and hugged. I sat on the bed and removed my heels. Although heels are sexy, they are annoying to wear while having sex. Looks great in films and photos, in reality, a possible eye poke.

He sat on the chaise chair and said, “I guess I should give you the money first? You’ll have to excuse my naivete, I’ve never done this before.”

“Sure that would be great.”

I giggled and acted like I had never done it either. I added, “I don’t do this full time, so I’m not really...” I let it die out as he fished out his wallet. I love how I get in these situations. I act like the biggest virgin hooker, when in reality I’ve done this exact thing a million times. It’s comical. Not even sure why I behave this way. I guess there’s a few reasons: A) I am actually nervous, and B) I don’t imagine any man wants a jaded ho who’s slept with more men than she can remember. Can you imagine if I said what I was really thinking? Honestly, who knows what the fuck men want. You’d think I’d know, but sometimes I question my own knowledge. So I err on the side of caution, and caution in this situation comes with a side of idiot.

Mr. Rehab laid out crisp hundreds one at a time. Come on, old-timer don’t tell me you don’t know how to count cash? Huge pet peeve of mine; how people count cash, and how most people suck at it. He even flubbed his count and had to start from scratch. Oy vey. Pure torture for a type A. I wanted to grab the wad and do it for him, but I didn’t. No one wants a grabby ho.

Once the money was out of the way, we got down to the business at hand. He lied down on the bed and turned the horrifically bright fluorescent lamp on. I must have made a face, because he said he wanted to see me. The room wasn’t dark to begin with, it being in the middle of the day and all. I wanted to protest, but my desire for him to be a regular customer overruled my desire to hide. I removed a couple layers of clothing. He did as well. He wore fancy grey, tighty-whities. His cock was erect, off to a good start.

I draped myself on top of him and we kissed. He was fine. Not jabby like another client of mine (who probably thinks I love his jabby tongue—poor men are learning all the wrong shit from porn and prostitutes who are too lazy to say something), but he was a bit too open mouth for my taste. I can generally adapt to any type of kissing style. You want the Steven Tyler? You got it.

We proceeded to get naked. I went down on him. Average dick, but with a gracious amount of blood flow for an older guy. He’s not privy to our generations fondness of manscaping, but whatever, I used my hand to keep the long hairs down. Sadly, this was just after my trip to San Francisco and my index finger in the guillotine window incident; therefore I had a Band-Aid on my finger. In the interest of not looking like a broken ass ho, I used my left hand. Not ideal, but I’m fairly ambidextrous, so lefty it was.

I could tell he was enjoying it. After a short time he asked, “Does saliva form in your mouth from giving head?”

I stopped, “Yes.” I looked up at him.

“I thought so. Will you do me a favor? When your mouth fills up...come up and kiss me. Give me the saliva.”

I mentally gaged, but said, “Okay.”

Ugh. I hate spit and sex. Using spit to lube a cock or pussy is one thing, baby-birding is another. My hair was damp and stringy and in my way, bugging the fuck out of me, so I said I’d be a minute and I grabbed a scrunhie from my purse (I was looking for my nice hair clip, but found the scrunchie first, and didn’t want him waiting too long). I’m always so damn sweaty when I’m nervous. I got back between his legs, and back to the job. Like clockwork, the saliva—my friend calls it my mouth venom—came in. I did as he said. It was gross, but doable. Thankfully, his kink is a one-way street, cause no way in hell I’d let him do that to me. Once, I was in a threesome with a couple and the guy tried to baby-bird me. I about lost my shit. Anyway, although it grossed me out, I dealt with it—we all know by now that my tolerance for men’s quirks practically reaches Mars. So I did this back and forth of head and spit kiss for approximately twenty-five minutes. Only stopping when he made me because he didn’t want to come yet. Just what every hooker wants: men to hold off their orgasm. After the third time he told me to stop—and calculating his age—I said, “Sweetie, I know you want to make this last, but please don’t hold off so long that it ruins your chance to come.”

He replied, “I completely understand. I promise I won’t. You’re just so good at this.”

Then he said, “I have an idea, I’ll put a condom on (I had one on the side table waiting for us), get on top of me, but facing the other way (reverse cowgirl, I thought, but did not say), and then I want to go down on you right after.”

This he had a name for, but I didn’t recognize it, and can’t remember it.

“Sure”, I said.

Whatever you want, dude. You’ve rented me. Whatever gets your goat, as long as it’s within my boundaries. He made me put the condom on. I climbed on top of him. While I was fucking him, he requested that I scoot up so that he could go down on me—sixty-nine. I hate being on top for this, but again, whatever. The weird thing was, he had his head propped in the strangest and most uncomfortable neck-bending angle by the pillows, and he didn’t make a move to slid down when I did my “scooting”. Rendering my legs bent in the most undesirable way against the headboard, with my bathing suit area being highlighted by the bright ass lamp. I think the light during a pelvic exam at my doctor is more forgiving. I could have said something, but I think he’s blind and really seemed to want the butthole show. It’s not preferred, but neither is any of this. One, he’s my dad’s age (which crossed my mind as I was sucking his dick: I wonder if this is what my dad’s dick region looks like?), and two, I’ve got my almost forty-five-year-old out of shape body cramped in a weird sixty-nine with a complete stranger at three in the afternoon. It’s not my dream.

I stayed like that for two years (or was it two minutes?) and then I popped off and swiveled. I was ready for the charade to be over with. I was ready for him to come. I rolled the condom off (I can’t really recall, but I think we discussed him wanting to come from my mouth) and jacked him off. I used my mouth a little, my lips got numb from the condom goop. I cupped his balls with my right and stroked and circled his head with my left. I was stroking fast, but light, it was my life’s goal to make that fucker come. Minutes later I think I felt him come, but he made absolutely no sound. I tasted something reminiscent of jizz on my lips. Ode du jizz. His cock seemed suddenly too sensitive (a good sign), so I got up and scuttled to the bathroom to wash out my mouth and pee.

While I was peeing, I suddenly wondered if he did come. I walked gingerly, sort of a hop-skipped (I hate being fully naked and barefoot, therefore I walk like a weirdo—but a woman my age shouldn’t hop-skip least not naked) to the bed and lay on my stomach next to him.

“So, it occurred to me, oh god, this is kind of embarrassing, but did you come?”

“Yes. Couldn’t you taste it?”

“Well, I thought I did, but you didn’t make any noise (or shoot anything), and I was afraid I jumped up too soon...thus ruining it.”

I smiled and then hid my face in my hands. All the normal dumb shit I do.

“I did”, he said, “you’re safe.”

“Phew”, I said. I acted demure. Wanna hear something funny? I have almost no shy bones in my body. Neurotic? Hell yeah. Insecure at times? Sure. Shy? Nope.

I was happy to hear that he came. We were on the home stretch. I spent the next fifteen minutes getting to know him. He told me about his marriage. His children. He told me about the mistress he had for fifteen years. He said that he likes long-term relationships (perfect!). He’s been married to his current wife (number four) for twenty-five years, and they don’t have sex anymore—it was too painful for her after she went through menopause. He hasn’t been with anyone in years and thinks I’m just what the doctor ordered. Sans the spit, I think he is too. We made a plan to see each other the following Saturday, and then I drove him back to rehab.

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