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As I removed the period stained sheets in the modest hotel room in Des Moines, Iowa the other week, I had a thought that made me giggle: hooking isn’t all glamour and glitz. I’m not sure if you thought it was, but it seems as if it’s either Pretty Woman on Rodeo Drive or a ten-dollar crack whore who’s portrayed in television and film. When, in reality (at least in mine) it’s a lot less pomp and circumstance. Sure, it’s sex, drugs and you’re bugging the fuck out of me, but it’s not as shiny as you might think. Obviously I can only speak for myself, and I’ve had the Pretty Woman experience, but it still came with a side of grey ball hairs and bad kisses. It’s still just two human beings fucking it out. And then there are times when real life rears its ugly head: like the sheets I was trying to hide while he worked. Not that he wasn’t aware (it was my first day and therefore I had to tell him, I couldn’t do the “Oops” routine), or didn’t see the marks (and sleep in them), but you know, call girls aren’t supposed to have their period. You’d think I’d schedule around it, and I try...sorry, that’s a bold face lie, I honestly don’t pay attention. I’m at the mercy of my client’s schedules and since I'm not one to—or in a position to—say no to money, shit’s bound to happen. Plus, the money they give me isn't just for fucking it's also for the pleasure of my dazzling company.

This used to include me getting dressed to the nines. Not anymore (unless we have tickets to an opera). Perhaps it’s because I’ve been in this business for twenty-four years. I learned a long time ago that what I wear doesn’t affect our time in the sack. In truth, they barely seem to notice what I’m wearing (or if it's too sexy, they'll try to screw me in the coat room). Also, most of my clients have been under six feet and don’t particularly like it when I’m too tall. I’m not saying I wear sweatpants, but I’m not sporting ball gowns and stilettos to sushi and the local strip club. For travel and lunches, they see me as is: jeans and Chuck Taylor's. I’m sure they’d love a bandeau dress from time to time, but that’s simply not going to happening. Not at this age and current body shape. I show a lot of leg, but rarely cleavage—or it’s one or the other. Honestly, very few of my clients are breast men, which is ironic because I have these natural more-than-a-handful things on my chest. My long-term client, The Texan, likes it when I wear one of his T-shirts while we fuck! Not sure if I should be offended by that, but whatever makes him happy, and at least it’s cozy. But it feels like marriage. Which cracks me up. You wouldn’t think a man would pay a woman to fuck in a T-shirt. He likes something to hold onto while he’s behind me, and it’s all about my ass, pussy and mind anyway, so a T-shirt it is. The “glamorous life” of hooking. Surely there are men who still want their girls in Agent Provocateur, but I haven’t run into one in a very long time. I’m not sure if that fact says something more about me—the type of clients I attract—or how low maintenance most men are when it comes to sex?

I love elegant things, but when it comes to my work, I’m pretty low maintenance. My services aren’t cheap, but I don’t need diamonds and furs. I’d rather get extra cash and treat myself to great food and vacations with people I actually like. I’m not opposed to those things with clients, and trust me, it happens, but it’s not something I demand as a prostitute. It’s the ordinariness of the relationship that might surprise people. Not to be confused with normal. What I do with my clients in the bedroom isn't what most people would consider "normal". Transferring saliva into a man’s mouth over and over while I give him head is hardly on anyone’s bucket list. It certainly wasn’t on mine, but it came into my life last year nonetheless. He's generous and his kink is a one-way street, so I do it. There’s no Jay-Z blaring or Cristal being poured—it’s just a seventy-year-old man and myself in a hotel room in the afternoon. Sometimes we listen to whatever radio station is getting reception. I’d love to be a fly on the wall during another hooker’s time with her john to see how similar or dissimilar the experience is. I’ve been told by men that I’m a different breed of escort: less cold and calculated—more real. So perhaps I’m the one ixnay’ing the glamour. I skip the girlfriend experience and go straight to ball and chain.

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