ANYTHING BUT A WASTED LIFE: MY FIRST TRICK
Excerpt from Anything But a Wasted Life
The first time I sold my body for money, I was twenty-six and change. A man came into Mitchell Brothers one night, he dropped a bunch of money on me. During our last dance, he asked how much for sex—a fairly common question in this profession. Normally I’d explain how I couldn’t do that, but I was feeling cheeky and money happy so I randomly said twenty thousand. He said okay. We were standing in one of the semi-private cabanas. He sounded serious. I looked him in the eyes—he was serious. I was single at the time and twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money, so I did something I had never done before: I got his number. A couple weeks later, he wired half the money and bought a first-class ticket to Aspen. Or was it Vail? I can’t remember. He gave me the rest when I arrived. This guy was wealthy, that was clear. He didn’t balk at the money. Needless to say, his house was huge and it was just one of many. He was in his late thirties. Average looking in every way, but he had seriously funky teeth. I’m not an enamel Nazi, but it wasn’t fun to kiss. He was interesting enough. Well-traveled. Intelligent. Wine collector. He brought his own bottles to the fancy restaurants we went to, each time the servers and managers would freak out. I didn’t tell anyone I was going because I didn’t want to be judged or for anyone to worry about me. Explaining my superb ability to judge people isn’t usually enough to assure my close friends of my safety. So, as my protection plan, I told him my best friend needed to hear from me at certain times of the day. If she didn’t, she’d call the cops. That was my plan. My sole assurance he didn’t chop me into little pieces. I’d pretend to make the call—dialing my voicemail—and fake a conversation.
He obviously didn’t kill me, but he did want an uncanny number of blowjobs. It’s not like I could say no or that I wasn’t in the mood. I was bought and paid for. I can’t stress enough how weird that is to experience in a consensual situation. I was accustomed to giving nude lap dances for money, but the act of actual sex in a stranger’s home was an entirely different carnival. I’ve had a lot ofsexual experience, even by that age, some of them less than desirable—annoying one-night-stands—but I always felt in control; I could tell the person to stop or beat it. Having to act into it without the dispensation to stop the act (and still get paid), is a mind-fuck on a lot of levels. Earning my keep was much more difficult than I had imagined. I wanted to leave, but I powered through instead. I cried in the bathroom at one point on the second day. The worst part—aside from the six blowjobs a day—was that he knew my real name. He needed it in order to purchase the plane ticket. He said it over and over as I sucked him off. It was maddening. We use fake names for a reason. I didn’t want to feel like myself; I wanted to feel like a separated piece of myself. I concentrated on the money, making him come, and the flight home.