One of my Instagram followers—who inquired about my services earlier this year, but lives too far away and couldn’t afford me—sent a direct message recently saying that he’s never been able to talk to a woman about sex or fantasies without it being “seeped in a relationship and the fear of being rejected for actually saying” what he wants, and that he sometimes “desires the conversation more than the physical act.” He added, “You are so open about sexuality and that drives me wild.” He also admitted that he was debating sending the message. He finished it up with, “You probably think I need therapy, not a professional companion….” 

I responded almost right away. I know it’s tough being vulnerable with a stranger: “Not at all! And I’m flattered you feel open with me (it’s one of my natural talents), but what I was thinking, and I hope this comes out right, is that I don’t want to get into a situation where I’m here for you without compensation. I hope you understand. A lot of what I do for work is allow men to be themselves, but they pay me. I don’t do it for free.” That last part wasn’t entirely true…it does happen without compensation, but with men of my choosing—I’m sure my readers, including him, know this by now. Anyway, the conversation continued and we finally figured out a possible scenario that would work for us. We said we’d have an email date the following day when he got home from work. He sent me money via PayPal before we ended the conversation, and then emailed me a letter describing his sexual history. Which confused me a little—I still wasn’t exactly clear on what he was hoping to get out of our communication, but I was pretty sure he wanted someone to tell his secrets to. Someone he knows is a fellow kink, and with whom he can be totally free. Who knows, perhaps this will be my fallback career?

The sexual history email was interesting. A portion of it turned me on: it was a story about him jacking off in the bushes near a river when he was younger. I made myself come to the visual. Something about him needing to ejaculate so badly he did it in the bushes. It was the raw sex of it: the sense of taboo and sneakiness. Don’t worry, I’m not into teenage boys, I just love the imperativeness men have when they need to come. 

The email date: 

It went really well! It occurred to me as I sat down at my computer, that it would be easier to instant message from my desktop. Duh. I rarely give out my phone number, but my instant message has no real information (it’s under one of my many fake names), and I’m never signed on. So we did that. 

The session wasn’t very long. The exchange became sexual within no time at all. Not my typical sexting—which I usually only do with guys I’m interested in—but similar. Enough so, that it was clear he wanted to use this as a way to get off. Not unholy surprising, but surprisingly easy. With the exception of “The Unicorn” I never sext with clients. They get me in person, that’s what they pay for. Anyway, soon after his long email, he sent me a jackoff video (which I had solicited). The video also turned me on. Which is odd, because he’s not my type and his dick isn’t big, but the angle was good (head on and close up). He came pretty fast—he didn’t even look fully erect—he sort of just milked the jizz out. And it spilled, rather than shoot. It was different than most of the jack video’s I see. I think the fact that it was so non-porno is what excited me. I told him I liked it while we messaged. 

It wasn’t difficult to inspire him to come. I didn’t make anything up either. My perverted mind was enough. Money well spent…and earned! I could do that all day. Other than the non-cash issue, it was pretty fucking fantastic. “PayPal” and I have direct messaged on Instagram a couple times since that date. I told him what I specifically liked about his video, and also described my fantasy about men jacking off at work. I love the thought of a man getting so turned on that the only way to make his cock go down is if he comes. So, it’s him being stealthy—prison-style in the bathroom—and the urgency factor that turn me on. PayPal liked hearing about my fantasy and said he would do that for me when he could. I also love knowing that men, and especially married men, are secretly jacking off. Hiding it from their spouses. It’s in my wheelhouse of taboo turn-on’s. Sorry gals, I promise I’m not trying to come between you and your husbands. I don’t think cheating is ideal, but jacking off? Fair game. In the scheme of life and reality, it could be worse. Granted I’m not married, but no one has control over whom we think of. It astounds me when wives don’t think (or assume) their husbands jack off. Most men need to come. It’s as simple as that. 

During this direct message, I said I was being a bad businesswoman (letting my inner slut get the best of me), and that these conversations should be saved for our paid online dates. He was understanding and said he wanted to book another session in a week or so. I’m excited about this new venture. In fact, it’s a no-brainer. I have an adventurously perverted mind and I don’t judge. People have asked me about Internet sex work before, but I don’t allow video or images of myself that I haven’t taken, but written sex-change and watching men come for money? I’m in! 


Why my cat’s an asshole…

To begin with, he’s a cat, so the extent of his give is limited. Monkey is a big, furry fuck, so in order to avoid dingleberries I have to cut the hair surrounding his ass region. I also trim the bottom of his raccoon tail, and his legs (which sometimes smell like urine…super fun…especially when he lays on the pillow by my head). Monkey needs to be groomed far too often for my low maintenance taste. But if I don’t, my house turns into a fine-haired nightmare. And they get caught in your eyes! His hair is hypoallergenic. Not normal cat hair. Takes about a year to fish those thin fucks out of your eye. Feels like you just came when you finally do. 

I didn’t know he was a Maine Coon when I got him. He was a baby, and my speed dealer didn’t tell me. His interests were in birds and reptiles. What is it about meth dealers and exotic pets? I once bought crystal from a dude who lived near the 7th Street Bridge, he opened the door with two huge ass birds on each shoulder. 

Anyway, I had no clue Monkey, would grow up to be 20lbs of fur. I’m always telling him not to piss me off, because he’d make a lovely stole. Adding to his dickery is that he’s the same color as my hardwood floor, and likes to lie in the (often dark) hallway, and in between doorways. You know, where I fucking walk. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stepped on him. Perhaps he’s a masochist. 

He knows his mommy has a bum foot—he was there when it happened. Fuckit, he wants to be stepped on? I will oblige. I do this thing when I get up in the middle of the night: I keep one eye closed. It’s to trick myself into not fully waking up (I had horrible insomnia until I was eighteen). So, this pirating, and the fact that my house is pitch black at night (vampire) you can see how easy it is to step on his punk ass. Little shit. 

Speaking of shit, Monkey has had some recent old age butt problems, which manifests in him rubbing his butthole all over my floor and bathmats. I just love knowing that I’m stepping in E. coli. Countless times I’ve had to pull poop out of his butt, and give him warm towel washes. 

I’ve never done so much for a man for so many years…for free. Monkey owes me money.  



 I wasn’t always a city girl, you know. I grew up in a small town amongst rolling hills and unlocked doors. I rode horses and made out with boys behind the school. My 8th grade graduating class consisted of only twenty-four kids. And then there was the eight months I lived in the Sierra Nevadas. I was ten. It was 1980. It snowed in the winter and was hot in the summer. We didn’t even have electricity! True mountain living. I rode dirt bikes and climbed trees. It smelled like pine and Manzanita. The song “Jessica” by the Allman Brothers immediately transports me to this time in my life. Floating down the Yuba River on inner tubes and laying on the huge boulders in the clean mountain air. I’d love to do that with you. Lie on a huge rock in the sun, our feet in the fresh cold water, and our skin warm. Not another soul around. We kiss here. Your tongue tastes like sugar and salt. Our sexual attraction and connection is palpable. We feel like teenagers. I see your cock rising in your shorts. The only reason you still have them on is because you like it when I take them off. I roll over towards you on my side. My bare breasts against your flesh. You hiss. I smile. I touch my lips to yours while my fingers wander to your chest. Light touches. I play with your nipple. You moan in my mouth. I pinch. Your left hand comes around to the back of my head and pushes my mouth into yours. You can’t get enough. We’d swallow each other if we could. I don’t need air. I have yours. My cool finger tips travel down to your waistband. I tug at it. “Mine”, I say. You nod just barely. I lift the band up and break away from you. You’re breathing heavy. {cont next post} 

I curl my head towards your navel. I give myself access to your cock, but only the head. He’s throbbing and aching for me. Keeping him mostly hidden, I lick the pre-cum and you growl. I swirl my tongue around your head and my favorite ridge. I lift your shorts up a little higher so I can taste your shaft. I know what you want. You want me to envelop you in my wet mouth, but we have all the time in the world…I’m going to make you wait…a few more minutes. I tell you to lift your ass. You do as I say and I peel your shorts down your legs and throw them on the big rock. You’re standing at attention. He’s so beautiful. He’s hard just for me. I get chills when I think about that. Your hand is on my back. You notice I have goose bumps and ask if I’m cold. “No, my love, it was something yummy that ran through my mind.” “Then get back to sucking my cock you slut.” I laugh. You join. I want to kiss that smart mouth, but I want your cock more. I cup your balls and slide your cock in my mouth and down my throat. You stop laughing. You close your eyes and smile. Your head resting on a blanket we made into a pillow. Thick saliva forms in my mouth. I love sucking your cock. My hand slides up around the head. I expertly suck and encircle the right spot. I want you to cum in my mouth. I only want oral sex on this rock. We’ll make love in the cabin later by the crackling fire. Right now I want us to be selfish. No better orgasm than coming into the mouth of your lover. I’m speeding up my tempo. You grab my hair. I moan. It reverberates around your cock. You taste sweet and savory. You taste like love and freedom. You taste like happiness. I can tell you’re getting close. You know how badly I want your cum. You know I want you to shoot the back of my throat. You groan and buck, and then you release. You are loud. It echo’s off the rocks. {cont next post}   

I keep your cock in my mouth as you experience aftershocks. I lay my head on your body and barely caress your flesh with my tongue. Finally, I suck him clean as I pull up. “God damn, baby, I’ve never cum that hard from getting head”, you say. Your voice is deep, raspy and filled with lust. I kiss you. You lick my lips. When we part, you hold the sides of my head in your big hands and put your mouth by my ear, you whisper, “I fucking love you, my heart is yours.” My whole body jolts electric. It goes straight to my pussy. She starts throbbing. You reach down, into my panties and shove two fingers inside me. I gasp and moan. “You see that? THAT’S mine”, you say with authority. I whimper. You continue to fuck me as you shove your tongue down my throat. I can’t get enough. You fuck me hard. It feels so incredibly good. Our bodies were made for this. This is what life is about. “Roll over”, you order. You suck on my nipple, my eyes close. You slide down on the big rock and place yourself between my legs. Your warm tongue goes directly to my clit. You know exactly how I want it. You make out with my pussy. We moan at the same time. “Faster, baby”, I say. “Shut up”, you retort. I chuckle. You tease my opening with your fingers. You know you are driving me crazy. Then my body tells you what she wants and you listen. Staying on the same motion with your tongue. I hold the sides of your head and my body tenses up just before I tip over and let my orgasm wash over me. You slide your finger in deep just as I’m cuming…it’s pure ecstasy. When I’m done, I have to push your head away. I wrap my legs around your back and you hug my body as you lay on my stomach. It doesn’t get any better than this. You look up at me and tell me I’m the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Just as I’m smiling, I notice movement across the river; another couple has just come into view, she winks and waves at me. I wave back. We are too blissed out to give a shit, plus it’s the river, no one cares.

My Kickstarter was successfully funded!! ♡ Thank you to everyone who made this possible. I am over the moon. Now the work begins. Truthfully, I’ve waited so long, I’m ready to make the final edit with my professional editor, and then let my baby go…..into your loving hands. I’ll keep you posted. 

If you wanted to donate, but life got in the way, you can still send money via PayPal, use my email: [no G] Any extra funds I receive will go towards publishing a fine art photography coffee table book. Cheers! 

Please make sure to include your mailing address…I will honor the reward according to your pledge. :) 

7 Days to go! 

Every stripper alive will recognize the money origami. Over the years, men made all kinds of cool shapes out of bills and put them on stage. A guy made a ring out of a hundred once and put it on my finger during my second song. I thought it was so sweet. I always loved getting origami on stage. This is my last one. I saw a lot of flowers and birds, but never a shirt. I think I’ve had it for ten years. 

Only 7 DAYS to GO on my Kickstarter!! We’re almost to the goal! As most of you may know, if my project is well over-funded in addition to publishing my memoir, I will also publish a coffee table ARt BooK filled with my original photography and other cool shit. Hint, don’t stop yourself from pledging if the minimum goal is reached. xo

I recently befriended a fabulous Sugar Baby. A Sugar Baby is a young female or male who is financially pampered/cared for by a Sugar Daddy (or Mama) in exchange for companionship (sometimes also including sexual intimacy). She’s young, but years ahead of her age in a lot of ways. She gives solid advise about the industry. There are a ton of different terms and branches under the sex-industry umbrella. The disparity between prostitute and sugar baby has been highly debated. Sugar Baby/Sugar Daddy sounds better to some women than hooker/john. Most sugar babies do not identify as hookers. I’ve had arrangements that would qualify me as an SB, but I’ve never embraced that term. First, I’m not a baby, second—like always, I only speak for myself—I have no qualms calling myself a hooker.

 This recent friendship has opened me up to a whole world of Sugar Babies on social media. Sharing their world and personal knowledge. Which I absolutely love, but here’s the thing; these girls often post images of fanned out hundreds and boast about how it’s their two-night fee. Some girls post photos of high-end gifts with the price tags showing. I personally find this off-putting. While I think the display of cash and pricey gifts are meant to inspire women to reach for the stars and value themselves—a good thing—I can tell you how it makes me feel….like I’m a bad ho; for not bringing in that kind of money anymore. It doesn’t inspire me. It bums me out. Not that they’re earning or getting presents (I’m not a hater), there’s just something about it I can’t put my finger on. This is why strippers don’t discuss exact amounts of money made at the club. It’s either, “a good night” or “a bad night”. Thus lessening the competitive aspect. Call me old school. 

I support the message, but the blatant display feels a tad show off-y for me. Less sisterhood, more, “aren’t you jealous?” Extravagant handbags are fun, no doubt about it, I understand the excitement. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating life and lovely gifts. Have I had clients that qualified as “Sugar Daddy’s”? Of course. Have I had monthly allowances and extravagant gifts? Yes. I think it’s a brand new world out there, and that’s what I’m speaking to. 

Granted, I have twenty years on most of these women. I could comment or inquire regarding the intent, but that would require too much legwork. I’d rather write down my thoughts and then get ready to suck my trick’s dick. :)