Hi readers! I’m so thrilled with how the kick is doing…a little over 24 hours and I’m over halfway there! ♡ At a friend’s suggestion, I’ve added a stretch goal (see my update on the site) that I’m super excited about. And everyone who pledges will get an extra something fun! xo
Hello friends and readers! Every once in a while I like to make sure everyone knows what’s up with me and this website (in case you haven’t read my about section). I was a stripper for 22 years, and have been a prostitute off and on for about 18 years (and counting). I started writing about my life and sex world in 2006. I have a finished manuscript titled, Anything But a Wasted Life, which I will be self-publishing soon. As I’ve been working on it (aka, editing it to death), I have continued to write (I’m on book 3).
Every word you read here is 100% true. It’s either an excerpt from one of my memoirs or a real-time thought/capture from my somewhat unorthodox life.
I’m also a self-taught photographer. I started shooting around the same time I started writing—keeping the two very separate until this account. I’ve had two nearly sold out solo shows, and have been in several group shows. All photos I post were taken by yours truly. xo
The shuttle came and it was clear that everyone was hungover and decidedly embarrassed. All eyes averted. The previous evening’s naked pool party felt entirely different in the light of day. I was in hell. My head felt like it was imploding. The union of two close friends whom I had known since they met was about to take place and I was dying. The Jamaican sun beating down on us like a merciless drillmaster. I hung tough though. I had no other choice.
I started to feel semi-human around 10 p.m. Sadly, I couldn’t stomach any food and booze was out of the question. Yet somehow, I let my friends convince me to eat some space cake around 11 p.m. They said it would help me. I don’t like weed. It’s not a good high for me, but I’m a fool and ate a big piece anyway. I didn’t think it could hurt. Idiot. Forty-five minutes later I suddenly found it rather difficult to hold conversations with people. I was dumbfounded. Then it dawned on me: the fucking cake! God damn it. I had to get out of there. I left Sally on the dance floor and caught an early shuttle back. Unfortunately a nice couple with two kids sat in front of me and wanted to chat. It took all of my strength and concentration to converse normally with them. Back at the cabin I laid in bed, a lump of misery. I couldn’t sleep, and I just kept getting higher and higher. Pure torture. I swore off weed for good after that. And being deathly hungover for my friend’s weddings.
written by yours truly and produced by Rocker Meadows
Tennessee Sex Ring
Meet me at the motel. I got a suite. It’s divvy and ready for a romp. Music is playing, and I’m already into the bourbon. All that’s missing is you. Get over here! Hurry. I’ve needed you for some time now. Months of teasing on the phone. My body yearns for you. Hasn’t craved someone this badly in a long spell. I want to smell you. Taste you. Take you in. Make you mine. Laugh into the night. Get drunk. Dance naked. Whisper naughty things designed just for you. Divulge secret feelings neither of us should be having. Not a care in the world. Just us. Nothing else exists outside this room.
Inside these walls, you are mine, and no one else’s. Give your body, heart and soul to me. My everything is yours. Take it. Possess it. Claim ownership. Do with it what you please. I ache for you something fierce. I’m ravenous.
Tease me. Lay me down. I’ll open the door in panties only. Pull the hem of them down just past the V of my pubic hair. Just enough to expose my clit. Hover your wet tongue there. I can feel the heat of your breath. Make me beg. You drip on my delicate flesh and it’s driving me insane. You smirk and graze my clit with the flat of your tongue. It’s ecstasy. I close my eyes and moan. You feel my body respond. My pussy is throbbing. My head light. You pull my underwear down further and suck on my clit. I’m lost in this sensation.
“Baby…baby…take your boxers off and bring your cock to my mouth.”
You stop for a second, just long enough to say, “No love, not yet…and don’t tell me what to do.”
I chuckle and hide my face with my arm. You rip the cloth separating us, exposing me entirely. You’re hungry for my sex. You thrust your tongue inside. Your arms wrapped under and around my legs. You resonate in that spot. You pull me into you. Now you’re flicking my clit as you push a finger inside. I’m dying.
“Babe, please”, I beg breathlessly.
I’ve waited so long to taste you. Touch you. You can’t deny me. Your cock is straining against its skin. He knows he’s wanted. You slid out of your boxers, our eyes locked. We shift ever so slightly and are on our sides. I take your cock in my hand and trace the ridge with my tongue, and then I suck on the head like it’s candy. I massage the area of the backside of your head with my thumb. You moan into my cunt. My free arm is around your waist. Your hips push forward as a natural response. I smile and take him down my throat. My mouth is dripping. My mouth is your home. We are one in this position. I can’t get enough. You are sucking and flicking. And I can’t hold it any longer, “Yes, love, like that, please don’t stop.”
You stay steady on that motion as I take your cock back down my throat. I gently cup your balls and then I cum. My throaty sounds reverberate around your dick. It’s intense. Delicious.
When my orgasm comes down, I push your head away as I free your cock from my mouth. You don’t want to leave, but I’m too damn sensitive and I need you inside me. NOW. It doesn’t even need to be said. You need the same thing. We are in sync.
You get on top of me and breach my pussy with the head of your slippery cock. Oh my holy fuck. Nothing has ever felt this good. I’m crazy tight from cuming, and all the blood flush. You lean down and kiss me profoundly as you plunge your cock deep inside. I whimper in your mouth. Your body quivers. You pull back to get air.
“Don’t ever leave”, I say.
“Not a fucking chance.”
We are animalistic. No thoughts. All instinct takes over. We are sweat and desire. This euphoria could go on forever, but I know it won’t be a marathon. It’s our first time together and we have all night. You’ve shown great restraint. My pussy is gripping and massaging you.
“Let go, baby, cum”, I say with a smile as I look at you with kitten eyes.
You melt and stallion all at once. You’re a goner. You thrust and unload into me. Every drop is mine. You sound like thunder. It sends chills up and down my spine. I’m in love. And we’ve just met face to face.
“All mine”, I say.
“All yours”, you choke out. Your cum is still pulsing out of you, as you collapse on top of me. I hold you tightly. Your breath ragged on my neck and coming in waves. Pure heaven. I want to hold this position for days, but alas, I need to pee.
“Jump up cowboy, I gotta piss and take a swig.”
You laugh. The sound warms my heart. Second greatest sound to you cuming.
Check this out…a guy made a spotify set of my playlist! The Beatles & the Dean Martin track (which I now realize is from a live album of one of the rat packs tour from who knows when) are the only ones not included. I’m assuming Dear Prudence isn’t available on spotify due to rights & money, but you can find it other places. Here’s the link, enjoy! https://play.spotify.com/user/1258482855/playlist/3dRWefCDKUw5yIqS3E9sup
I just left arrangement date number three. I swear these men are getting stranger by the second. I guess they’ve always been weird. I’m just noticing it more now because I know I’ll write about it later.
I met date number three at a hotel bar in Newport Beach. Luckily he was only guy in the bar area and was facing the entrance, aiding in the, “is that him?” department. He looked like a wee holder version of his photos—but since I don’t give a rat fuck, it was merely an observation.
I walked up to him. It was 3 p.m. in July, aka, bright as shit. I was wearing a short, black, shiny dress (too much for 3 p.m. on a Thursday), and black patent leather heels. I felt simultaneously over-dressed, hooker-y and old Jew at a funeral. Exactly what every hooker approaching forty-five wants to be feeling as she saunters up to a meet n’ greet.
Awesome, let’s do this!
Anyway. First impression went well: He smiled. How sad is it that a simple smile indicates, A) I don’t think he’s going to kill me and B) He might want to fuck me. Crazy times we live in.
We do the, I think it’s you nod, and I take a seat in the tall chair opposite him. I was nervous and sweaty, and feeling every bit of my age. Fucking 3 p.m. It’s the major downside to seeing married men in their hometowns.
His demeanor was pleasant, and he told me I was “gorgeous” almost right off the bat, which helped ease my pain. Be nice people! Small gestures go a long, long way. I noticed he was drinking a Diet Coke from a bottle he must have brought in from his car. I had a feeling I knew what this meant—that he was clean and sober. The server came over and I ordered a glass of white wine. Somehow white wine is becoming my hooker meet n’ greet cocktail of choice. Although I’m not sure why, I don’t normally drink white wine. I think it’s because it seems like a socially acceptable daytime spirit. But it makes me feel like one of the reality housewives. I might as well order a fucking tequila sunrise and really show my age. Cue the soft rock! If I’m trying to exude youth, I should start ordering gin and tonics.
He got a double espresso. Sober, no doubt about it. Most people would have a least one drink in this scenario. After the bartender left, I asked, “Do you not drink?”
“No, I’m sober, but please drink. Do you want a martini? Let’s get you a martini.”
I chuckled. I figured martini’s used to be his thing. He probably wanted one, so he pushed it on me instead. Or perhaps the white wine was too wife-like. The bartender came around with my wine and his espresso. The “date” commenced. The difference with this one was that I knew we had a room upstairs, and that he had brought cash in the amount agreed upon. Guessing he wouldn’t want to eat the hotel room cost, I felt confident in this guaranteed hookup; I had learned my lesson from those previous two. He proceeded to tell me about himself while I drank my wine. I liked his energy, even though he didn’t seem entirely comfortable in his skin. But then again, from an outsider’s point of view, I probably didn’t look all that cozy either.
He asked how long he had me. A simple question, but again, something sweet and flattering in the way he put it. I’m telling you, it doesn’t take much. I recalled him mentioning a 5 p.m. family function, so I said a couple hours. But as it was coming out of my mouth, it hit me that the family thing was actually from the first time we spoke of meeting and that I could have said an hour! It’s not easy keeping all these men and schedules straight.
An hour is plenty of time for a first hookup. Hell, even an hour can feel like an eternity for the actual sex. I was contemplating this when he ordered me a second drink, and offered that we go upstairs. I came out of my fog. I needed to finish the first glass of wine quick.
As I did that and the bartender poured my second (comically large) glass of wine, my date was saying something about our suite on the 10th floor. Yadda yadda. We could head to the basement for all I care. Rooms/suites rarely impress me in my hooker world. Not to sound like an ungrateful cunt, but I really couldn’t care less. Here’s what’s important: no bed bugs, be nice, hand over the money without prompting (a little more than what we agreed upon would send me over the moon and give you extra blowjob points), and have a good time! I’d fuck a client in the back of his Jetta as long as those things were taken care of. But I can’t say that to Mr. Mister. So, I smiled, acted impressed, and walked my big glass of mid-life through the lobby while thinking the same thing I always do: Does every person watching us right now know I’m a hooker?
I was in a mumbling mood and his hearing wasn’t great—not a fantastic combo. He kept asking what I had said, and since it was basically nothing important, I wanted to say, “Please tell me there’s a bucked of cyanide at the end of this hallway”. Instead, I said, “Sorry, honey, I was just noting the strange windows at the bottom of the floor.” Not an untrue statement. At any given point in time, I have about a million or eight consecutive thoughts swirling around in that thing above my shoulders.
None of it mattered. I could have said my vagina liked the wine. We both had been around the block and knew the score. The room was paid. I was getting money and he was getting laid.
The room was a one-bedroom suite with double French doors in-between the living room and bedroom. He played an alt-rock Pandora station on his cell phone. He had asked me to wear a garter belt and stockings, but it was really hot out, and I didn’t want to make the long drive in stockings, so I had both items in my purse. I told him this, and that I was going to shimmy into said items. He didn’t seem to care, but I figured, I had bought them for him and if it helped turn him on, why not. Unfortunately the bathroom layout was not ideal. It was long with two entrances, but the area with the sink—just off the bedroom—didn’t have a door. And the toilet was on the other side and only divided by a sliding door. How was I going to sneak in a quick sink wash without him knowing? So annoying. Truthfully, I was weirded out by the whole thing. It’s so much better being able to relax and flirt at a bar in the evening and then go to the room. This was too business-like. I came out so that I could sit on the bed and attach the stirrups (he was on the couch facing me). He complimented my legs, and then said, “Don’t worry about the belt, but leave the thigh highs on.”
I walked over to the couch and gulped some wine, and then I kissed him. I was in a weird position though. Looking back (hindsight is a real cunt), I should have straddled him. Duh, I was a stripper for twenty-three-years, and a man was sitting on a couch. It was a no-brainer…I guess I left mine in the car. Instead, I was sort of sideways on my hands and knees like a jackass. Have I mentioned how much I hate these first-time hookups? It’s an audition, and you know how I feel about those.
What happened next? I think he stood up to pee. When he came back, he undressed—he had a good body for his age, stocky and strong—he stood in front of me. I got on my knees and started sucking his cock. Good. This I can do. I was giving him the business. He was moaning and grabbing my head. I got the feeling he could come—please lord, yes—but of course he didn’t. No man wants to pay good money for a four-minute blowjob. No way he’d allow himself to come that fast. Too bad though—turns out he should have.
He ordered me to lie on the couch while he fetched a condom.
“Would you like to go the bed?” I asked.
“No, stay there.”
He came over and I could see that his dick had decidedly gone down from the condom roll, and what I guessed to be lack of blood flow from age. I licked my fingers and wet my pussy lips. He pushed himself in and fucked me with my legs up near my ears. Horrible position for my unflat belly, pretty much the worst. I did my best to suck it in. Also, my tits were trapped in an awkward position under my thighs. I tried to free them a little while also grabbing them in what I hoped was a sensual manor.
The whole thing wasn’t bad per se, but it wasn’t great either. I was doing kegel exercises and praying he’d want to move to the bed, and out of this position ASAP. I was thinking he’d be better off (dick wise) if he were standing behind me, but I could tell he was the type to control the wheel, so I kept it to myself. Plus, he was asking if I was his slave.
After maybe seven minutes, we finally moved to the bed. I began to worry he wouldn’t be able to come. I think I offered to get on my hands and knees, which he declined. He laid on his back with his semi-erection and the sweats started to kick into high gear. The room was too warm, but afraid of seeming pre-menopausal—yes, I’m a freak of nature—I said nothing of it. Due to a combination of nerves, pills, age, room temp and lotion, my skin was clammy.
I went down on him, trying to breath life back into his dong. Ugh, why didn’t he just come in my mouth before? It was sort of doing the trick, but not totally. I could sense we were thinking the same thing. Especially when one of us is dead sober, there was no escaping the brutality of the situation. As I was contemplating blood flow charts and sticky skin, he asked, “Do you give backrubs?”
“I can”, I answered.
“I’m really tight in my neck area. I’m going to take this condom off, if you could rub my shoulders, that’d be great.”
I knew this probably meant the audition was over and that I didn’t get the part of mistress. Oh well. The cash will go to good use. I guess in the scheme of things, it was an easy gig. But I’m looking for an ongoing thing.
He went to the bathroom, when he came back, he got on his stomach. I massaged him with nothing on but the stockings, and wished I had a hair tie. I looked at the clock. We were only thirty-minutes into this thing. Shit. Why did I have to say two hours? I cursed myself and continued massaging him. I think he fell asleep at one point and farted a little. Yay my life! I was sort of hoping he’d stay asleep and I could just watch TV for an hour, no one the wiser. I mean, obviously he’d know it wasn’t a dynamic fuck, but perhaps he’d think he got his money’s worth. Why do I fucking care so much about being fair to all of mankind? It’s an annoying trait. It’s interesting how sex with one person can be hot as fuck and super fun, and runny scrambled eggs with another. Anyway, his phone rang and woke him up. Whatever it was, he needed to go. Thank you, Jesus!
I peed and as we got dressed he said, “Well, you didn’t make me come.”
I felt like throwing my garter belt at him. Like, hey motherfucker, I tired. But instead of acting like a lunatic, I said, “We could have tried different positions. It felt like you were close when I first was going down on you.”
“Silly, you should have just let it happen. Do you want me to get on my knees?”
“Nah, I gotta go. This was probably not a match, but I think I know someone that would be good for you. He’s a billionaire. I showed him your pictures, and he said if we didn’t work out to let him know.”
“Sounds wonderful, thank you.”
He hesitated a second and added, “He’s a bit heavier.” Which, in Southern California means he’s twenty pounds overweight.
“That’s not a problem.”
We hugged. He called me a “Nice lady”. I said I was going to leave a minute or two after him. I didn’t feel like doing my hooker walk beside him. I polished my wine. One more hour out of my life: check.
I left and changed into jeans and Chuck’s in my car. Ah, myself again. I drove to Long Beach and proceeded to get crazy drunk with one of my best friend’s and her man. I also had my first encounter at the bar with one of my readers! I was writing while waiting for my girl and a woman walks up and says, “Are you on Instagram?” Instantly, I knew. I also recognized her from her support and comments. We ended up having so much fun.
I never heard from the guy again. I keep meaning to text him about his billionaire buddy, but probably won’t. I also deleted my photos and info from that site. I think the men on there are looking for girlfriends who want free meals and earrings. I want weekly money with someone who can let go and come easy. There’s some chemistry that even I can’t fake.
Authors note: You won’t fucking believe this! As I was transcribing this story from paper to digital today (exactly 4 weeks later), the guy text me! He asked if I still wanted to meet his friend…I’m driving to La Jolla in two weeks to meet him! How fucking crazy is that?