The Unicorn and I had a lengthy discussion via text about us not having used a condom. Although I was recently tested and came back clean on all fronts, I said that I couldn’t guarantee him. There’s no way I can make someone that kind of promise. I’m about as safe as a working girl can be, but shit happens. Sex comes with risks. Understandably, he doesn’t want to risk giving anything to his wife, whom he loves. And I don’t want that pressure. I’d feel like a mammoth shithead if that happened. 

So on one hand, it’s great sleeping with someone who’s only had sex with one person for thirty years, but it also means I’m the only culprit if shit shows up (assuming she’s not cheating). This is a delicate topic; sleeping with married men. It takes a lot of balls for me to tell you guys. I’m grateful you aren’t stoning me. Truth be told, I’ve never been a champion of cheating, but in this capacity, it somehow makes sense. 

We also mentioned something we learned, which was: talking for an hour about life and photography before the deed is not necessarily the best idea for setting the sensual tone. We joked that we wouldn’t say one word until after.

 [Next date after the talk]

I told him to text me when he was a block away from the motel so I could strip my sweatpants and panties off, and lie commando in my short negligee. I was making the message clear: I wanted to fool around right away and save the catching up for after. My mind and body was worked up from a conversation I was having with my long distance crush. I was craving sex. 

Anyway, it’s so incredibly odd to be considering my pleasure with regards to a client. Although he’s more like a booty call that helps me out financially. It’s a perfect situation, because I’m not getting any “real” action and he’s happily married, meaning, no way he’ll pressure me for anything more. This is why so many married men hire call girls, it’s mutually beneficial. Thirty years with one person is limiting by nature. She can’t offer the same experience I can. It’s just not possible. No matter how much love and history, I’m a whole different person. For him, I’m safe on a different level. He can tell me anything; nothing will shock me or bite him in the ass while he’s watching TV. 

He also knows that I would never do anything to harm him or his relationship. Beyond the obvious fact that I’m fucking someone’s husband, I’m not vindictive. I don’t want to hurt the wives. This isn’t about the wives. As weird as that sounds. Long term monogamy is a lovely, but mostly (key word here, because many people are faithful) unrealistic idea. And although it’s technically not on me—I’m not the married one—I’m not in the business of starting drama or divorces. In fact, either one would be counterintuitive. I’m in the business of release. I’m basically a life coach with mouth lube. 



It’s a trip and a half to sleep with someone who’s read every word you’ve ever posted. This happened last week. Super nice guy, he messaged me via Instagram. We had several direct messages, which included a little about our lives, but mostly about pricing and logistics. He admitted to having never done anything like this. He thanked me for being so open and kind, and said he’d think about it. Not much time passed before I received a DM saying he was ready. We decided to meet for a drink first and if all went well, we’d get a hotel for the next time. Our drink date was set for almost two weeks in the future. Our schedules were hectic. It’s tough when I travel so much. It’s especially time consuming when I need to factor in at least a full day after I get home to decompress from my time with the crazy Texan. He was extremely respectful of my space during this the two weeks—minimal messaging and mostly as a response rather than an unsolicited reach out—which I greatly appreciated. Some men (most men) push my boundaries—looking for free attention—once they feel they have an in. This guy was different.

He’s a self-professed fan. He told me that he’d read every word I’d ever posted on my sites as well as the pieces that have been posted on online publications. During our first time fucking, he made a joke about the girth of the condom—hoping it wasn’t too thin—stemming from a late night anecdote in one of my stories from my first book. We laughed, but it made me slightly nervous knowing that this man had read all of my inner most thoughts about life and hooking, and there we were, doing the thing he’s read about. I countered his joke by saying I wouldn’t fake an orgasm, which I almost instantly regretted. This was going to be tricky. A tightrope walk between the real me, the writer me, and the hooker me. Men always say they want the real me, but let’s face it, the real me wants them to hand me cash and then leave so I can take myself to dinner alone. But that’s not as fun for them.

We met for drinks. He seemed nervous. It was sweet. I could tell we had some things in common and over the course of time we discovered even more. Most notable was our hippy upbringing. I mentioned this sugar free taffy like thing called a yinny that I used to eat and he knew what I was talking about! He’s the first person ever to know what that was. I liked him right away. I remember thinking: this might be the easiest john I’ve ever had. He’s not necessarily my type—although, I’m not sure I have one—he’s short with tight curly hair, but his sense of style was something I could relate to. He wasn’t the classic mid-fifties white guy in a salmon-colored Tommy Bahama shirt. In case you were wondering, there is a common denominator between all men and women I’ve dated: tall with beautiful hands.


This guy was easy to be around. I prayed the sex would go well—assuming he wanted to fuck me of course. He paid me for the meet and greet and we made a date to hook up a few days from then. Apparently he did want in my pants. Our neighborhoods aren’t far from each other, so I called a motel halfway in between us and booked the room—I had to make the reservation because he’s married. He said he’d reimburse me in cash. I wasn’t too worried about it. He was a straight shooter, polite and professional. I trusted him.

We discussed our love of dive bars and dive motels, so while I chose a clean motel, I went with simple and easy. I’d rather benefit from a regular gig and extra cash. I have expensive taste, but when it comes to hooking, I’d rather that money go in my pocket, not the hotel’s. I brought snacks, water, booze, a candle, and a Bluetooth speaker. I was a little tense while I waited for him. This was my first client whom I’d met from Instagram. I toggled between swigs of vodka and cucumber water.

He arrived and we hung out for a bit. I knew he wasn’t going to be a Twenty Minute Man type of john, but also not an all-nighter like The Texan. Most dates in this field last an average of two hours or a little under. This includes chatting—both before and after.

We moved it over to the big bed and kissed. He was a decent kisser, not the sparks like with dude from 2012, but not horrible like some of my other tricks. We started to disrobe. I was curious about his penis. He had big hands, but with his stature, it was tough to say. Although, like I’ve mentioned before, none of that seems to matter much anymore. I’ve been thrown off track in this arena over the last few years: one or two men I would have sworn had swingin dicks, and a couple with the opposite read. I’ve given up on looking for clues. The only way to know is to see the damn thing.

When he got down to his boxers. I fondled his erection through the thin material and was pleasantly surprised. He was on his knees. I was half on my side. He leaned forward so he could remove his shorts, which put his face near my crotch. He went down on me. Holy crap! His tongue movement and soft lips felt incredible. And his dick was gorgeous. Reminiscent of my ex, the chef, whom we all know has one of my all time favorite dongs. I was having fun.

We sixty-nined like for a bit, it was super hot. I’m not currently fucking anyone besides for work, and I’ve been sexting with my long-distance crushes, and jacking off like a crazy person, my body has been starving for decent sex.

We finally broke out of that position and I grabbed a condom from the nightstand. Since he’s read all of my work, he knows I make fun of men for not putting on their own condoms, so he did the deed. Again, we laughed at this. So far, I was only seeing positives from him knowing all my secret info.

I licked my fingers and rubbed spit on the outside of my puss, and he entered. He felt really good. We kissed and fucked. And then I had a small orgasm…without even touching my clit! That almost never happens. Hearing me come, did it for him and he came too. I felt like I had one of those news banners in my head: this guy’s a fucking dream! I just hoped he could afford to see me on the regular.


[Second date]

Second date with my Instagram client, whom I’ve now christened, The Unicorn. You’ll see why.     We met at the same motel. Talked and laughed before the sex. We could talk for hours. In fact, I had to steer us to the sex portion so we wouldn’t be there for a week. Not that he was avoiding having sex, he just likes being in my company. Perhaps a little too much. And see, here’s my conundrum, he’s going to read this, so many bullets and feelings to dodge. Good news is, he’s a grown man. I think he can take it. I mean hell, I’ve coined him the damn Unicorn, his ego should be soring, right?

The usual commenced. I absolutely love his cock. He felt great like before, but I could tell that my body didn’t feeling like coming. As you know, I don’t normally try to climax with clients. But I was enjoying myself nonetheless. This alone was a near first. He came. We washed up, hung out for a bit, and then he left. When I rent rooms in Southern California, I don’t always spend the night, but sometimes I do, tonight was one of those nights.

He text me when he got home. We said some of the usual, “It was great seeing you” stuff, and then it took a sexual turn. I admitted that I wished we didn’t have to use a condom. He agreed. No matter how you slice it, or which condoms you use, sex is simply better without them. That’s the sad truth. There’s just something about skin on skin. The detailed discussion got us both worked up. Again, this has never happened with a client. I don’t sext with them. They don’t usually turn me on. I can only attribute it to him being different, but honestly, I think he also lucked out and got me at a time when I’m getting zero action…my body is missing it.

Anyway, I thought his wife was home, but it turns out she was out of town. We talked about him coming back to the hotel. He asked about money and I told him to skip it. He said he was jumping back in the car. All of this was a first. Not only for a john, but I don’t think I’ve ever even done that with a booty call. Well, maybe one other time, but what you know about my sex life, that makes it practically a first.

I took some swigs of vodka and did a tiny bit of meth. I was beat from my long day. I needed just a tiny kick. Despite the fact that he was turning out to be a unique client, he was still paying me, and I was still performing to some degree.

We laughed and hugged when he arrived. I was already wearing next to nothing. He took his clothes off and we got on the bed (again). He slid my panties off and went down on me. I don’t know what the hell he was doing with his tongue and fingers, but it felt like heaven. Before I knew it, I was coming really fucking hard. Haven’t come like that since Bull Durham. Come to think of it, have I even had sex with a non-paying since Bull Durham? I don’t think so.

He came up and kissed me, I needed him inside me immediately, if not sooner. He was rock hard. He pushed in slowly. We wanted to savor the sensation. It was pretty fucking magical. It didn’t take long before he came. He pulled out and came all over my stomach. I could tell that like mine, his was epic. I’m the first woman he’s been with besides his wife, and then add the non-condom factor. We laid there for a bit and talked about how amazing it felt. He marveled at how strong my pussy muscles were and what they did when I came. It was nearly 3 a.m. by the time he left. He is, by far, the best client I’ve ever had! I’m so happy he came into my life.



I recently received a slightly unsettling email from a guy through one of my websites. In it, he addresses me by the name I have attached to that email—which shouldn’t show up anywhere—with a question mark. Right off the bat he got under my skin. Oh, wait, I just realized it was his second email. His first asked if I was real. Or if I was “some social project or some high level porno industry’s PR”. I responded to that first one explaining in a few short sentences that I am indeed real, and that every word I write is 100% true. I think I added, but can’t remember and I’m too lazy to search my sent box, that using the term “memoir” implies the work is non-fiction. Anyway, back to the second email. The, “Tee hee, I’m clever and found your name, but I don’t think it’s your name”, email. He wished me a pleasant birthday, and then asked, “Are you doing hooking cause of physiologic necessity or just because of the money…asking because to my mind you’re sound and look too intellectual for this endeavor”.

So many whizzing thoughts and expletives ran through my mind as I read that sentence. He polished it off with, “p.s. why Kelly cause it’s strange to talk to a person with no name”. This email address—one of my thirteen working email addresses—like most, require a damn name, and since I ran under the radar for a long time, it’s under Kit Kelly: which was my Tinder name. So, while it’s not my name, it is in fact, a name.

I’ll open this retort with this: Dude, you wrote me…unsolicited. You cold-called my ass. You should be grateful I responded—especially since you made no attempt to solicit any of my valuable skills. Let’s address the “physiological necessity”. Is he implying that I need to understand why men fuck? Or is he asking if I’m hooking as an understudy for school? Or that I somehow need to fuck men for money in order to subsist? I’m not sure he knew what he was asking, because physiological refers to the body. Does my body need to be a prostitute? Hmmm. I have long-ish legs. Big natural tit’s. Full lips. Come hither eyes. Mouth lube. Eager to please, oh wait, that’s psychological. And a sweet tasting pussy. Maybe my body does need to be a hooker. I’m just kidding. It’s all about the benjamins, baby!

However, as most of my readers know—minus this guy apparently—I also enjoy my job about half the time. I don’t think I’d last this long if I didn’t. Enjoy might be a bit strong. It’s not nails on a chalkboard half the time. On the flip side, we all know that if the money was taken out of the equation I wouldn’t be baby-birding an old guy or watching The Texan jack off for twelve hours.

And the final grenade, my favorite bombshell: I sound and look too intellectual. Now, had this gentleman read my excerpts (granted, this one was way back, but I encourage people to read my work), he would have known that I’ve covered this statement before. Said to me once while I was at the club: “You are too smart to be working here.” A million strippers have broken this down in a million ways, how can I say it differently? ME LIKEY THE MONEY. I also enjoy working for relatively short periods of time. If I was a cashier at 7 Eleven, would you say the same thing to me? What if I had an Instagram account dedicated solely to my life at 7 Eleven, would you say I was…eh, nevermind, you get the thrust.

Ok. My looks. Let me turn this around, what do I look like I should do? Most of my self-portraits look like I should be committed to the looney bin. What exactly about my face screams diplomat? He does know that my industry is predicated on looks, right? It starts there, and then goes down the list: disease-free, can form a sentence, non-addict, no warrant, good in bed, etc. The more boxes you can check, the higher your collection fee and stamps on your passport.



I’ve been a sexual being for a long time, but coming has been tricky for me. Granted, my sex life started when I was thirteen, and I never masterbated. You’d be amazed at the early age some of my girlfriends started making themselves come. I didn’t have orgasms for the first four or five years of my sex history. I’ve written about that part before, but it’s relevant to this modern day piece.

My early days of fornication were deep-seated in attention seeking and the desire to feel wanted. My own sexual needs took a backseat. Perhaps this is what makes me such a good hooker—as well as an annoyed one when my tricks concentrate on my pleasure.

My first orgasms were with a girlfriend (a gay relationship, not one of my pals…although I have slept with almost all of my female friends), and always from getting head. And I couldn’t always reach it. Or if I did, it was sometimes a chore. I’ve talked about this before, so I don’t want to repeat myself, but it took me a long time to trust that a person was down there because they wanted to be. Still to this day, although thankfully much less than back then, I start to panic if it’s been longer than fifteen minutes. My damn brain! Makes me who I am, and also cockblocks the fuck outta me.

I’m an orgasm challenged sex worker. I have them, and I can make myself come in under ten seconds, but with another human being? Oy vey. There are times when it’s like that scene in Annie Hall when Woody is going down on his wife and a fire truck goes by with its siren blaring and forces her off track. Why, oh why couldn’t I be one of those bitches who comes at the drop of a hat? You might think it’s an urban legend, chupacabra shit, but I’ve known a few of these women. I’ve also met ladies who were like me. I’d say most women fall into a middle category. Not a nutcracker (like moi), but not a simple nipple blow either.

With my extended sex history, you’d think I’d have it figured out by now, but my brain is my brain. You’d also think that a strong, sexually enlightened female would be coming like the dickens. Ah, well. Can’t fight city hall. I guess I should be grateful I have them at all. Hell, I’ve come in my sleep before! Which shows you that it’s completely mental. I know myself well, and I’m more mature than years past…but still a freak of nature. Some things can’t be helped. Funny enough, I’m currently sitting at a bar writing in one of the tiny towns I grew up in: the very place where this cerebrum was forged.

Once I’m with a person for a while (in a committed thing), my mind calms down a bit and my orgasms are pretty regular. I wonder if faking it with clients has screwed me up. Actually, scratch that, I know it hasn’t. This issue existed long before all that. I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’ve stopped myself from coming with them a time or two. Can’t be good for the body. Not in terms of blue balls, but the denying: bad memory foam to shape.

For most of my career I didn’t like coming with clients because it was too personal, and while that’s still a portion of the pie, now I worry if they feel the real thing, they’ll know when I fake it. Can’t have that. So, basically it’s a cluster fuck.

My client, whom I’ve dubbed The Unicorn, is the only one I’m trying to come with (the first client in my long history to which this was the case), and my brain has gotten in the way a couple times. Which is much more frustrating than faking it. This is probably why women started faking it in the first place.

I didn’t expect to be coming with him. I had what I call a half orgasm (this is when I ride it, but it never climaxes) our first time, and then the second or third time we fucked, he was going down on me and I came super hard. Honestly, I was surprised. His finger was inside me—no way he could mistake it. It set a precedent. Exactly what I try to avoid. We’ve talked about it at length. I’m extremely honest with him. We have an atypical client/hooker relationship. But it doesn’t help with the pressure/brain-fizz factor. Although he’s made it clear that it’s the journey, not the goal. But of course he wants to feel that again. And it’s not like I don’t. I do. I just hate that it’s a thing now. Also, he’s not my dude. We see each other maybe twice a month or less, and I’ve only been seeing him a few months. To some degree, it feels like the first time every time. The space in between sets us to the beginning.

I tried to trick myself the last time we saw each other, my running mantra was, “it doesn’t matter if I come…just enjoy the feeling…it doesn’t matter if I come”. Yeah, sure. It’s like talking to a horse. And then telling said horse not to be a horse.


I guess I’ll just be jacking off and coming in spurts when I can get out of my way until my next serious relationship—after I can retire. Let’s just pray the menopause (cause it’s gonna be a while) doesn’t totally fuck my bits up. I’ve never been one of those dripping wet girls. I usually have to spit on my fingers and lube my lips. It’s the outside. I’m wet on the inside, but I guess I wasn’t born with those vagina-drizzle glands. I sweat in that area when I’m uber nervous or on large amounts of MDMA. Does that count? Bull Durham liked that I didn’t get sopping wet, he liked the physical sensation and taking his time getting it in, said it was like fucking a virgin. Well, maybe not a virgin, that shit took forever to penetrate and hurt like hell. But if I don’t spit on the outside, it takes a minute to get to the good stuff on the inside. I think it’s sexy though. In, out, in further, back out. It’s fun if the guy is into it. So many just assume they can unzip and jam it in. That all is takes is them saying they wanna fuck and my pussy will magically self-lube. This is why I recently posted that quip about a man’s pre cum. That not only is it hot as hell, but a sign that their penis wants to assist. Their peen recognizes it wants inside a hole with closed lips that are presumably minding their own business. It’s like, “Hey babe, was up? You lookin’ so fine…hey, check this, I got this slippery shit to facilitate”.


Ah, the penis. I love penises; lovely, dumb appendages hanging around, filling up with blood, jizzing and peeing. The best joke I ever heard at the club (men love telling jokes to strippers): What’s a woman’s favorite thing to come out of a man’s penis?

The wrinkles.

I was working in the Green Door Room one night—a six, girl-on-girl live nude show, ending with semi-private toy show—and while I was in the middle of a dildo show, I spotted a musician friend of mine. I waved and gave him the, I’ll be there when I’m finished, gesture. After my show, I hugged the group of guys who had paid me, wiped my pussy with a towel and put on a skimpy outfit. I sauntered over to my friend, Mark, and his buddy, who were sitting on one of the three steps by the Cabanas. I hugged Mark, and he introduced me to his pal. He used my real name. “Hi, nice to meet you”, I said as I shook his hand.

“Hey”, he said, “Mark’s told me a lot about you.”

“Is that right? All good, I hope”, I said and winked.

“Of course.”

“What do you do?”, I asked.

“I’m a musician.”

“Ok, so…what coffee house do you work at?” I was feeling frisky. I giggled and leaned against Mark, who was being uncharacteristicly quiet.

“No, really, I’m a musician”, he said in a shy manor.

“Yeah yeah, don’t be embarrassed. I used to pump gas at Chevron, there’s no shame in honest work.”

They weren’t saying anything. Then Mark pipes up, “He’s not lying. He’s the guitarist for _______.”

A cunt hair moment of silence passed. “Oh shit, I dance to one of your songs, my bad. Nice to meet you.”

We all laughed, and went about getting to know each other and shooting the shit. I saw him around town at a few parties after that, and Mark told me he had a crush on me. A couple months later, my boyfriend and I broke up, so I gave Mark the go ahead to give what’s-his-name my number.

We ended up dating for a short time. He was really sweet, but it wasn’t a love connection. Not really. It was fun being in his world for a minute though. His band had the number one selling record at the time. I went to the recording studio with him while they worked on some post shit and singles. He owned the most incredible house in San Francisco. I spent Halloween Eve passing out candy with him. Most times, he would stay out of view and I’d open the door to field the, “Does _________ live here?”

He was surprisingly down to earth. He’d been in the limelight for a long time. I worked at a their shows in the 80’s. He muttered some hints about marriage once, but I didn’t pay it much mind. Although perhaps I should have. I would have been set for life. But as much as I love money and the freedom it affords, I like making my own. The thought of riding on someone else’s coattails doesn’t appeal to me. I really did love his house though. I may have liked it better than him. Hell, his guitar collection alone could have covered both of my first two properties combined.

At some point, my ex-boyfriend wanted to get back together. And because I loved him—and had invested interest in the relationship—I ended it with the rock star.

Hello readers! Every once in a while I like to make sure everyone knows what’s up with me and this website. 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…it will be available for purchase next year (I just closed a successful Kickstarter campaign in order to pay an editor and make this happen).

As I’ve been working on the first memoir (aka, editing it to death), I have continued to write. I’m currently on book three, most of what I’ve been posting in the last 6 months has been very raw pieces from the third book.

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 are taken by me. Cheers!

a) i need a new lens…probably a whole camera b) i had shit on the wrong setting (why the images are kinda fucked)


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, “OK.”

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 anything…at 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.


We were seriously buzzed after dinner (I had also dropped in the bathroom before we left for a pick me up) and needed gas, so we stopped at a DQ gas station combo. I suddenly had a hankering for a dipped cone—haven’t had one in years. The Texan wanted one as well. While he paid for the gas, I made him buy me a pair of orange-colored mirror aviator sunglasses, Nerds, and mini white wine (I love stocking up on ridiculous shit at gas stations when we’re drunk), then we ordered our cones: two child-sized vanilla dipped in chocolate. 

We got in the car, had about three bites each when they started melting—it was 108 degrees that day, which meant it had dropped down to a cool 90. Neither of us wanted to deal, so I told him to stop the car, I grabbed his cone and jumped out to toss them in the trash. Then we drove approximately one hundred yards to the hotel. I convulsed with laughter, “Well, shit, had I known we were this close, I would have kept mine.” We couldn’t stop the giggles. These are the moments I cherish with him. I forget to write about them, but they happen all the time. Unfortunately, they get fuzzy and marred by the stupid shit: the times I want to kill him. 

One of the reasons why I’ve been in his life all these years (besides the money) is that we share a sense of crazy and a dark sense of humor. I was keeled over laughing at one point later in the room when we were half-naked and before we started fucking, because he said: “You’re a little piece of corn. My family has been harvesting whores like you for generations.” 

Although, he gets a bum rap due to his proclivity to do too many drugs and jack off for fifteen hours, he’s not a bad person. He cares about me and does a lot of nice things for me—it’s just too bad he also happens to be the biggest energy vampire of all time with a bottomless ego that can never be satisfied.

San Antonio, Texas 1:42 a.m. 

It occurred to me tonight: I’m paid because I’m fun. I’m light-hearted, silly, smart and sexual.