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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.”

“OK.”

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.”

“OK.”

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.”

“I was.”

“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?

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Today is the 10th anniversary of my last—and second most serious—suicide attempt. Ten years. Sometimes it feels like yesterday (although I have a daily reminder in the form of a permanently injured foot), and other times it seems a lifetime ago. Ah, suicide. Suicide is much more difficult on the ones who love you. It took my friends some time before they could laugh about it with me. Granted, this last attempt was pretty arduous and left me in excruciating pain, unable to walk for a couple months, and incapable of working for ten. Wasn’t a lot to laugh about in the beginning. I’m not saying it’s easy for the attemptee. It’s a shit show of emotion for sure. If only I had passed out laying out flat…then it would have been just a stomach pump and a week in the hospital. But no, yours truly was slumped like a little pretzel for ten hours, burning her insides with toxins while her cats stared at her. Poor kitties. The pretzel position cut off the circulation to my left foot and fingers. My fingers regenerated, but I permanently killed the nerves in my foot. From the moment I gained consciousness in the hospital—a few days after being in intensive care and fed by tubes—and realized I wasn’t dead, I moved forward and didn’t look back. I’ve done an incredible amount of amazing shit in the past ten years. All of it with this bum foot! And although there’s still pain when I’m on it for hours, it pales in comparison to the first few years. It hasn’t stopped me from living and doing. That’s just who I am. I take life as it comes and move on to the next thing. I don’t let shit fester. “Crap, I’m alive? Ok, let’s heal and move on”. It’s difficult for me to say that I’m glad I didn’t die, but I suppose I am. I wouldn’t have had this experience with you guys, which brings me joy everyday. So many amazing friends and lovers I would have missed. Yes, my foot is a bummer. I can’t wear certain types of heels, and it is painful at times, but I’m not going to beat myself up over it. I did it to myself, and that’s OK. As my book title suggests; it’s been anything but a wasted life. I hope this didn’t bring you down, I hope it did the opposite; make life your bitch!

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NEWS!

Hello readers! Couple announcements…

The second podcast is in production! Should be out within a couple weeks. And…

I’m launching a Kickstarter campaign to self-publish!! I’ll keep you posted on both. Check back here, my Instagram (@theuncensoredstripper) or titsandwit.com for the release bulletins. Cheers!

xo

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So fucking typical of my life. Hooker site number one hated me (hate might be strong, but he thought me a whale), while date number two loved me too much. Can you love a person too much? Aren’t you supposed to be turned on and excited by the woman you want to pay for sex? Why is this so complicated? I truly am Goldicocks.

The date: I told him I was planning on going to the Long Beach Flea Market and I could meet him after. He said that would be great. I warned him that I wouldn’t be dressed up, but that I’d be cute. Straw fedora hat, jean shorts and a flowery top. He said he liked that even better, that he was a chill surfer type. I couldn’t remember his exact age, but I knew that he was younger than me. He didn’t know this little fact, since my ad says I’m thirty-five.

The day came and I felt good. First, I liked that he seemed easy going, and second, flea markets are my happy place. And the Long Beach location is my favorite one. I also felt good about the way I looked. I showered, shaved, applied makeup, wore big hoop earrings and put my hair in low, curly, ponytails and the hat. I felt like the real me. I headed down south.

I text him when I was finished, like I said I would, and he said he’d meet me at the restaurant. Which, according to Yelp, was only eight minutes away. I touched up my face in the car, spritzed some of my work perfume and changed out of my Chuck’s. The place he said to meet was in an outdoor mall along the canals, I hate malls, but the place itself was pretty cool. I got there before him, so I grabbed a seat at the bar looking out onto the water and passing boats. The menu was Asian Hawaiian faire. The place reminded me of Hawaii, complete with a live reggae quartet. It had a good Sunday vibe. I was into it. I ordered a cocktail and did some speed in the bathroom.

He arrived and I was stunned. Not only was this guy noticeably young, he was good looking! It’s not that john’s are generally ugly, but they don’t tend to look like this guy. This man looked like he could get any woman in the bar. {cont next post}


He was tall, broad shouldered, thick, sandy blonde hair (ok, it was in a small ponytail…), and the most amazing green eyes I’ve seen in a long time. Granted, most of my life is conducted at night.

He was really sweet and had nice energy. He was a scientist, very fascinating research about food and the human body. The conversation was lively and fun. I got the impression that he was an introvert and shy, which is probably why he was on the site—he mentioned a little later that it was his friend’s idea. He travels a lot and is in the lab for long hours, sometimes weeks on end. He said it makes a normal relationship near impossible, but that he still had needs. Boom! Me too!

All systems seemed a go. We were engaged, laughing, flirting. I was wowing him with my big brain. He kept ordering more drinks for us, and I noticed that he had huge, beautiful hands. I’m a sucker for nice hands. At one point he took my legs and draped them over his. I was happy. This couldn’t have been a more opposite experience than with “The Monk”. I even spilled the beans about my age and he said that he liked that even better! His eyes lit up when I told him I was actually forty-four.

The bartender asked if we had been set up and I said yes, that it was a blind date, she was impressed and gave me the, “you go girl” look. Ha! If she only knew.

He kissed me at one point. It was pleasant. I felt I had hit the jackpot. But as our time was nearing an end (I did have to drive home, so I couldn’t drink my face off), talk of finances was the natural next step. My favorite. As before, I thought I had been pretty clear about my needs and what I was looking for in terms of an ongoing arrangement, but once I threw out some numbers, he visibly retreated. Motherfucker. Why? What is it about these men and the god damn money?! Are we not adults? Did you not read my messages? Did you think that site was for women looking for free drinks?

He scampered around the issue a bit, and said that ultimately he’d have to think about it. Groan. {cont next post}

  
He added that he really liked me and could see dating me for real. Ugh, gag me with a spoon. I hate hearing this when I’m on a work date. How much exactly should I dial down the amazing? Should I hawk up a loogie next time? When things are comfortable with a person, I don’t know how not to be anything other than myself. Sorry if I’m reasonably intelligent, fun and sexy. 

He asked for the check and I excused myself to pee. I did my classic eye-roll-to-self in the mirror as I washed my hands. Why can’t I find what I’m looking for? Where’s my perfect fucking porridge?! 

As I walked up to the bar, my not-right porridge slid into my lap (metaphorically) as I saw that he was splitting our hundred-dollar bill on two credit cards. I felt like crying. The bartender was now giving me the, “sorry honey” look. Once that was settled, we walked out to the parking lot together. 

The sun was starting to set and the sky was gorgeous. Once at my car, he started hugging on me and kissing me. And here is where I even confuse myself. I knew this was a lost cause. He clearly didn’t have enough money to afford me, and he was obvious in his apprehension of the financial arrangement. But I made out with him anyway. His dick was erect and big like his hands and I was buzzed. Plus, I wagered, maybe if he were this charged by me, he’d rethink his position on the money. 

He was going on and on about how incredible I was, and how turned on his was. He asked if I wanted to go back to his place. Sorry, love, no way in hell I’m fucking you without money being involved. I know I’m making out with you for free in a parking lot like a bad ho, but I haven’t lost all my senses. There was still a chance that he’d come around the next day when he missed me. I’d blow that chance completely if I slept with him. I wasn’t that desperate to get laid.

 I turned him down nicely and made my exit. He text later to say that he really respected me for not sleeping with him. Whatever, buddy, can you just get over yourself and pay me to suck your dick? But that was that. I only heard from him one other time, but he was just saying hello, not asking to make plans. Next on deck!

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I recently placed on ad on a hooker site. I hate doing it, but money is tight so I need new income coming in. First, I need to preface this story, well, I don’t need to do anything, but let’s just say that I’m out of practice meeting new clients—the meet and greet. I’ve been lazy in my job search and last night was exactly why.

I was in a really good mood yesterday (although a little nervous). I was having a good hair and face day. Isn’t it strange how one day you can look like a super model and the next like something on the bottom of your shoe? Anyway, I wore a nice blouse, a sexy bright orange lace skirt, and I was strapped with pretty new heels. I felt like the perfect mix of sensual sophisticated. My tits weren’t falling out of the top, but I try not to scream hooker when I meet these guys. Plus, most dresses/tops that have massive cleavage plunge are tight around the mid-section and that’s my problem area. However—as my mom was kind enough to point out recently—I can sometimes look bigger than I actually am in the flowy tops. But if you’re a woman with large natural breasts and a poochy stomach, you understand the comfort of a flowy blouse.

Four o’clock came around, and I drove to Marina Del Rey. We were set to have a drink and maybe more if all went well. He said I should bring stuff to spend the night. Yeah, right. I didn’t tell him that there was no way in hell I’d be sleeping over, better to discuss these things after wine and a blowjob.

I parked and text that I had arrived at his building. He said he was going to bring his puppy. I thought that was a sweet idea. I saw him walk out of the monolith condo building. He looked exactly like his photos. 50’s, chiseled features (bordering on odd, but interesting). He wore jeans, a button up shirt and sports coat: classic “john” apparel. The puppy was over-the-top cute. Huge paws. He looked like the dog version of my Maine Coon cat.

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About five minutes into the date (as we walked to the restaurant on the lagoon), I liked the puppy more than the man. I think he knows this about himself. The dog got loads of attention, while he was awkward at best. We arrived at the restaurant, and sat at a table on the patio. I ordered a Pinot Grigio. He ordered the house merlot, which I unenthusiastically noted. House merlot? Who the fuck orders house merlot?

Anyway, we talked. The conversation was stiff. He had a lengthy bio on the website: about how he comes from old money and has been to every country, and that he was a monk for fifteen years. He also mentioned a reality show about a guy who searches for oil. Something like that, I honestly couldn’t give three shits. I thought for sure that with all that life experience, we’d have tons to talk about. But he was a tough kernel to engage with. Thank god he brought the puppy. That puppy is his personality! The man was fairly mute. I guess he got that part of monkdom down.

I was struggling—and way too sober. I can usually talk to a tree better than this guy! I don’t know what was up with me. We managed to make it through our wine. I even got a smile out of him at one point. The waitress came around and before she could ask us anything, he requested the check. I figured we were done. I got the feeling I had a better chance of fucking the dog. He paid. I thanked him. We walked back. We got to the crosswalk, I was getting ready to say, “It was nice to meet you”, when he asked if I wanted to come up. I was genuinely surprised. This was not a man who acted like he wanted up my skirt. He seemed like a man who wanted to set my skirt on fire. I should have left, just thanked him and driven like an old bat outta hell, but I didn’t because this old bat needs money and a new client. So…I said sure. 

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 His apartment: small one bedroom with “A view”, as he pointed out. The front door opened into the kitchen area, which was filled with boxes. Semi halting. First thought; “Are those filled with hookers past?” The place was decidedly unimpressive. Not only did it not look like a place a man with loads of money lived, it didn’t look lived in at all. Was I being punked? Or a soon-to-be cautionary tale? He asked if I wanted wine, remembering the merlot incident, I said sure and that red would be fine. As he poured the wine, he said something about moving to Santa Monica (hence the boxes). Sure, dude. So many things were going through my mind: does he really live here? Is this someone else’s place? Or is he married and this is his fuck (or kill) pad? Like Dexter, but with no code. I didn’t let any of these thoughts marinate though—I’m good like that. Instead, I used the bathroom and text my friend to let her know I was alive.

When I came out, I took a seat on the couch—besides the coffee table, the only piece of furniture in the small living room with the view. He had lit two big scented candles, presumably to cover the dead hooker smell. Then he played some fantastically cheesy opera music from this strange little system in the corner of the room with a screen facing inward. I mentioned the weird set up he said nothing. That alone should have had me leaving. Fuck the boxes, was he filming this? This idea didn’t really hit me until after I left. My eye was on the prize at the time. Prize, Ha! Nothing about this scene felt hopeful or prize-like, but I was there, and in super sweet mode.

The music cracked me up. It was the same soundtrack that was stuck in the cassette player of the rental car I had in Tuscany circa 1997. So. We’re on the couch drinking his two-buck chuck—yet another bad sign on the “I’m a millionaire” front—and he’s sitting a few feet away with zero positive body language. We clinked glasses. No, I didn’t watch him pour it to make sure he didn’t drug me, but honestly, my body is fairly impervious to poisons.