Some clients were of the opinion that I had no right to complain or request better service from a paying customer. I would totally agree however clients were paying for my time and intimacy, not the right to hurt or abuse me. If there was the slightest possibility that I was going to receive a nasty case of whiplash from some young, overeager, porn-addicted novice that would put me out of work for a week I was going to speak up. Clients often wanted to give my ample derriere a playful pat, but if they intended to leave a welt, I wanted a warning so I could give a lecture on my boundaries. Same went for pinning me on the bed—no problem done in moderation but if I was in pain, the client quickly copped an ear bashing, and failing that, a knee to the nuts.
I once had a client debate this issue with me after he bit my neck and left a dreadful bruise. He insisted that because he was paying I should just cop it sweet. I responded: ‘You have the right to fuck me, not to hurt me. Listen arsehole, you want B and D that’s $400 extra, so pay up or I will have you for assault.’ We settled on $200.
There were some acts that no girl enjoys, yet clients insisted on trying them on me. I was of the opinion that if this man was going to be a regular, why be made to feel uncomfortable more than once. Clients who hocked up a big wad of saliva, then attempted to use it as lubricant generally had their hand slapped away and were told, ‘I tell you what, let’s use lube, no extra charge!’
Clients who used the oil driller—attempting to squeeze three fingers into me then madly making a turbo sawing motion, back and forward, back and forward—were swiftly stopped and put right. Finally clients who pushed my head down while I gave them French resulted in me removing their hand from the top of my head and saying, ‘I know the drill, up, then down, up, then down.’
Not every client wanted to improve his sexual prowess. I have met some wonderful men—kind, handsome, wealthy, funny, the whole package—but my god were they useless in bed. It was beyond them why girls didn’t return their phone calls. It was definitely not my job to tell the truth, that would have been financial suicide. Instead, I commiserated with them. Every now and then I would suggest a few things, maybe a little nibble, only to hear that he had indeed tried that once and he didn’t enjoy it.
One of these clients quickly became besotted with me, and begged me let him jump the chasm from client to boyfriend, but had I done that I would have to forever forgo the wonderful orgasms that I had grown to like so much. In its place I would be wealthy, regularly treated like a princess, spoilt rotten, have a gorgeous, famous man on my arm, and always mix with the fashionable people. To me it was hardly a choice: I chose good sex. I did stay in touch with him and he eventually got married and is blissfully happy.
‘Let me take you out’, ‘I want to buy you dinner’, ‘Let me look after you’, ‘You would be perfect for me’ were all phrases that were heard once a day.
In my more cynical moments I would play along. ‘So what are you offering? I already get plenty of dick, I have loads of money and my lawn is mowed for free. Where would you fit in?’
Part III
51
The End of an Era
Austin and I had had a ten-year, roller coaster-style relationship. I loved him and yet at times couldn't stand the sight of him, but for the life of me I couldn’t let him go. He was my constant. Every working girl has one, he’s the guy you shag when you need a cuddle. Clients are all about them, their pleasure, their needs. Austin became my Clayton’s boyfriend, the boyfriend you have when you don’t have a boyfriend.
Some days you could shag ten guys and not have one orgasm, so it was nice to know that there was one man in the world who knew your body, knew your likes, and cared about your pleasure. Sure I was being used, but then again so was he.
These faux boyfriends tell you everything you want to hear, they accept you warts and all, but they just don’t take you seriously. Austin would come over twice a week, Wednesday and Saturday nights, for dinner and a movie. Sometimes he would drop in for lunch. If I was with a client, he would chat with the receptionist and make himself a sandwich while I worked. Sometimes he sat with us at night for security; he enjoyed being a part of this perceived underworld.
I mistakenly took this all to be acceptance. Why didn’t he make me stop and support me to get out of the game? The answer is that he derived too much pleasure from being the man who dated the girl everyone wanted to fuck. It made him feel somewhat superior. He was the man I craved, so he had one up on all the men who had access to me.