April 23, 2008
So there in the beginning I met most of my clients at the hottubs. And never once did I get in the water. I became familiar with every hottub place in a 60 mile radius. The ones in Palo Alto were gorgeous, by the way. More of a spa than hottubs. Those might pass the water test. Bring your PH kit to be sure!
It’s strange thinking back all those years. But the cast of characters I’ve met during the time I’ve been escorting have been strange and wonderful. Mostly strange. And not in a good way. I was asked how I choose new clients. My current methods are very different from what they were in the beginning. I go by intelligence level really. And lack of creepiness over the phone. You’re a construction worker? Great. You’re a hard working man. But you’re not going to get your foot in the door. Oh, you’re a venture capitalist working mostly with tech? Give me a second while I roll out the red carpet. Since I’ve made it clear on my website that I don’t want to see any morbidly obese people I’ve cut back on those. In the beginning I wasn’t so great at screening out the strange ones.
I recall agreeing to meet one guy. It was to be at the Berkeley hottubs once again (it’s been years since I’ve been to the hottubs so this was still very early days) and I met this guy. Early 50s I’d say. Long black hair. Very “hard” looking. As in he’d smoked way too many packs of unfiltered camels and drank too much whiskey. Before adjourning to our chlorine infused chambers we shared a cool drink he told me he worked for Pixar (which I never believed for a millisecond was true) Couldn’t stop telling me how beautiful I was and how much he’d love to go out with a woman like me and would I date him and wouldn’t I please be his girlfriend. Of course I said no. While there was a component of fun for myself in doing this, I was not using this as a dating service.
As we left the hottubs he kept telling me how amazing I was and how much he wanted me to be his girlfriend. And I kept sweetly telling him no. A few days later I read a review he’d written about me. It turns out that he was a moderator (which meant he probably was the guy behind) this particular review site. I’ll never forget that he wrote how awful I was and gave me a very low rating. For the first and last time in my stint as an escort I posted a rebuttal and asked why if I was so terrible was he so keen to date me? The review mysteriously vanished. It’s been ages since I’ve even read my reviews and anybody with any sort of intelligence can see that most of the stuff they write is made up. I stood up to this monkey but many girls are afraid of ruining their ratings and so never defend themselves. For me the occasional vitriolic review from a creepy disgruntled client isn’t so bad because it’s diluted by my many good reviews.
I now know that the review sites reject reviews that aren’t “explicit” enough. So you end up with a bunch of Penthouse Letters parodies. It’s all a scam to get a bunch of horny guys who can’t make a decision on their own to cough up the monthly subscription fee. Suckers. I’ve also learned that there are some very elite escorts who have been “banned” from advertising on the review sites because they refused to have sex for free with the site owners. Guys, you think they’re doing this all for your welfare? Get a clue.
So back to creepy “pixar” guy. Among this very odd group of hobbyists there are those who run a racket to see if they can sleep with girls for free. I wonder if they communicate with each other and brag about it. There are many ways they accomplish this; by trying to tempt girls into being their girlfriend or by craftily getting out of paying for services. “Oh, I thought you took credit cards – look in my wallet. no cash” or giving you a thick wad of cash that is mostly ones or a white envelope that has a piece of paper in it and hustling you out the door before you have a chance to notice.
This has happened to me exactly three times in my career as an escort. In all three cases the guys were very rough with me and kept me much longer than the agreed time. It very much bordered on rape. I’m not trying to sell some sad story. I knew the risks I was taking and I made those choices. Nobody is responsible but myself. But. I’d like to find those guys, have someone hold them down and stab them in the eye with a fork. That would give me satisfaction. Maybe singe their testicles with a zippo. Needless to say these days I always request payment up front with new clients.
April 22, 2008
So. I’d received a few emails from gentlemen interested in getting together. But there were two things I needed to make certain of:
1. I was not going to meet anybody who was unsavory
2. I was not going to give anybody any indication at all of where I lived
Obviously my personal safety was first and foremost. I needed to safeguard both my identity and my person. And being new to all of this I was perhaps overly cautious at the start. Of course it never pays to be too careful. Frankly I had no idea what I was getting myself into so I imagined all the worst case scenarios and then made sure my actions precluded any disasters.
I decided that the way to minimize my risk of meeting anyone who was completely repulsive was to ask the guys who contacted me to send me their photos. At the time my standards were pretty high. Not too old, not too fat, not too ugly. No mustaches! A surprising number of guys did send their photos in those early days. Of course I promised to keep any information I had about them absolutely sacred. And I did. After all, I expected the same in return.
Now, what about location? I had done some research online and realized that my options were limited. Since it wasn’t going to happen at my place and I wasn’t going to anybody’s residence, the guy needed to get a hotel room or as I’d read someplace online, he could go for the less expensive option – the hottubs.
Do you remember when going to the hottubs was considered a fun thing to do with friends or a romantic/sexy thing to do on a date? Know this now: Never go to the hottubs again!
I chose my very first client, a married chinese guy who was in the garment business. At the time I was considering starting up a surfing inspired clothing line so we had a lot to chat about on the phone. We agreed to meet at a cafe outside the Berkeley hottubs. I packed an assortment of condoms into my handbag and crossed the bay bridge to Berkeley. I found the cafe and ordered a soda as I waited.
It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say I was nervous. But he was so great on the phone and sounded so lovely and normal that I wasn’t uncomfortable. If I remember correctly I was wearing a sort of turqoise top with a deep V neck and a brown pencil skirt and brown strappy leather sandals. Certainly nothing that would be construed as overtly sexy. The one thing I did not want to do was draw any unnecessary attention to myself.
When he arrived I knew him instantly. I have to tell you I was so lucky to have had him for my first client. He was personable and handsome and in great shape. And obviously attracted to me. It could have gone any number of different directions. The gods were smiling down on me, that’s certain.
I waited for him to get a private room in the hottubs place and then he called me with the room number. If I wanted to I could back down now but why the hell should I?
I’d never actually been to hottubs before. When I entered the room, that was maybe 10 by 10 feet, there he was waiting for me. I asked if we could take care of business first, which we did. Nothing trumps cash money. It was all so simple. We kissed. We explored. I sucked his smallish but hard cock. We had sex on the mattress/bench. As is the case with so many of the men I’ve seen he was a bit too rough but with a little guidance we sorted that out. Afterwards, which is also the case with many of the men I’ve seen, he was very affectionate toward me. It was nice. He told me I was sexy and terrific, etc., etc. and to expect another call from him soon.
Our time was soon up so we got dressed and I left the room first. Walked back to my car. Started the engine. And I thought “that was like falling off a log”.
April 21, 2008
As promised I’m here to finish my story about how I began all of this escorting business. But first I want to thank all of you from twitter who have written to me and shown your support.
Where was I? It was very early in 2002 and I was doing whatever I could to make ends meet. I was spending a portion of every day at the beach, getting to know the surfers, occasionally getting myself out there as well. In case you were wondering, the Pacific Ocean is cold! And it was often cold and windy at the beach. I’d bundle myself up and sit reading, sipping my latte and enjoying the feeling of cold sand between my toes. I became a bit obsessed with anything that had to do with surfing. I could name all the major breaks throughout the world and recognized all the world class surfers in all the wetsuit ads. I began haunting all of the surf shops and surfing themed cafes all along Ocean Beach.
It was around this time that I got a phonecall. It was a guy I dated very briefly when I’d first moved to SF. The story there is that he was a terrifically insecure individual with some very deeply rooted psychological issues! He was Korean and apparently was so afraid of his culturally traditional parents that he never introduced his former fiance to them, who consequently died of cancer, poor girl. From the very beginning there were issues in and out of bed. I soon found that any comment I made would put him automatically on the defensive. And I’m one of the most easygoing people you could ever hope to meet. In bed it was a horror show. To start with he had a very small penis and he just couldn’t seem to get hard. I’d stopped seeing him after a couple of weeks of dating. So it was surprising to get a call from him.
He was about to leave SF and was having his car fixed at that moment so he’d decided to call me. I suggested that we go for a cup of coffee so that he didn’t have to hang around the garage. What a nice girl I am!
I picked him up and we drove down to an internet cafe across from the beach. I quickly remembered why I’d stopped seeing him! Snarkiness and defensiveness quickly bubbled to the surface and he was, frankly, very irritating. As I finished my latte he said that he was familiar with a site that one of the guys sitting close to us was surfing. And he said it in such an “I’ve got a dirty little secret” way that I had to get all the details.
It was a site where escorts post ads, I found out. Hmmmm. Very interesting. He began telling me about others and was using terms like “johns” and “the hobby”. Strange as it may sound, I’d always thought it would be fun to be an escort and that I’d be good at it. I just never knew how to go about it and certainly would never do anything that would mean I’d even remotely put myself in danger. One of the things I’d done to make ends meet was taking a job as a phone sex operator. Now that was creepy! My thinking then was, “hey, if I can make a buck off some sorry hornbag then why not?” This seemed to be the next logical progression.
And so I dropped off flaccid man and headed home to do a little surfing myself. What I found pretty much blew my mind. There was this entire world of “hobbyists” who go from escort to escort to escort and then write reviews about the girls. The more I learned the more I started to see a sort of profile of the kind of men who employ escorts and flaccid man fit the profile to a T: the need to feel important and powerful – not during the sexual encounter because they weren’t capable of that, either physically or emotionally but by writing the reviews! It’s actually very sick. There is an entire community of fantasists who can’t deal with their pathetic sexual inadequacy. Sick and sad.
So how could I do this but do it on my terms? How could I make sure my clients were not these pathetic “hobbyists”? I began by designing a web site – I was a web designer, after all – and positioned myself as a high end escort. It was important for me to establish from the start that I wasn’t interested in meeting with these “hobbyists” but preferred to see men for whom I was their exclusive companion. I picked up a pay-as-you-go phone from radio shack, set up an email account and posted an ad on the site with which I was now very familiar.
That very evening I had messages in my inbox.
Oh. My. God.
This was it. Do or die. Could I go through with it?
April 19, 2008
I realise that in my last proper post I was telling you how I got started working as an escort. Part II of the tale is, in fact, riveting. And I will get to it but for now I must take a little sidepath and relate the events of last night.
As I mentioned in one of my tweets on twitter, I was seeing a new client last night. When I first have a conversation with a new person I do try to get some information from them. Regardless of the questions I ask, I get much more information from the manner in which they answer the questions than the answers they actually give. Though of course the answers factor in as well. I’ll have to get into that process another time. It requires a post of its own! Suffice it to say I’m selective.
So last night I met with D., a banker with Bear Stearns. I was glad to have a new client who’s English. And I’ll tell you why, not only would we have common things to talk about – since I head over to the UK on my visits to Europe – but his being English made me reasonably confident that he would also be well endowed. Now you might think I’m generalizing. But I’ll tell you this, I have a fairly good sampling of the population and when it comes to ethnicities, the English are, for the most part, packing some heat. I don’t know what it is. All the rain, maybe. Helps it grow. I don’t really need to know the answer why, I’m just happy it’s the case. I’m sure somewhere there’s an English guy who isn’t well endowed. I’ve yet to meet him. And frankly have no desire to.
D. arrived and I opened the door to a quite tall, and considerably hefty bloke. “Hmmmm, I thought. This is unfortunate.”
You see, you never know what you’re going to get when you open that door. They’ve got a reasonably good idea, considering there are photos for them to look at. But we’re flying blind on this end.
Not that he was hideous. Just larger than I like. For an English guy he was wearing a really poorly cut suit. Obviously he’d been living in the states for too long. That’s one of the things I love about London guys. They’re properly suited and booted. And don’t get me started on the hair styles over there – tres hip! I’m sorry American men but they put you to shame in those areas. It just is. In the way that Mount Everest is.
So, badly suited Bear Stearns banker guy has brought a bottle of champagne. Points! Just about makes up for the fact that his left eye seems to wander somewhere to the West. Which one do I look at?!! But we open the champagne and chat and he’s really very sweet. We sit on the sofa for about 5 minutes but he’s raring to get into the bedroom and “get comfortable”. Which he does surprisingly quickly. Shirt comes off. Shoes and pants and socks come off. Just the undershirt and underwear left as he sort of pours himself onto the bed, his belly doing this kind of jello wobbly thing as it settles.
Now, I prefer to undress the guy – seems much sexier to me and it’s a process. Bankers just don’t have time for all of that! They’re on a schedule apparently.
I notice that his breath is a bit, um, skunky. One of the hazards of the trade, I’m sad to say. Note to men: Brush your teeth immediately before sex. Every time. Without exception. I normally ask people to brush their teeth but he’s already “gotten comfortable”. And the champagne sort of acts as a natural antibacterial. Sort of. I’m wearing a black tube dress and he nuzzles my neck. The top of the tube dress comes down very quickly. I realize very quickly that this guy is very oral. Soon I’m wearing only my gold strappy sandals and he’s occupied between my legs.
“ooh, D. that feels so good.” (me)
“you do that just perfectly.”
“yes, play with my ass just like that. lick it.”
“you want me to come in your mouth like this, don’t you?”
Dum de dum. OK, 20 minutes down and an hour and 40 minutes to kill. Don’t get me wrong. I can enjoy someone going down on me. But most men don’t do it very well. There it is, guys. sorry to be so brutal. You think you’re sending a woman to the heights of exctasy and we’re thinking about our shopping list. (The proper way to give oral is a whole other topic which I promise to get to it eventually). And so to end the agony I say:
“oh baby I want you in my mouth”
I roll him over and kiss him and work my way down his body, taking my time. Making sure he’s enjoying it. There are little things I do to ensure that. And I’m finally between his legs. This is the time when I do a thorough examination of the situation down there. Safety first! And then, yes, I take him into my mouth.
Girls, I don’t know if you ever noticed this, but you can totally tell when a guy is getting ready to come. Of course I learned this very early on because one thing you don’t want is an unexpected “surprise” if you know what I mean. The trick is this – when his testicles retract into his body and you can feel something sort of surging around in his shaft, then it’s time to get out of the way!
But we’re no where near this point so I slip on a Trojan Magnum and lower myself onto him. Which is a bit of a trick when someone is that wide. Note to men: lose 50 lbs! Each and every one of you. OK, maybe 20.
But I soon forget that because his cock is in fact filling me up completely and I’m getting close to coming.
“Fuck yeah” he says, over and over. Someone’s obviously been watching porn. I have to say that there are worse things to hear at this moment. I really do try to get my share of enjoyment out of each experience with a client – if it’s at all possible. Sometimes it isn’t. I certainly don’t want to hear weird dirty talk when I’m focused on my orgasm. It can be off putting, believe me. But this was OK. I just rode him until I felt that glorious escalation in my loins that ended with me shuddering to the tips of my toes. Hail Britannia!
Now I’m ready to get this segment of the evening over with. “I want you to fuck me from behind,” I say.
And after a bit of adjusting – big people have a difficult time moving around – we were in position.
“Oh baby that is so good! Your cock is so good in my pussy!” – aaaaaaand – were done.
“Yeah. That was incredible!” (him)
“No, you’re incredible” (me)
“So, do you like to party?” (him)
“By the term ‘partying’ I assume you’re referring to indulging in illegal substances of some sort?” (me)
As it turns out, this banker had some coke on him (what are the odds?) And as it turns out, I’d never done coke. I know. I’ve managed to abstain for a long time. I suppose because alcohol disagrees with me so much I was reluctant to try something that didn’t come with a built-in temperance mechanism – which for me is a doozy of a hangover the next day. I’d been thinking about trying it for a few months, so what the hell. I’ll give it a go!
One rolled up dollar bill later not much was happening. The line he gave me was about half the size he consumed.
“So, what’s this supposed to feel like? Is something supposed to happen?”
One thing that did seem to happen was it made the champagne all the more tasty! I had a little more. Because if I was going to do this then I wanted to feel something! And then I just started feeling a bit happy. Happy, happy, happy. And the back of my throat was numb.
I’ve heard that sex on cocaine is supposed to be pretty incredible. I suppose you need to be with a partner you’re attracted to for that to be the case but at lease I wasn’t as put off. And was I imagining it or was his walleye less noticeable?!? One thing I’ll admit to is feeling very affectionate toward D. We finished up the evening and he was showering me with praise and promising to call me soon.
During the night I woke up absolutely parched. My eyelids were all sluggish and sticking to my very dry eyeballs. Ugh.
Maybe there is a built in temperance mechanism after all. I’m still feeling a bit shaky and have loaded up on sugar to raise my glycemic levels. Fille x
follow up: I was hungover the entire next day – not the miserable, can’t function hang over that comes with drinking too much. More like a low-grade headache and general lethargy. Glad I tried it once. Possibly will again but not for a long while.
Here’s a random email that arrived in my inbox. This gives you some idea of the mindset an escort like myself has to deal with. It’s obviously in response to an ad I have running in London. Of course I couldn’t possibly dignify it with a response.
For the record, my breasts are a full and luscious natural 34C. Where he gets his information I do not know. Note the little tag line at the end. Haha! Based on my experience I’d say this gentleman has a difficult time maintaining an erection.
“£___.00 for an A cup… .get real!
GO DEEP, STAY LONG, COME BACK!”
Wherever you are, Colin – god bless ya! Also, you might want to think about getting a hobby. And all you girls out there, remember – the bigger your breasts are, the more you’re worth! According to Colin, anyway. Go deep, Colin, go deep!
April 18, 2008
“hello, this is Fille.”
“hi. I saw your ad online and was wondering if you’re taking any appointments today.”
“Great! Thanks for calling. Actually I am. What time were you interested in getting together?”
“I was hoping 1:30?”
“I can be available at 1:30. Tell me, J. what is it you do for a living? I just like to know so that we can have something to talk about. And I like to know a little bit about new clients before we meet.”
“I’m in property development. I’m 47 and I like to think I’m in good shape. I’m 208 pounds, six foot two.”
“OK great. I know lots of people in commercial property development. So, how much time did you want to spend together?”
“Well, how much do you charge?”
“My rate is $___.00 per hour.”
“Whoa. That’s kind of steep. I wasn’t expecting that. What does that include?”
“Well, there will be no circus animals. And I don’t do windows. I think you can appreciate that I can’t go into specifics over the phone (moron). It will include anything the two of us would like to get up to in the amount of time you choose.”
“I mean, well… what about multiple times?”
“Well, I’m more about quality than quantity (ignoramus). I believe in making the experience really sensual and fun. But if you were to, well, “finish” early, provided it’s not 10 minutes to the time you’ve booked then I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“It’s just that I’ve heard…”
“What have you heard?”
“Well I shouldn’t have a problem with that. It’s just that I don’t want to finish a half hour early and then, you know, it’s all over.”
“hmmm. You haven’t read my reviews have you? I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you get back in touch after you read them? There’s a lot of great information on my site. I’m sure that will answer any questions you might have. Mmmbye.”
I’ve kept a hard copy journal for as long as I’ve been escorting. The decision to go digital wasn’t a difficult one. I wanted to make sure I had enough to keep my readers interested. As Benjamin Franklin said, “Write something worth reading or do something worth writing”. I’m thinking my readers won’t be disappointed.
In promoting the blog I’ve gotten a great response from the folks on twitter. As I’ve been working in the tech industry for longer than I’ve been an escort – still am, in fact – and since many of my clients are in tech themselves, I thought it was a good place to get the word out. So first and foremost, thanks to all of you tweeters who have already visited my blog and have posted comments. And my apologies to anyone who felt I was spamming them by following them. Special thanks to nicedexter for correcting my bad french!
Some of you have been asking how I got started in my little sideline. The story begins where it finds itself now, in tech. I had moved to San Francisco from tout East at a time when the tech boom was just beginning to peter out. 2000. Of course I knew I had a challenge ahead of me because two of the companies I had interviews with called to cancel because guess what? They were closing.
I did manage to get hired by a company that had been around for five years. It seemed to me that they had a bit of stability but even that was a bumpy ride. They rescinded their original offer without really telling me much. I later found out it was because the company was going through a restructuring. Loads of expensive EOs were being brought in to roll out a new product and they were laying off people throughout the company. Certainly not a situation in which they’d bring in a new designer.
I gave up on San Francisco. Went back to my very low paying job back home with a publishing house that was threatening to fold any day. And then I got the call. Come out to San Francisco. The EOs are gone, we’ve gone back to our original management and we want you! I was very excited.
I packed my bags, waited for the movers to load up my furniture and on an early December day I flew to SFO. I started at the new company the next morning.
Now, in my urgency to get myself to San Francisco, I had made the decision to take the first opportunity that presented itself. Probably not the best choice but I was desperate to get myself here. Things went well for several months. But there was a problem. We had no product! And no revenue model to go with no product. The company began laying off people. Three designers were let go in two months and I was the only mac jockey who remained. And then one Tuesday morning, as I was getting ready for work, I watched two jets plow into The World Trade Center buildings.
We all know how awful that day was.
September 11th completely knocked the tech industry off its already shaky legs. And one month later my company closed its doors. Along with many others.
If you were around in those days you know that the job market became deluged with web designers, marketing and hr people, accountants and pretty much anybody whose skill set didn’t include coding. I remember looking through the listings at the time and seeing descriptions like “seeking web designer: must know java, C++, Oracle and will be responsible for maintaining the corporate network. $30K”. Even the businesses that had nothing to do with tech suffered. Restaurants folded in droves. Southpark had become a ghost town. Almost everyone I worked with left San Francisco to go back to New York or Chicago or to attend grad school. I wondered if things would ever be the same again.
How was I going to be able to live? Unemployment didn’t even cover the rent. It was a very scary time for me. I scrounged around for any little design project I could get and adopted the role of freelancer. Took some pro bono work to beef up my portfolio. And when I wasn’t working I spent a lot of time down at the ocean, learning to surf. Which did a lot for my soul but not much for my pocketbook…
April 17, 2008
And welcome to my little world of sex, tech and money. This isn’t the sort of world one would stumble upon every day. Some might find it a fascinating place. Others might harbor the notion that it is, well, unsavory, to say the least.
But for those who are interested I believe the tales of my experiences will indeed lend insight into the human condition. Because in my life as a high-end escort I can guarantee I’ve learned some things that will shed some light on the male mind and those individuals who imagine themselves to be connoisseurs of women. Laughably so, I’m afraid. But the strange and fantastic notions that live in their heads is really the most fascinating part of this secret world.
And it is a secret world. I’ve never told anyone about what I do. I operate completely independently. I have a normal life – with work and friends and dating and will never let these two worlds come together. Prostitution is illegal in the US. Prostitution. It’s a word I don’t like to use. I am merely offering my “companionship”. Others may not agree and that’s their prerogative. I like to think I’m a completely different species from the crack smoking streetwalkers who put themselves in grave danger every time they offer a punter a blowjob. Worlds away.
What I’ve discovered, being a much-sought-after, higher end escort, is that it’s all about psychology, not sex. The sex is such a small part of it all. What swirls around in men’s minds surrounding sex is everything. And of course most men are completely unaware of this. Certainly the men who pay for sex. They’re bound up in still-pubescent fantasies of women who will eagerly meet their every physical desire. It’s mostly about breasts and body parts in their heads. Quantity over quality. And imagining themselves to possess incredible sexual prowress for an hour.
I’ve met men from all over the world. But of course being based in the epicenter of technology I’ve had my fair share of interaction with some of the biggest names in the industry. Of course I have no intention of naming names! I’m simply going to relate events as they unfold, for your edification and education.
And what about me? A common question I get from my “clients” is “how did you ever start doing this?” You see, I’m not the typical woman who sells her body for money. I’m not financing a drug habit, I have a professional career, I’m smart, healthy and have a university degree that I’ve put to good use. I travel the world and have a decent knowledge of cultures and current events. And am becoming more and more obsessive about technology. So why do I do it?
Because I always thought I’d be good at it. And I am.
There have been other smart women who do what I’ve been doing – enjoying a little sideline that exists on an entirely separate orbit from their normal life, who have written about their experiences. And I’ve read their memoirs. But the stories they relate don’t seem to be very honest to me. Even if they’ve not been driven to the “profession” through circumstance and like myself are not a part of the darker underbelly of the industry, I don’t believe for one minute that they are just enjoying sexual liberation and being paid for it. Belle du Jour is a good example. As if all the men she actually saw were good looking, fit and uber-wealthy. For the most part the men who participate in this sort of play are middle-aged, overweight, and have long ago given up on any sort of fitness or grooming regime.
She probably got the loneliness part right. Insofar as it’s true it’s not the sort of thing you can talk with your girlfriends about. But one would only be lonely if they let the secret lifestyle become their entire world.
My goal is to be honest. To show exactly what my experience of sleeping with men for money has been.
I’m hoping women will read this blog. If nothing else to give them a better understanding of what goes on in the minds of their husbands and boy friends.
And so, my darlings, I’ll leave you for now but do look forward to sharing more, Soon.