I work for myself, and I earn every dollar I make. It is me that you are meeting, and spending your time with.
If you want to spend time with someone else that is forced to do high volume while shackled to her hotel room, who must answer her phone, might give you a used towel, who will scoot you out the door 10 min early so she can squeeze in her next appt., and who probably gets less than half of the money that you give her, go right ahead.
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AGENCIES
"Now is the time for me to talk about agencies. It is something that I have been reticent to discuss mainly because they are the reason that I came to be. Nobody is born a whore, they are schooled and groomed for this position. Someone had to teach them how. It wasn’t easy. I wasn’t young or pretty enough. One agency ran by a lady told me that she only takes women that are 18-23 and with long hair. She only gave me the time of day because I wasn’t black. She told me to meet here at a cyber café in Hollywood, but she never showed up. She probably saw me and decided to pass. This café was later to become important to me. There were many ladies that were prostitutes there, all checking their e-mail and chatting on their cell phones getting ready for their dates, and coming in for food. The place was open 24 hours, so for 2 months this café became my second home.
I think working for an agency is like drug running or like bank thievery. It is all a hustle, a scam, a game of smarts, The idea is to not get caught. Play it cool and no one gets get. Make sure that you keep your eye on the ball because the name of the game is money and the name of the ball is more money. I really don’t know how I ended up in this biz. I am a really good natured person. I have never shop lifted, and I have never scammed someone for money. Suddenly I was thrust into a business that I had no business being in. Namely smut. Glorified smut. I had to convince them I was worth giving money to. I had to con everyone that I was better than I was. Basically I was a good looking pan handler.
Let me clarify this. It is so crazy that people have to pay for stuff that they do all the time anyway. Pay for sex? People will have sex anyway. Perhaps we, as providers, we help diminish rapes, we help reduce domestic violence. We keep the familial unit intact. We help keep that big rock of servitude on the wife’s finger. We keep our mouths shut and we take our payment like every other public servant except we know we may be gone tomorrow.
Agencies. I thought slavery was over. The sex trade is alive and well and they will keep shackles on you long after your time is done. They take the prettiest and youngest and then they squeeze the best years of your life out like toothpaste: a little here, a little there, and then one day, you wake up and realize that you don’t even have enough for yourself.
When I started I was their darling. Of course I made money. I was new. I didn’t know but I was being auctioned as a new girl, my implied virginal state was plied and angled like a fishing line in the Snake river of Los Angeles. Of course they took the bait, I looked good, smelled good and didn’t know my ass from my mouth.
I was pretty lucky but I got greedy. I started signing up for all the shifts. I was super whore. Better, faster, and more passionate than a politician on a hot campaign trail. I was determined to be, all that I could be, a w-h-o-r-e. Life was good. Then I started to fuck up. I started looking more ratty, and I had these bags under my eyes that would not go away no matter what I did. I would drive around all night zooming here and there, only to find more often than not, I was not the girl in the picture, and that I would knock on the door and no one would answer.
I started to get upset. I started to bang loudly on those shut doors. I would show up chewing gum because what-the-fuck, I was not giving the fuck, they were paying for my fuck. And fuck them I did. I started to get back at them. I started to give really good service. It was my way of fighting back. Maybe it was my martial arts training but I realized that I was going into the enemy, becoming one with the enemy. It was mind blowing when I turned the tables on them. I was the predator and they were the prey.
I looked deep into their eyes when I went down on them. I grabbed their hair when I fucked them, Occasionally I would lay there in missionary all passive and then I would look at them like a rabid animal and start spanking their ass. I was no longer super whore, I was psycho whore. They would feign to not kiss me and I would suddenly grab them and kiss them, almost violently, this was fun to do as I left them and went out the door. I started making more money. Guys would call up and start asking for me. I was being asked by the agency: “What do you do to these guys, they are crazy for you.” I shrugged my shoulders. I could care less. I was making money, but more importantly, I was working hard so that I could stay numb. As long as I didn’t look in the mirror, everything would be okay. Or so I thought.
One night my booker wasn’t there. I made little money that night and when that night stretched into three I started to freak out. I was seriously low on cash, and worse yet the agency director started to blame me. “What happened?” He would demand. Nothing. I went out on the two calls and booked them. Not my fault. I knew that my time as an agency girl was coming to an end.
I found out that my booker was working for another escort company. I was thrilled to learn that she was doing well and had a plan to get me in to the company. It was hard for me to get hired in the Los Angeles escort agencies, they would tell me that I was too old, but she knew that I was reliable and not a drug addled flake like the other girls. There was one small problem. I knew the guy who ran the company, and I wanted to go low profile. So she concocted a new name for me and did not put my photo up on the escort website. I was instead the new girl who was saving up money for pictures. This worked out perfectly. The money was substantially better, and now I started to have confidence. I was getting better clients. When things are good they only last so long.
My booker was a speed junkie. She would work all hours and chat non-stop to my prospective clients on the phone, making me sound like a movie star, a perfect 30s bimbo, a housewife, a college slut, you name it. The problem was that drugs were clouding her judgement.
Writing ads are tricky. I never did the: here I am now come and fuck me routine. I wanted to stand out. “The thinking man’s sex symbol practices her deep suction on thick creamy vanilla bean malts with a cherry red straw. This heroine fights off angry glares from malnourished wannabe MILFS and fleeting stares from their pussy whipped husbands. This is a big City, but this gutsy gal has decided to conquer it, one dick at a time, one lick at a time. Remember when the air was clean and sex was dirty? It takes a dirrrty girl. Come on baby, let get dirty.” It works."
--A piece from my book I am working on.
-- Modified on 3/6/2005 7:14:02 AM