I met her, as these things so often happen, in an online forum. One of those I now regularly denigrate as dens of stupidity, misogyny and stupidity.
She was one of the first who caught my attention shortly after I joined my local “He-Man Hooker Haters Club” message board. I hadn’t set out specifically looking for her, or indeed someone much like her. I now think that’s largely because I didn’t know someone like her existed. And if she did exist, it never occurred to me that I’d find her on a hooker forum. I was looking for the typical. The usual. The no entanglement, no conversation, no expectations kinda girl.
But, I found her instead.
She was one of the first to welcome me to the board and take an interest in what I had to say. To this day, I don’t really know what it was about me that drew her to me. I have no doubts at all about what drew me in to her.
She was (and still is) hot, shapely, nasty and classy. Those long legs, that long hair, those massive magical tits. She had curves where women are supposed to have curves. She had brains where most men lack. And really, who doesn’t like a redhead?
We spent hours, days, weeks, months chatting online. We talked about art, history, literature, politics, music. And sex. We bonded over our mutual interests. I try to play things close to the vest. I try not to reveal too much of my real persona online. As I’ve said before, I think that way lies ruination. But surely, I can’t be the only whoremonger with an interest in obscure German punk rock from the 70’s. I’m not the only john who likes Warhol & Kandinsky, William Burroughs & Edgar Burroughs, Ogilvy & Mather.
But, she had stringent screening requirements. She is, after all, a professional. Part of her requirements for accepting new clients was having references from two other providers. At the time, though I’d done a fair bit of whore-fucking, it was girls whose names I barely knew, much less knew how to get in touch with again to ask for a reference.
So I set out to meet the requirements. I searched the boards for escorts with less stringent requirements. I found that even among the members of the small ‘community’ not everyone was willing to give a referral. Some providers preferred to keep their client list to themselves. So, I fucked a bunch of hookers. Oh well.
I fucked all different shapes and sizes, ages and ethnicities, GFE’s and quickies. Always with an eye on the goal, the right references that would get me in to see the creme de la creme.
We missed connections a few times. Once, she advertised an incall special in my neck of the woods, but by the time I responded, she had already booked up. If my schedule opened up, hers filled out, if she was available, I couldn’t get away from work or family.
And so it went, until she finally said “enough!”
She had arranged for a week of incalls at a ritzy downtown hotel. She insisted I come see her.
“I’m not sure I can get away, it’s the holidays, I have family coming in from out of town…”
“I don’t know if I can get away from work…”
“I don’t…” “DO IT!”
So there I was, the day before Thanksgiving, when I should’ve been on my way to the airport to pick up arriving family, instead I was knocking on the door of a very upscale hotel suite.
She took my breath away, she was everything I’d imagined. And more. Much, much more. Even though we’d chatted online for months, even though I had seen dozens of pictures of her; racy pictures, naughty pictures, pictures of her boobs. I had never seen her face until she opened that door.
Let me just say, as an aside, that there are many escorts who choose not to show their faces in their online photos. It’s often a point of serious contention among “hobbyists.” Some guys refuse to make an appointment with a girl unless they’ve seen a picture of her face. I’ve never been in that camp. They seem to think that the only reason a girl would obscure her face is if she’s lying about something, most likely because she’s ugly.
“What’s she trying to hide?”
How about she may be trying to hide her job as a hooker from her friends, her family, her clergy, her boss? Maybe she’s trying to hide her illegal activities from a mortgage loan officer. Or a police vice officer. Ya think?
The overwhelming attitude is, she must be ugly if she needs to hide her face. I have never, not once, not ever found that to be the case.
But maybe I just have different standards, or, y’know… standards. I think if you’ve done your homework, you’ve looked at her pictures, her tits her ass her legs… whatever your particular fascination may be; you’ve checked out her reviews and know what her level of service is, what other clients have to say about her, what other escorts have to say about her, you’ve spent hour after hour chatting her up online, in forums, private messages and emails… then you know what you’re getting into. I can’t imagine a situation like that where the girl would turn out to be so physically, emotionally, spiritually beautiful to you and yet you’d turn her her away because her face wasn’t up to your exacting standards. But then again, I like women. I don’t tend to think of them as ugly.
… where was I?
Oh yes. Knocking on that door. She, of course, was beautiful. I had expected no less, could not have hoped for more. With that first hug, first kiss at the door, we were old friends, new lovers. We bounced off every horizontal surface of that hotel room, and a few vertical ones. We laughed, we talked, we fucked. And fucked. And fucked. A one hour appointment stretched into two, and the second hour was giving way to the third when I had to reluctantly disentangle myself and return to my real world life. Saying goodbye at the door, she tried everything she could to get me to stay.
I’ve seen her often, time and time again, repeatedly since then. I’ve spent hours fucking her in hotels all over the city. I’ve left her ass print on windows overlooking all of downtown.
These are the thoughts that flooded back to me in an instant of time the other day, as we again spent an afternoon in bed, our limbs entwined in that now familiar, yet still exciting tangle. She has her personal life, her home, her family. And I have mine. Yet, there we were, another sweaty afternoon, another hour stretching into two.
Love? Who said anything about love? Not me.
I’m much too smart to fall in love with a hooker. Aren’t I?