Posts Tagged ‘cock’

Shop till you pop.

I'll take one in each size

I’ve recently had the good fortune to find myself with a bit more discretionary cash. Thanks to the economic stimulus, business has been good. More customers, more cash. Thanks Obama!

So, what to do with a spare few hundred bucks? Like you need to ask.

This time around, I decided to venture away from my usual encounters. Find a new in well to dip my quill in, a new crankcase to dip my dipstick, a new scabbard for my sword. New pussy, I’m talking about trying to find new pussy. Sorry to be so vague.

But where to go, where to look? Well, let’s go shopping for pussy, shall we?

First stop: Eros.com. I have to say, overall, this is where I’m finding quality companionship. But, damn, they make it difficult for the consumer. I think that, in a nutshell, is the problem with this site. They don’t know who the consumer is. It’s a difficult site to slog through. Bad layout. Most websites, whether news pages, shopping sites or classified listings, the main body of the page is front and center. If there are ads, they’ll be on a sidebar alongside the main article. On Eros, it’s the other way around. Huge swaths of web page real estate are given to outside banner ads. When you open any page, the first thing you see, smack dab in the middle of the screen is huge banner ads… for other escort ad sites. WTF? In fact, what should be the primary focus, the escort ads, are all tiny thumbnails running in a sidebar along the left hand side of the page. For example, I’m looking for escorts in Los Angeles, I have to scroll through a menu of cities, which takes me to a block of text links. VIP escorts, All female escorts, Visiting escorts… and about a dozen and a half different categories. Fuck it, let’s just see what’s in All Escorts. Oh, look, huge banner ads that’ll take me to pay sites. That’s what I’m looking for. No wait, I’m looking for hookers, where are they? Those tiny thumbnails. And chances are, no matter what category you choose, VIP, Visiting, Redhead, Mature, Incall, GFE… you’ll see the same 5 or 6 ads listed first. I guess those are the agencies… errr, I mean escorts… that paid a premium for having their thumbnail listed at the top of every fucking sidebar on every fucking page. It all smells vaguely pimpy.

As for the categories, it doesn’t seem to make any difference what you’re looking for. It appears that escorts can self-categorize any damn way they want. So, I’ve found listings for girls in the “Full Figured” category who are 5’1″, 110 pounds and 32 bust. The first listing in the “Redhead” category is a blonde. Followed by 3 brunets. There are 18, 20, 23 year olds listed in the “Mature” category. The categories are meaningless. Just as bad, is that an escort can give herself any name she wants, which becomes the headline for her ad. So, instead of “Sally Escort”, you’ll get “Sally VIP XXX Escort 36DDD in Beverly Hills.” I guess if some girl decided to name herself “I Will Suck Your Dick For Money In Van Nuys” they’d list that, too. There doesn’t seem to be anyone actually looking at the ads they sell and checking for quality control. Also, the Search function doesn’t work. Oh, I mean it works, just that it doesn’t actually return results based on what you’re searching for. Search for “Amber”, you’ll get “Shania”. So, even if you go in looking for contact information on a specific provider, you may still just get whoever they’re pimping… errr… whoever paid more for priority placement.

Like I said, they don’t seem to know who their customers are. And let me be clear here, I’m not their customer. I’m the target audience their customers are trying to reach. Escorts are their customers. Escorts are the ones paying them for ad space, ads whose rates are presumably based on being able to deliver the target audience. But instead, they’re sending the target audience off-site to a pay-per-view porn site or adult dating scam site.

Then there’s That Mall. Hey, That Mall, 1990 called, they want their web site design back. Practically useless. There’s a few things on there that make me chuckle. On the sidebar menu, under escorts they list 3 categories. Female. Male. Asian. Wait, what…? What if you’re a female Asian? Which category would they put you in? And if they’re going to subdivide by race or ethnicity, why not African American or Latin? Or Greek. But I digress. Then there’s the claim that all ads are verified, that ALL advertisers are required to meet with them in person. There’s a few girls on there I can’t get to meet with me for cash, but they’re going to head down to the That Mall offices? Oh, and where is the That Mall office anyway? Their phone numbers are 323 area codes, so, they’re in Los Angeles. But they have escort ads for Chicago, Texas, Atlanta and Hawaii. Did all those Chicago girls (or Asians) really come down to the Los Angeles office to meet with them in person? The thing that really cracks me up about That Mall is their banner advertising. I’m not kidding. I wonder how this dental office, with their picture of a smiling mom and baby feels about their ad banner being right above hooker ads? I guess it would make more sense if they were oral surgeons.

I guess we can’t discuss the topic of searching hooker ads without touching on the Craigslist story. Since Craigslist decided that cutting & running was the better part of valor, much has been said about their censorship of adult services ads. Yes, prostitution will go on. Yes, it’s still possible to get hooker ads online. Yes, it was a cowardly move by Craigslist and a brazen attempt to legislate morality, pander to the anti-sex puritans and restrict free speech under the guise of ‘protecting the children.’ Interestingly, many people in the escort/“hobbyist” community came rushing to the defense of the departed Craigslist Adult sections. Many of those people had long abandoned Craigslist as the bargain basement of hooker ads. I’ve made disparaging comments about “Craigslist girls.” Yes, I know that many of today’s $1,000 hotties were yesterday’s $100 Craigslist girls. But the fact remains that Craigslist had become, for the most part, the entry level of hookers. And thus, the place where cheap bastards looking for $60 dollar quickies went trolling. Not much has changed since the demise of Craigslist hooker ads when it comes to finding an escort. The ads have relocated to other venues. What has changed, of course, is that a girl who was barely scraping by on cheap quickie blowjobs now has to fork over more cash for her ads. Where she may have been spending $10, $15, $20 now she’s spending $30, $50, $300. Soon, she’ll either have to raise her rates just to cover her ad expenses or suck a boatload more dick.

Long before the Craigslist shutdown, though, cheap bastards already had a place to go. Hell, this place even has a private ‘club’ specifically for Cheap Bastards. They like to pretend that it’s a ‘social networking’ site, that they just happen to have classified ads, and sure 9.5 out of 10 of those classified ads are for hookers. But really, they’re just a community. They’re just there to exchange recipes and play Farmville. Or Hookerville. The ads there are free. Sure, you can buy “points” to use for things like priority placement, but essentially free. And they eschew all of the obnoxious Craigslist-esque trappings, the wild punctuation, the random capitalization, the barely disguised sexual innuendo. Sure, you can buy “points” to use for things like adding glitter and sparkle to your ad, but that’s tOtaLLy DiFFrenT. This is where the guys who think that $100 is way to much to spend for pussy have open and unapologetic run of the place. Can you find quality companionship there? Of course. Are there pages and pages and pages of misogynist bullshit? Of course. It’s their raison d’etre. Fortunately, you can go directly to the classified section and skip the commentary, you don’t even have to sign up to read the ads. There is one curious, comical idiosyncrasy there. Many of the providers advertising there specifically, explicitly claim that they will only see site members with verifiable references from other member providers and only those above a certain ‘trust’ level. For their safety, of course. Or, you could just look up their ad on Backpage. One positive aspect of the Broke Bastards  Board is that since they don’t allow comments on ads anymore, you don’t have to put up with slogging through 50 comments by detractors when you look at an ad.

Which of course brings us to the place where not only do they allow comments by detractors on an escort’s ad, they often actively encourage it. The Erotic Review has long been the place to go for escort ads, reviews and “hobby” discussions. The site has been around for years, and they like to think of themselves as the gold standard for escort reviews. Even after the guy running the place got sent to jail for trying to have a hooker killed, TER keeps on going. The guys currently running things haven’t (yet), to my knowledge, tried to have any hookers killed. Stalked, harassed, run out of business, sure. But not, probably not, raped or killed. Advertising on the site is free, although TER is a membership site and they do charge somewhere in the neighborhood of $20 a month for membership in order to have full access to all the site’s features. So, you can place your ad for free, but if you want to be able to look up a prospective client, look up another escort to check references or exchange messages with someone to determine their credibility, you’ll have to pony up $20 a month (recurring). All this allows you the privilege to post your ad once a week. It also allows every asswipe with an anonymous screen name and a grudge to trash you in your own ad. Piss someone off? They will make sure you know it. I’ve seen escorts place ads only to have them devolve into pages-long rants by angry hobbyists. Wonder why you place an ad and get absolutely no response? Maybe it’s because the 12 year old girls… errr… the moderators… have re-posted your ad in the Men Only Board, the better to trash you in private. I’ve seen it happen. Or maybe you wonder why your latest client’s review hasn’t shown up. It could be because the local moderator has a bug up his double-wide ass about you and has decided not to approve new reviews. And there is no recourse. It’s a dictatorship, and not a very benign one at that. The knock against TER used to be that the guy in charge abused his position to terrorize escorts, extort sexual favors and divulge personal information about them. Not much has changed, except the new guys actually go to the parties they host.

The good news is that after an exhaustive search, I did finally find someone to spend my spare few hundred dollars on (thanks Obama!). A good time was had by all, the economy was stimulated and so was I. I’m glad to report that I do apparently still have a huge cock. Good to know, good to know. It took some doing, lots of homework, lots of searching, but in the end it paid off. Finding paid pussy is still possible, but it’s not exactly easy.

And maybe it shouldn’t be.

Behind the mask.

The Observer rocks on

In 1992, H. Ross Perot mounted a campaign for the U.S. Presidency as a third party candidate; he chose as his running mate Admiral James Stockdale. During his opening remarks at the Vice-Presidential debate against Al Gore and Dan Quayle, Admiral Stockdale uttered the line that cemented the public’s view of the till-then unknown war hero as a doddering, out of touch old man: “Who am I? Why am I here?”

Since I started writing this blog a while ago, there has been a certain segment of our little society of whoremongers curious about who I may (or may not) be. That curious sector has now expanded into a virtual cottage industry.

Am I some guy lashing out at those who done me wrong? Am I some guy angling for free pussy? Or am I just bullshitting and making it all up?

The more common guesses center around the issue of my gender. Because I have written much that is critical of the guys involved in these tawdry pursuits, the natural inclination among those tawdry guys is to instantly assume I’m not really one of them. Because I criticize the guys, I must be a woman. It’s obvious! I must be some bitter, angry hooker seeking online revenge.

Sorry to burst your bubble, guys, but just as Vicki Vale knows who Batman really is, there’s one person who can attest to the fact that I really am male. Sure, I may be an old grey dog;  a short, fat, balding middle aged guy with a waistline that provides shelter from the sun for my penis. But that still counts as male.

So who am I, then? Lean in closer, I’ll whisper it. Just to you. Don’t tell anyone.

I don’t want to give out any Spoilers. Maybe I have other hobbies besides fucking hookers. Maybe I’m an outlaw, a desperate outlaw. Maybe I’m Fresh Off the Boat, like listening to emo bands or maybe I’m Radioactive Man‘s sidekick..

I’m not anyone but just plain lil’ ol’ me. After all, WTF, it’s… just me. I may have been born between October 23 and November 21 for those of you astrologically inclined. Maybe you can identify me by the car I drive.

I may not be a real doctor (or play one on TV), maybe that’s just an honorary title. I may not be a real lawyer, I may just be some guy who likes to talk about law. I’m not Five, of that I’m sure. And pretty certain I’m not Eight.

Maybe I’m black, maybe I’m white. I may be Asian. Am I an oddly tall Korean from the Valley? Or am I a Chinese guy from L.A.?

I’m just here to tell the troo…errr… Truth.

The Guitar Girl

You probably think this blog is about you, don't you?

She came highly recommended. Well Reviewed. I was going through a phase where I had a distinct preference for the hot MILF-y type, and she fit the bill. She had been on the short list of gals I had some intention of possibly seeing some day. Well,  circumstances intervened and “some day” came sooner than I thought. She offered a discounted rate, and even after paying for a hotel room, it’d still be a good deal. Or so I thought.

So I found myself checking into a hotel off the freeway in the middle of an afternoon.

There’s always the usual pre-show jitters. Will we click? Will I be able to perform? Is this the best lighting for my penis? So I’m naturally a bit apprehensive when she finally knocks on the door. She was not at all what I expected. Now don’t worry, this isn’t going to devolve into the standard “she looked nothing like her picture” rant. She looked just like her pictures. That is to say, her features, her figure, her form were just as advertised. But rather than the sultry, sexy, lingerie-clad temptress I found myself face to face with a patchouli-scented, gypsy-skirted, guitar-toting hippie chick. Lucky for me, I’ve always had a fondness for hippie chicks, whether the ironic/nostalgic type, or like my afternoon visitor the type who had actually been hippies. Oh, and yeah, I understand that she wasn’t going to be wandering the halls of the hotel in a negligee.

But more than her style of dress, I was completely unprepared for the guitar. I had booked an escort, not a floor show. As she made herself comfortable in my room, she informed me that she was an aspiring singer/songwriter and she wanted to serenade me to set the mood. I thought, “why not?” Well, actually I thought “so this is how she plans to kill the 53 minutes out of this hour that we don’t spend fucking.”

She played, she sang. I tried to be a gracious audience, while trying to maintain an erection.

Things didn’t get much better when we moved on to the main event after the musical opening act.

I made my move to go down on her, she balked. Really? No pussy strumming? She said she was sore down there from her last appointment. I had to wonder, if she’s too sore to lick is this somewhere I want to be sticking my dick? But no, she reassured me there wasn’t anything wrong, she was just chafed from a client who was an overzealous licker and under-zealous shaver. (Let me interject here, guys. Has no one ever taught you not to sandpaper a vagina? Am I really the first one to tell you to shave before you head downtown?)

As if the unexpected musical interlude was strange enough, things really took a turn for the weird when we moved on to the fucking portion of the program. Hippie chick wanted to inspect my instrument first. Not, as you might suspect to surreptitiously check for  warts or spots or misplaced frets. No, she wanted check out the size and shape. This, she said, would enable her to somehow tantrically determine the optimum position for pleasure.

Aw hell no

No, really. She would be able to tell. By the shape of my dick. What position we should fuck in. Her expert conclusion? Cowgirl. Yup, she thought riding my baby carrot would be the best way to have at it.

I know it may surprise all of you who are convinced that I can only fuck up, but I hate cowgirl. Look, I’m no porn star, I’m not physically gifted, and I have no game. But I’ve been fucking for longer than most of y’all have been alive and I know how to get off. I don’t have a vast repertoire, I just go for some of the ol’ in out. But, I figured I had made it past the six string to the g-string, I might as well let her saddle up.

We wrapped it up with her on top, and then it was time to go. No encores for this performance.

Of course, in the review I wrote I ate her pussy till she came 3 or 4 times, then finished up by pounding her hard from behind while she was telling me how huge my cock was.

Look, here’s the thing. She was a perfectly lovely lady, and we had a perfectly pleasant afternoon. Everything was as advertised, no more, no less. It was a straight up exchange of services for consideration, and no one got hurt, no one got ripped off and no one fell in love. These things aren’t mystical, they aren’t momentous and the aren’t manipulative. I think the worst thing the public-at-large does is to somehow imbue the hooker/john interchange with more hidden meaning than it really has. Or deserves. It’s not all Pimps n’ Ho’s, it’s not Pretty Woman. It’s not abuse or the result of abuse and will not likely lead to abuse.

We seem to have a tendency in this society to look for hidden meaning in the everyday. On that particular day, there was no further, deeper meaning. I fucked a hooker in a hotel room. Then I went to Ikea.

Getting my passport stamped.

Good likeness

It was a tough week at work. Deadlines. Schedules. Bad coffee.

So at the end of this very stressful week, I figured I owed myself a treat. A visit across the border to Hookerlandia was in order.

Maybe it’s a sad commentary on my wasted life that the arcana of making a date with a hooker are so ingrained as to be almost second nature to me now. Just like the frequent traveler knows the routines of maneuvering through an airport. Check in for your flight, get your boarding pass. Put your carry-on bag on the conveyor belt, take your shoes off. Call once to make the appointment, twice to get directions, three times to get the room number. Take your shoes off.

I take a slight detour from my standard route up the 405 and pay a visit to a very lovely, very accommodating young lady who is highly recommended and highly reviewed. These days, I like to go first class when I travel to Hookerlandia. After getting the preliminary comments about my huge cock out of the way, we settled in for a rousing romp. One of the better sensual encounters I’ve been a part of.

My latest side trip to the frontiers of Hookerlandia had me  thinking back to adventures past. Every guy who’s been at this for any length of time has a story to tell. Mine just aren’t about how great a lover I am.

In recent years, CraigsList has become the most common port of entry  into Hookerlandia. I had a streak of about a few months when I would visit a different CL girl on my way home from work almost every night. I had all shapes and sizes, every ethnicity and ran the gamut in ages from barely legal to barely menopausal. Good times. Good times. Some were good, some were bad, none were great. But you get what you pay for, and you don’t expect greatness from the minor leagues.

One girl stands out in memory, unfortunately not for anything approaching enjoyability. I had seen her ads for several nights, and although I kinda knew better (certainly I should have known enough to do some basic homework) I didn’t bother to find out anything about her beyond what was in her ad. The picture of the hot young blonde that accompanied the ad captivated me for some reason. Even with the blurry face. I called once or twice and got no response. Undeterred, I tried again. In retrospect, I should have noticed the red flags. I called, she answered.

“Hi, is this Aubrey?”

“Who?”

“I’m calling for Aubrey, about your CraigsList ad.”

“Oh yeah, that’s me.”

The background noise sounded like a boiler room operation. She told me where she was staying, we set a time. Then she asked me to stop at the store on the corner and buy her a beer.

“What? You want me to bring you beer? In addition to the hundred dollars?”

“Yeah, a Heineken.”

Well, weird, but maybe she’s thirsty and can’t get away to buy her own beer. But what the hell, I buy a Heineken for her, a bottle of water for me. You never drink the water in Hookerlandia.

After making my way past the glaring front desk clerk, I get to her room. I hand over the beer which she sets, unopened, on the bathroom countertop. There’s at least another six pack in there. Come to find out later that this is another stupid urban legend “LE check.” The  misconception is that a cop can’t bring you alcohol. So, if a guy shows up with a beer can, he’s not a cop. She’s a skinny blonde in a blue babydoll nightie. And she looks nothing like her picture. Another red flag. I should have walked right then, but sometimes you weigh the pros and cons and figure what the hell, you’re already there.

Gathering DNA samples

She had the TV on the whole time. I’m pumping away behind her and she’s watching a rerun of some cop show. The absurdity of the whole situation got to me, and I lost steam. Wilted.

This really pissed her off.

“Great! Now I have to start over!”

I understand. I hate reruns, too.

I’ve got a huge cock.

Always play safe

Every hooker I’ve ever been with tells me so. From streetwalkers to high-priced GFEs, every one of ’em tells me I’ve got a huge cock.

A lot of guys involved in the “hobby” (hobby? are you guys collecting stamps along with bangin’ hookers?) spend a lot of time writing reviews. There are complex ratings systems. Did she have real or fake boobs? Plus 2. Was she on time? Plus 1. Adams apple? Plus 2… no, wait, minus 2… whatever.

For my money, the best ratings are always gonna be based on how big my dick is. If I walk out of that hotel room thinking “Man! I have got a HUGE cock!”, then she did her job. If I walk away thinking “that was a good blowjob, but it couldn’t have been that difficult for her to deepthroat this gherkin” then there was a breakdown in communication. Look, anyone can get you off. It takes someone really fuckin’ good at her job to make you think you’re the biggest stud in town.

And sure, I know she says that to all the guys. But she really means it with me.

You asked for it

I was reminded of this today, swimming through the deep blue waters of one of the local message boards. There’s the ever-present thread about what constitutes a true “GFE.” One of a series of posts and polls that gets trotted out periodically. What does “GFE” mean to you? Probably the only topic more discussed is “shaved or trimmed?” And so often, as in this particular thread, it’s usually intended as nothing more than a look-at-me type of conversation starter. If a gal can get the guys talking about the definitions of “GFE” then that gives her an opening to let them know that she offers exactly the GFE they’re looking for. If she can present it as an opinion poll, it’s not really an ad, is it?

There will never be a comprehensive definition of GFE that everyone agrees on. Not if you’re trying to pin it down based on sex acts. No two guys are gonna like the same thing the same way. Slow, fast, on top, from behind.

But pretty much every guy wants to think he’s got a huge cock. I know I do.

Then again, I don’t have to worry.

I’m huge.