After negotiating by text for about 1 week, I finally got traction setting up a meeting with a former stripper on 7/14. We set up a date for 7/15 at 5:30PM. I sent a verification picture. She asked what type of verification, if any, that I would like in return.
Around the mid-afternoon of 7/15, I hadn’t heard back. I texted to ask if we were still on for the day at 5:30PM. By 4:30PM, I still had not heard back, so I texted to cancel and that maybe we would meet another day.
Tired and with heavy balls, I drove to McDonald’s to eat away my misery. I knew the consequences of this decision could be many, given how lethargic and uneager to fuck I would feel if she did end up responding after all. I was confident that she would not reply further.
While driving home from McDonald’s, I received the call which I didn’t answer followed by a text to call her back right now explaining that she was in summer school. We subsequently played phone tag until about 5:30PM and agreed to meet at a downtown hotel at 6:30 so that she could attend an apartment showing. She also explained that she was offering a $50 discount due to the local sports team reducing the total cost to $250 but that tips were always welcome and encouraged.
I showed up at the hotel at 6:25PM and parked across a river. I texted her as I crossed the nearest bridge to hotel that I had arrived. She replied disappointed that I did not arrive later. I was content wandering the river while I waited, so I told her that continuing to wait was not an issue.
About 7:00PM, a car with a discolored junkyard front bumper loosely attached and riding on a spare tire pull up across the river near where I had parked. Based on the blonde driver and implied disparity in income, I figured that was her. I observed the driver and passenger both duck down in their seats out of sight after they parked. This is a common practice while smoking crack in a car. To my unfortunate surprise after some minutes, the passenger got out of the car followed by a young child about 7 years of age.
The mother and child took the same bridge to cross the river as I did. The supposed prostitute split ways and took the other bridge. She called me while crossing the bridge, slurring her speech. I described my location waiting for her. I tried to walk in her direction but that only further confused her crack-fueled mind.
The first thing I noticed about her were approximately 9 gashes no less than 3 inches long each on her left upper thigh. Two of the gashes formed a perfectly symmetrical X. She would later “explain”, without my prompting, that these cuts were inflicted by an angry John.
We entered the hotel together while making small talk. I felt the typical embarrassment of being with a prostitute in public.
In the elevator up to her room, she described how the room was actually purchased by her friend to celebrate her child’s birthday so that they could use the pool. We would have to be out by no later than 7:50pm.
When we made it to the room, she had to first respond to an emergency from her friend. She let it slip that she had never met me before, and her friend was concerned about allowing me in the hotel room alone. In classic prostitute style, she blatantly lied to her friend as she dictated a text message saying that I was a friend of a guy she had been seeing for four years, that we had talked extensively, and that she would never lie to her about this sort of thing.
I’ve become very used to witnessing the lies of prostitutes, but the experience always feels unsettling as though I’m complicit in deception.
I asked her for permission to use the bathroom, and she consented after first grabbing me by the wiener and insisting that I grope her bare breasts to prove that I’m not a cop. A wrapped trojan condom stuck to her breasts fell to the ground.
She made small talk with me while I relieved myself, so I brutishly left the door open attempting to make sense of her words over my stream’s heavy flow.
When I finished washing my hands, I returned to the bed area to find she was furiously texting on her phone as drug-addled prostitutes often do. She took off her shirt and offered to start with a massage. I’ve become much more confident with escorts as of this encounter, so I proceeded to strip fully nude right away after lowering the blinds. She followed suit, and alas, I immediately noticed a dangling tampon string. After she completed another bout of furious texting on her phone, she described how she was changing birth controls which resulted in her period spotting and tried her best to clarify whether that was OK with me. I didn’t mind and expressed as much. Regardless, she went from the bed to the bathroom several times to check for any period blood while I laid face down on the bed for my massage.
Finally, she went to the bathroom one final time to get a tube of unscented hotel lotion to avoid making me smell “like a girl”. As she massaged me much more effectively than a separate rub & tug I received days prior, she described how she recently almost received a ticket for prostitution. They could only prove that she showed up to provide the massage, but she wasn’t a certified massage therapist at the time. So, they could only give her a ticket for massaging without a license. As an enterprising escort that she later proved to be, she explained that she became a licensed massage therapist to avoid similar legal consequences in the future.
I turned over onto my back when I was prompted to do so. We negotiated whether to use my condoms or her own and settled on the trojan she partially opened already which I knew to be a bit too large. Blowing me from that position made her uncomfortable due to the condition of her back. She asked me to stand up and made me feel where she was missing three vertebrae on her spine before continuing to blow me.
I considered pushing her head down while blowing me, only to see her arm instinctively rise to defend against such motions. She was clearly experienced and had been through such scenarios before. I could’ve gone for it regardless, but my empathetic instinct hit in this time. The gashes on her leg were clearly from self-harm, and she had already expressed far too much emotional vulnerability.
Exhausted from eating McDonald’s, I asked her to get on her back on the bed to put forth my best effort at sex. The lateness of the hour also worked against me. I proceeded to have the most vanilla sex I’ve had in months. About five minutes on top of the side of the bed… A few minutes in doggstyle… A few more minutes on top on the bed… She moaned boorishly and was exceptionally loud. I hurried myself to climax, largely to escape the inauthenticity of the experience.
As I sat on the bench across from the bed to get dressed, she described how her life was currently in “shambles”. She received a 30 day notice to leave her apartment, paid $2,200 just to rent a car last month, etc. As an asshole who at times sucks at body language, I tried to shift my smile (intended to be compassionate) into a serious face, but she saw my smile before it was too late. I likely offended her.
Then, as prostitutes do, she verbally compensated by talking up the positive about starting her credit building business (which I assume are always shady at best) among other ventures, so things were on the up and up. I doubt that things were really on the up and up for her. I think she felt shame for oversharing…
My last moments in the hotel room were defined by awkward silence as she furiously texted further on her phone. We never saw each other again.
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