netmichelle

In under a year my website has hit over 10 million hits, I have produced my first amateur porno, I have been featured in major magazines and newspapers. I have gone from relative obscurity to one of the most desirous individuals in this country. What a long strange trip it has been. I have decided to openly share, for a period of time, some of my personal thoughts over this past summer of 2004. This is my gift back to all of those who have given to me and those that will in the future.


The funny thing about hookers is the more they try and stay on the down low, the more they fascinate those around them. There are those that know that something is amiss, and they notice that things do not add up at the end of the day. People need to see others toil away at the same grinding wheel or else they get suspicious. I suppose my neighbors knew I was eccentric, but never quite fully realized the extent of my capabilities. I was a high-class call girl, an escort, and I made enough money in one day to pay my rent for the month. I walked around my neighborhood dressed like a homeless person: wearing paint-spattered overalls, flip flops and no bra, and thick glasses. I dressed for my clients in my apartment or in a hotel. My transformation was so dramatic, that my neighbors could not recognize me. I told my neighbors the truth: that I was a slut and dated a lot. This made them smile at me knowingly when they saw me, and raised less suspicion.

Every family has secrets. My family prided itself on education and the fostering of knowledge that brought power. I was always told to know things directly, to go out and live life to the fullest. Don’t trust just what you read, know it as truth. Some family secrets get so embedded, that the lies eventually become reality. I don’t remember how it begun, it was always there. The story of how I came to be a prostitute is irrelevant, the fact that I can stand and tell my story to you is remarkable.

My mother was a good mother. She worked hard to feed her four children. I always knew that she worked at the hospital nights and I knew that she would be there in the morning to feed us and make sure we went to school. I never suspected that she worked much harder than any mother should have to, that she literally laid her life on the line for us. It was not till much later that the puzzle pieces clicked into position and the family picture became clear. I was destined to become a whore. The women in my family had sacrificed their personal lives for those they loved a secret that bonds them tighter than blood ties.

Every woman is a whore. We look to men for our affirmation and self worth. My mother at nearly half my age was starting on her first of four children. Her mother before had already had plenty of children, and my mother was a mistake. My grandmother never forgave my grandfather for that. I was a mistake as well, the end product of an extra marital affair from the end of the bottleneck of the sixties. My father was not present in my childhood, and it was not until I was much older that I wondered if it would have made a difference.

Like my mother, my sexual history had a long list before long. I had begun to have more meaningless sex, and I craved for more passion. I thought this meant marriage. I dallied with professional boyfriends, but I became increasingly bored. One must eat, even if all that is on the plate is bland. I started to expand what was on my menu. Suddenly, not everything tasted just like chicken, and my world became colorful.

I was waiting to get off the plane in Chicago OHare airport when I noticed something peculiar. Most of the stereotypical male clients that I have had are usually seated in aisle seats, and have mild crown balding spots, and travel with one carry-on slipped into the overhead compartment. In typical type A fashion they seemed oriented to exit the plane as fast as possible. They were in a hurry to go absolutely nowhere. This made me flash back on the memory of a few of my former clients that they felt compelled to bolt as fast as possible from my in call apartment. They were internally synchronized to their type A clock, as if they had heard a gun firing off, and away they went: dancing on one foot, and shimmying on their exotic black briefs, snapping their watches on wrist as they smoothed their thinning hair flat. Everything was in control and in order. I could almost hear their mantra, no one gets caught, and no one gets hurt. The goodbye kiss was perfunctory and put me in my place. I wonder now if this is the kiss they kiss their wives, on his way to work, which enables them to pay for an encounter with me and buys them a little more time before purgatory.

I remember most clearly the ones that could not have much sex with me. The ones that wanted to touch my skin, and look at my face. The man I tried to fellatiate in vain while we listen to Broadway show tunes in a deluxe suite hotel room. The old man that came so quickly and would leave faster than he had ejaculated, was apologetic and sweet.
When I was arrested for prostitution a year ago, I took my phone number off my ads. I felt shame, I really wanted to find a way out of my immediate hell. I found the jarring ring of my phone put me into a panic, a rabid mix of sex, blood, fear and magic that contorted my voice into something that I could not recognize as my own. I was afraid of what I was becoming, and I needed control. I began to scrutinize the drug dealers in my neighborhood. I needed to learn how to keep my cool. I needed to know how to keep myself together.

I stopped crying all the time. I knew that my life had always been a struggle and that I was slipping. I told myself that because I could still pick myself up was a sign that I had not completely fallen apart. I started to take days off. I answered my messages less frequently, and I began to write. Writing was what saved me, I started posting witty banter on an erotic web board and started to attract the clients I had always wanted. Intellectuals: doctors, lawyers, CEOs, writers, and artists. These people enjoyed my quirks and started to seek me out and celebrated my uniqueness. Before I knew it, my rent was paid on time, and I was not going hungry. I decided to travel; I wanted to find America and myself.

America was calling me so I picked up the phone and spoke to her. She told me her story, and as I listened I became wiser. I found her wanting me more than I was ready to desire her. Like a reluctant lover, I listened more and eventually found myself wanting to be a part of something greater than myself. I learned to wash my ego down the sink drains of Greyhound bus depots because I understood that I desperately wanted to know what it means to be an American. I did not have enough money to take a plane, so I went to the train station, I missed the train by 5 minutes, and so I went to the bus station. For less than two hundred dollars, I could see America in three days.

Breakfast was consumed amongst the twinkling lights and spinning slots of Las Vegas, shared next to clusters of aging white people, who drank and gambled even as they ate. Everyone was in touch with the American Dream. The cocktail waitress confidently bestowed her blessings of good fortune. The security men stayed in the shadows alert to any deviance from the script. I played my part without flinching.

The next afternoon Utah healed my spirit with her majestic red buttresses. The shape of the mountains was mysterious and personal. I wanted to have a cabin to sit and watch these formations till I could hear all that they needed to tell me. The shadows of the mountains reminded me of a nude woman’s body, warm and inviting. The desert is like an ocean, it engulfs all that enters and offers sanctuary. It is silent. It will continue to exist much longer than I will.

Baltimore clung to my skin long after I left its humid core. Smelling like the new juices of a lovers embrace, mussels and of micro brewed beer, I sashayed down the blocks and connected to the buildings, surprised at the dead presidents and culture that lay dormant.

Chicago called. Its grimy bricks and well-worn sidewalks lined the subway routes, twisting and moaning its blues song into a faded memory. The sky was electric with lightning and the color of her eyes told me to stay awhile and hear her lusty song.

I knew that I was getting close to Minneapolis when I spotted am Amish couple. I almost ran over them in the bleak dark hours of morning while walking through the train. Their habit concealed their purity and protected them from my worldliness. I looked at the young Amish wife in the eye, and she looked surprised as she gazed into my soul. The secrets that I keep, I shall for years to come keep these secrets deep. I know why the caged bird sings and why the ones who fly choose to stay silent. I looked at her and told her silently, we each have our own means for survival. Respect.

The first time that I was paid for sex surprised me. I was clinging to this super sexy starlet of a strip club that I worked at. We wound up in Vegas in search of the big money. She was the side girlfriend of the owner of the strip club. His best friend was very dashing and Italian, and old as the hills. He was so charming, and as I was being fed and wined I found his manners to be irresistible. At the conclusion of dinner, he retreated and I offered to walk him up to his room, as we could not stop talking to one another. Before I knew it, I was unzipping his pants and inhaled him into my mouth. He came so quickly, and it tasted like salt water. I held it in my mouth and politely went to the bathroom sink to spit it out. I couldn’t get the sour taste out of my mouth and there was no water. I was happy to make him happy. I put on my high heels to leave and then he pressed money into my hand. I said no, I am not that kind of girl. He told me it would insult him deeply to not take his gift. I said OK, OK, for cab fare. When I was coming down the elevator I opened my first and out popped a wad of crisp one hundred dollar bills. The stiff ones that the gambler keeps, still cold from the well from which they sprung.

There is a commonality that binds hookers and artists. It is superficial, but its veins have the potential to run deep. Once a woman accepts money for sex, she is a hooker. When she sucks that dick, and takes the money, whammo she is a legit whore. When an artist sells a painting she becomes a real artist. She has made money from her creation. It may sound weak, but from a woman that who has tried for a year to keep the two separate, and now is trying to merge the two, the significance means everything.

After I started escorting my art started to change. I had always painted abstract paintings, but now I craved the human form. I got some books on drawing, and I tried to teach myself perspective all over again. When I had drawn all the images of female nudes I could find, then I started to paint myself in my full-length mirror in my studio. I would hide my right hand behind my back, as it would tend to look withered since I am right handed. My breasts fascinated me. I tended to edit, something that I could not control. I made my breasts droopier then they were, and my belly larger than it is. In retrospect I realized I wasn’t comfortable with my own nudity since this was something I could not control. I was forced to look into my own eyes, and I was troubled by what I saw. I painted a sad, uncomfortable and stiff woman. I painted who I was. These paintings never sold. I would put the prints on display and people would stop and stare at them.

This is you, right?

Yes I told them.

They would look at the painting, then at me, then back at the painting, and they would smile knowingly. I wondered if they knew more about me than I did about myself. I have put them into storage for now. They still make me uncomfortable, but less now.

I started painting lesbian women when my manager who was always trying to find a way to fuck me, had dropped off some source material for a photo shoot we were planning.
I was smitten by the simplicity of the black and white copies in the folder. The white creamy thighs of one entangled in another. An arm caressing here and a lingering kiss there. It was the sharing of sex, both figuratively and literally. I now have an overflowing box of source material that I use for photo shoots. I tear things out of magazines that catch my eye: colors, makeup, shadows, and poses. I like to push the envelope and see what I can come up with. It is hard to find models and to find money to pay for them. I have had to satisfy my desires by painting the images from pages ripped from magazines. If I can not touch a woman’s skin, I can paint it for hours.

Women were too much work to date, but they were fun to fuck. I completely understand how they drive men crazy. For me, it was the most vivid sex that I have ever had. It taught me how I could be a better lover. It taught me a lot about myself. For once I had the perspective of the man, and I enjoyed it immensely. Most lesbian women I know are in relationships, but almost all the bisexual women I know are loose canons. We like our freedom, and its not that we cannot make up our mind, it is just that we like to walk the tightrope; it feels comforting for our feet. Some people need to feel the razor edge in the mouth when they play the blues harmonica.

Since I am hooker, I pay attention to all sorts of stuff that seems like sexual objects. A discarded and stubbed out cigar in a Boston subway elevator seems to me like a Bobbitized penis. An empty candy wrapper appears like a moist vaginal cleft. That person looks well sexed. She has a great ass to hold. Does she wear those come fuck me shoes because she enjoys the power or does she really want to get some? What would she do if I walked up to her and kissed her right now?

Hooking suits my sexual temperament. I was always the instant gratification girl: I want it now, faster and harder. I disliked foreplay. It irritated me, and made me uneasy. I did not know my place, and it always seemed one sided. Sexual foreplay now is a power trip. I love to prolong the inevitable with my clients. The ones I could care less for, I wanted it over as soon as possible. I enjoy fucking the shit out of them, I am usually in better shape then they are, and I can stare at them hard while I watch them crumble into an orgasm. Then it is done. My job is over, and now all I have to do is wait for them to leave.

I like the feeling of a dick inside of me. A fleshy warm bundle of nerves and blood that completes me. I do not like it to outside of me. I do not like it when someone repeatedly completely withdraws and inserts. I love a butt plug up my ass. I feel electric, alive and safe. I could walk around with one for hours. As women we are trained early to have insertion. Tampax is shoved inside through an alien cardboard tube insert. Like the first time, it is dry and stiff, then you expect it. As women we know that the uterus is unpredictable and can usher forth its own weather report. We didn’t ask to have an extra period in a month. We didn’t know we were baking something in the oven, usually until it is too late.

Dang it! All this northeastern seafood makes me horny for women. Now I know why you guys don't wash your hands after a session. I have had Baltimore mussels, Boston soft-shell crabs, Philadelphia shrimp tempura, and oysters at the NYC Grand Central Oyster bar on this recent tour. When I get back to the hotel, I am left alone, with one hand on the remote and the other hand near my nose inhaling fish scent. My thoughts wander to the girls at Scores and humid rainy afternoons in Central Park.

Hookers get tired like no one else on this planet does. We feel it in our bones, and it shows on our faces. There is nothing like T.V., comfort food, warm baths, and alcohol to sooth the frayed and split edges of our soul. Sleep takes away the pain, but then there is the morning and the memories. Sometimes it feels like my skin is falling off in sheathes; the very air that surrounds me is hostile and biting. Everybody wants something from me, and I have nothing left to give. It isn’t the sex that is difficult; it is seeing the pathos in others and having nowhere to hide while you watch their personal reel of their own horror show. The price of admission is your soul.

I shack up in a youth hostel in St. Louis not far from the home of Mark Twain. I play with 2-week-old kittens on the office floor for hours, unable to get enough of their scent, their fur, their tongues. When you are at the breaking point there is nowhere to turn. Eventually the therapy will present itself unsolicited, and it is right in front of you exposing its lazy tummy and mewing plaintitively in the summer heat. The time will be available, and you must take it, because there is always another storm brewing on the horizon.

Money. It always makes it better. At least for a while, until it is gone. I think of all the money I have earned in my lifetime, and it is still not enough to buy a house, I am sure of that. I spent way too much time in college for degrees that I cannot use and have racked up more debt than I can pay. I bought all these books that I could not use, and then they burned. I can\not figure out what makes me more bitter. The fact that I am for hire, or that I cannot ever erase what I have done. It is not so easy as saying: once a whore, always a whore. It is much more flimsy. Once tainted, will we ever be pure again? Purity depends on its opposite. Whores exist because married women exist. If women never got married, would we have a job at all?

There are few words that define a woman that are more charged than whore. Bride is hopeful, pure, and full of potential and promise. Eventually the bride becomes wife and then whore. She must service her husband. She must learn to be a provider, or she will lose her man to a provider.

Few transactions are more charged than the transaction between that of the john and his date. It is demanded usually up front, and I always felt that there should be an as is warranty disclaimer posted onto her. Rarely are things in life what they are expected to be. Men have desires that they feel need to be satiated and even though the supply exceeds the demand, (there is always a poor hooker) there are no receipts or guarantee that there is going to be a good time to be had by both parties. More often than not, the experience is disappointing for both parties. The sex is usually bad, and the money is never good enough. As soon as you get it, the sooner it is gone: both the pussy and the money.

Sometimes the sex is really good. Surprisingly good. I have had the best sex I have ever had in my life. Why should I ever give this up?

The sad part is after they leave, I feel so alone. I ache to be held for me, just me and nothing else. I sometimes afterwards I wish they had left. I wonder if I was good enough. I feel bad for taking their money. Did I look like the girl in the picture? If they are so good in the sack, why are they coming to see me? They could have and keep any girl; they are rich and good-looking. Why me?

Each time before they arrive I get sick with worry. Are they law enforcement? Where did these bags under my eyes come from? I am not pretty enough. I am fat. God, why do I keep doing this? What if they don’t show up? What if they decide to leave? Oh God, how did I end up doing this? Shit, I forgot to shave.

The crazy thing is, as good as I am at marketing myself to strangers I am completely and utterly a failure when it comes to dating. I am way too naive. I assume what people tell me about themselves is true. I could care less about their past. I assume that when they come back, they enjoyed our time before, and they hope to have an even better time. A real relationship would stress me out too much. I would not know what to do. I would not know how to just be. I would be constantly fretting about the gaps of time in between fucking. That is why I try to keep their cock in my mouth. Then I do not have to talk. The only other certainty is the locking of the door at the end. That click is deafening. Then and only then can I sit, shit, relax and cry.

You would think that the guys that have been in this business would be more understanding. They are, but up to a point. Then they just want you to be your fuck fantasy. They pay you to leave. They fling the white envelope like it is the hem of the red cape of a bullfighter. They know the power of money more than others ever will. The power of money brings me back. Slowly, my soul corrodes away. I stop trying to come up with excuses anymore. I just tell my story and hope that someone cares to listen. Is that not what life is all about anyway?

Under slept, slurping a Bloody Mary for breakfast on a Southwest flight out of xxxx (dinner date and more for $xxxx) with a bruised temple, bags under my eyes, and a photo shoot looming ahead of me in a few hours. So how did I end up this way? The alcohol kicks in and soothes my nerves. I hate flying. It messes up my sinuses and I feel like a herded piece of livestock: let us hurry up now and get branded as safe so we can proceed to get stuffed into an aerodynamic sardine can. I got fucked last night. For once I felt as if I had earned every penny of that xxxx. I fucked so hard, that later when I tried to fuck again it felt like knives in my pussy. I couldn’t do it anymore. I was spent. I went to sleep with him jacking off, and woke up to him jacking off; I just couldn’t hang with it anymore so I bailed to catch my plane. I felt bad. It is rare that I have to throw in the towel. He won. Now I have to deal with my pussy looking like fried clams and my eyes showing all I have been through.

I am getting burned out. I am tired of having to scrounge up business. Maybe I should advertise and raise my rates. The possibility of a boyfriend or future husband is laughable. Normal sex seems so boring now. I don’t find any passion anymore. I just want to please my fetish clients. When they get off it is so incredibly satisfying. I just wish I could be more enthusiastic with the regulars but I cannot. I dread having multiple hour sessions. I cannot fuck that long. I am bored after 40 minutes. Well maybe 30 minutes. Then there are the times I wish they would never leave. They listen so well. I tell them too much.

My body is ragged. I keep coughing. Maybe I have TB? Nah. But now my throat hurts all the time from deep throating. My knees are shot from kneeling. I want to just curl up and sleep. It will all just melt away. That is when I am my happiest. Right before I go to sleep and when I wake up. I remember when I had my fortune told by a mystic. She cried. She told me my life would become difficult. I was not scared. I was angry. Why does it have to be such a struggle? Why can I not I be blessed with beauty and peace in my life? Why me? I will never know. I wait in the dark.

The chase is straightforward. The pictures, the alluring text, then the price and then they are done. Everybody must pay. Wait. Phone calls are the worst.

Hi, are you available?
Now??
Yes.

Your heart panics, and you think, oh crap it has begun. It usually starts early in the morning. Sometimes at 7 am. If you do not switch off your phone it will go till 3 or 4 am.

Hello.
Yes. Michelle?
Yes.
Hi.
Hi.
What is your availability?

The first instinct is to say no and hang up. I could never get used to the intrusion of a phone call. It is not something that I want to get used to. But that was then, this is now. Now I have calluses on my hands not from hand jobs but from hauling luggage through the subways of NYC.

The relief washes over me, and the excitement ensues. I am flush with cash and aboard the train heading south from New England, staring at the foliage and greenness, and finding rejuvenation. I hope for salvation. I want to find myself lost in these woods. I want to drink deep from the greenness and wetness. I want to be known, I want to be loved, but more importantly: I want to be left alone. I want to find myself.

The thing I did not account for was the exhaustion. Being a prostitute is exhausting. There is no time out for ones own thoughts. That is the real intrusion, not the phallus, but the alien ego that must impress his fat ignorance upon my fertile and virgin soil. It is much like being pressed flat in missionary position, finding an air pocket in an armpit or feeling the crushing weight on my jaw because somewhere despite the discomfort I always found a way to listen. I only tune out in desperation.

Does it make me feel better knowing that I didn’t have a choice? My childhood was fucked up enough to warrant my slide into deviation. What child wants to kill their father? What torment must I have endured to make such a choice? Years of pain and abuse are welling up under the brim of my laissez-faire composure: just ask me about it and I will dissolve into a salty puddle. But be careful. I have thrown away my floatation devices. No more antidepressants. I do not know what will happen if I open that trap door of misery. I might drown, and when you find me, I will be three feet from shore, but I could have never seen it in that fog of despair.

Drug dealers sling their dope, I sling my pussy. I am grateful that I am young enough to hip to the ways of the Internet so that I might better market myself. However when money is low, my spirits get low, I can’t keep the ads up and no matter what I do, there is never enough money. The downward spiral ensues. After awhile the numbness becomes familiar, and then I start to forget. I forget what I was supposed to do, where I am going, and who I am. I have become the escort, no longer my original self. My original ambitions have been dashed. Now all I have time for is work. Work offers vacations, but they are just more work. No time to relax when the male phallus in the shape of his ego is trying to insert into my vaginal mind. Who would not crave the sensuous and golden life that we all deserve? Who would not consider selling their soul to the devil? Once it is sold, the devil always has it. Maybe I can get it back for a while tonight. Maybe I can spoon it back into my morning coffee somehow.

I remember the first time. Like relinquishing the burden of my virginity, my first time as a hired agency whore was something that had to be endured. I was so nervous, and afraid. I was afraid that I was going to be killed. I was too self-righteous to think of cops. Like a cow lead to slaughter I threw myself toward my demise with ambition. I knocked on the door. I was let in. The grey acrid smell of drugs coated my lungs. Well he was not a cop, so I stayed. I told him it was my first time. He never believed me. I felt it wasn’t worth convincing him. I was exhausted from pleasuring him, but I felt strangely aroused by him. I had nowhere else to put that experience, so of course I had an attraction for him, as I always will. You always remember your first time. I had his number and e-mail and I tried to contact him but to no avail. Later when I was arrested, the cops took his information. I was still foolish then, I thought I had to love a man that I had sex with. It helped to take the coldness out of the transaction.

Later I started to have orgasms with clients during sessions. It wasn’t something that I wanted to do initially, but it was important to my clients, so I faked a couple and then got frustrated with the tedium and then I decided to take charge and come into my power so to speak. One cannot be a nymphomaniac and a charlatan at the same time. I lifted the veil and provided real sex. Now I was more naked than I had ever been. Later the writer comes armed with only her laptop. When they leave, I do not put on the clothes right away. I sit in my nakedness and write.

If you have seen what I have seen about people and sex you would never look at the world the same way again. They use everybody. Some whores survive by using the users. This works until they are squished one day like a cockroach into the pavement. I have not seen the carcasses but I have heard of them. Now I see women get stepped on everyday. I just keep walking. I used to intervene, then I realized that the men did not like being interfered with, and the women did not know that they were being stepped on. Ignorance is bliss?

What did the police ever do for me? Nothing. So I have learned to persevere with the perpetual exudates of plot against counterplot. As the police get clever to my ways, I will have to find ways to become more sophisticated. I know that one day I will get caught again. That day is the day I will go underground.

I will not forgive what the men in my life have done to me, but I will not forget them either. It is a two way street. I would hope that they would remember me as a fiery comet that burned brightly in their lives, if for only a few hours. After everything that I have been through it makes sense to somehow preserve my cockquests. Who knows? It may be valuable one day. Someday I will have a furry grey haired pussy fro and a well-worn groove under my rocking chair. Someday, the dust will learn how to settle around me.