netmichelle

Looks like I am going to shoot with some amazing photographers in the bay area next month. I am so happy. High probability these shoots will go for editorial content, which means..... tear sheets, which means more money, which means me relaxing a little. : DD

Ah...life is good.

Somehow I still get all these nasty e-mails, probably from disgruntled providers, since most guys would give up by now. I remembered this amazing thing: the block sender feature. Viola! They are gone. It just blows my mind they have all this free time to nitpick on someone who really doesn't even know what to do with them. Do I print them out and send them to Provider Times? Are they coded lottery numbers? I mean, WTF? What a waste of neuronal circuitry!! I bet someone actually responds.

OK this is a test post from my webphone. I must go now. Thumbs tired from typing.

My ink is an art created in pain and is now beauty, rippling, breathing, warm colorful flesh. I surprise myself when I look down as I get out of the shower. It is a constant revelation.

Soulless? No. I just keep it real. No need to dot the "i," and no need to put out the standard flourish. Others do that so well and bank by their reputation. Hate to give them any competition.

http://www.bmezine.com/

They interviewed me, and have pics. I will let you know when it goes up!

New sexy links on my website. May I offer to wipe your drool?

https://netmichelle.com/links.html

Just to let you know of some of my fav model queenes that I like to dream about.

(*pish*) Sound of me opening anothere Tecate. Cheers!

(While I wait for little rain droplets to hit my hotmail, I will dream up some lurid and libacious post for my next weekly ad.)

How about this one: plagarized from the New Yorker:
I am taking a wine class, but not for credit ;))

I had a super boring catalog shoot for some skanky clothes in Anaheim today. Somehow I got my groove back.

I am still here. Maybe it might be fun to be a lurker. You know, hit on guys behind the scenes. Lemme try here: so are you as cute as your posts? NAhh,,,,wait.....Do you post in caps because you are muffled in the DATY position? Gasp, is that a semi colon or just a suirt of cum? lol.....I must go to bed.

Oh here are the pics. I hope you can see them.
http://member.onemodelplace.com/model_list.cfm?ID=123169

I am feeling better, frisky, and ready to tackle all important issues: global warming, political refugees, and the economy. This translates into me doing my pedicure on the train on the way to my catalog photoshoot in Anaheim, while trying to look undercover on the train...sure you know girls just jump on the train with 5 pairs of different colored 7" heels, makeup, carrots and water in a duffle bag all the time Mr. Train Inspector.....LOL. Wish me luck. You will see pics on OMP (One Mdel Place) in the AM. Ciao for now. PS. I hope I get laid soon. Those condoms are going to waste boys. (hint-hint).

Dear Michelle,

The Erotic Review without eroticism is breathing wihtout air. How can nueral electrons promote to a higher energy state without energy INPUT?

BUTTERFLY emerging from cocoon (http://www.onemodelplace.com/member.cfm?ID=123169).

Conceptual knowledge; not knowing, a passive desire.

A choice (http://theeroticreview.com/msgBoard/ViewMsgBody.asp?BoardID=1&Page=1&Messageid=120351).

Sad I am for the state of things.
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Trust me, me too. I will still write on my blog, perhaps even better stuff, more honest, more edgy than what I have been writing there. I am still escorting, you can you know, meet me and touch me in the flesh. It won't kill ya.

Dear Michelle,

The post that offended you must have been pulled before I saw it. I am sorry that it annoyed you so much that you felt the need to make some drastic changes in your life such as to quit touring, posting, etc.
----------------------------------------------------

Yeah, well it is better that you missed it. It was really bad. It put me in a bad funk that lasted two days. I am still escorting but I can't be posting. I should focus on writing a book when I can and advertising. I am so broke right now and when that jerk started calling me a dirty little whore, tattooed white trash and nobody wants to see me stuff, it really shook me up, because I am trying to get business. That was the only reason I posted. The other posters on TER have gone too far, especially this guy. You should see the filth he is slamming into my email mailbox. I never met him, never will, don't know him and it comes out of nowhere. WHAM. I woke up one day and now I have a new stalker. What is really a riot is one another stalker is pissed that I quit posting too, now more e-mails from that one, and post about how I need to not leave...
insane.

I know it is a bad month but this is ridiculous. I may have to get back into stripping, until the modeling stuff gets squared away.

I honestly feel like I have this huge fan club that loves and adores me, but for the most part they don't see me. They just associate my posts with everytime they go on TER, if I don't post I get phone calls of are you OK? Not hey, I want to see you. I know I am a good writer and entertaining, but I have built my reputation, I don't want to have to struggle anymore. I am tired of fixing other people problems, giving advice that they don't take and getting bitch slapped for telling the truth.

Anyhow I am dusting off my resume, ripping out all the science and publications but now it looks pretty week.
Lets see what surfaces. I am thinking of something boring. lol.

OK. So I was not the most brilliant but I made occasional miracles happen in the science field. Whatever I set my mind to, I learned to find a way to accomplish it. One day I woke up and found a way to get paid for doing something that I have been doing since I was 10 years old. Sex.

Sex sells. Women have been selling their bodies since the beginning of his/herstory began. The only difference is that I actually enjoyed it. Today was the first day that I did not enjoy being an escort, and for the rest of the day I will find ways to ease the memory: an aspirin, 2 beers, leafy green vegetables in the sun by the ocean, a good read of a book, and then a nap. I am prescribing myself a hefty dose of lesbian erotic fiction, a dip in the ocean and a stroll along the beach. It is not real life here. It is just elaborate mind fucking. Forgive me if I am not a manipulative person deep inside. I do not even know how to manipulate well. I refuse to lash back. I am just a just a squirrel trying to get her nuts in a row for the week. This week I lost two. Most squirrels think they can get them back. I am not so sure.

I first stated writing in this profession as a means of venting my feelings since I really had no one to talk to about what I was going through. I have been brutally honest ultimately much to my detriment. I thought people would be more excited to meet me because I was different because I was pulling the wool off the eyes of the sheep on the boards by exposing the inner working of this biz in my blog. I actually killed my business. All of my regulars, and there were not many, have seemingly crawled as far away as they could. New clients could not understand why I was being so paranoid when I screened them more than the other girls do. The shit I have had to go through would make most people’s skin crawl. (The tirade from this morning is kindergarten to the stuff I have endured here.) Meanwhile my reviews on the erotic forums continued to escalate and my fame grew. I never really knew that I was getting famous. Other people told me. Oh! You are Netmichelle? Really? Wow. What a pleasure it is to meet you. Some new clients were so nervous to meet me I could hardly get them into the hotel room. Others would tremble and their hands would get sweaty. Other escorts give me a thorough scrutiny, thinking how does she do it? Where did she come from? Can I be her friend?

I did kind of pop out of nowhere, now that I think back on this past year, it has been a bit of a whirlwind. One day I saw someone who quickly posted a review of me on an erotic forum, and then my phone would not stop ringing. It was a flurry of days and weeks and then suddenly it was done. I had a few reviews and then, I wasn’t the new chick on the block. I was just one of the many trying to stick her neck out and get noticed in the chicken coop. Over time I started reading the forums, then responding, adding insight and learning a lot about my self and my sexuality. Reading the erotic forums was a lot like the first time I ever got onto the internet. I was glued to the screen for hours, up all night and only taking the necessary breaks. I soaked it up like a sponge.

People tell me to be stronger. To fight back and be brave. Why should I be the heroine? I have nothing much to gain and everything to lose: my self worth, my reputation, my strength.

Cumulative changes and nuances of my life transformed me into the individual I am today. Today was a rough day.

The purpose of erotic discussion forums is to provide a forum where like minded individuals may meet. People from all walks of life can find out if they are compatible. I have not found anyone compatible with me, yet I have always found myself intrigued for the time shared with other individuals. It is always a song, a dance, and then it is over. Today was a day I wished I could stick my head in the sand and wait till the wind stopped blowing.

It has been difficult w/ the blog. It is wierd when they say: I thought I knew you... All this b.s. in their own head clouding their judgement comes from them, not me. At this point I am no longer upset. It is like a whining child that has snot running down their nose jumping up and down in their face. I feel like all I can do is tune them out and offer Kleenex.

I am broke at the moment, so I am not sure when I am going on tour for certain, but I am hitting the road at some point.

Since I registered at OMP (One Model Place) my mailbox is clogged with model shoot offers, all within 24 hours. So wierd because when I was into modelling a decade back I couldn't stay booked for the life of me. One photographer asked me two weeks ago what is it with my eyes? How do I do that? It is because I have seen and tasted more than people would ever know in several lifetimes. At some point in this crazy rollercoaster of life I stopped screaming and learned to stand up in my seat and keep my eyes open. I guess I am warped. I actually like turbulence on the airplane.

I am have to field an insane amount of e-mails that should have been funneled to my blog, many of the comments and questions could have been dealt with here. Also, sadly I have lost many of my clients here in LA., something that was not my intention. For the amount of positive feedback it has been rewarding, and I have been happy to share, but when my private musing hurt my business, I am not a happy camper. Thus, my blog shall be here for awhile and then hidden in my pay site since given the amount of advertising that I have invested in I do not want to make it so difficult to well....you know...I need more coffee.

I hope to simplify my life within the year, snag some land, get an RV and actually bash out these novels in my head.

Michelle:

Thanks for your response.  Burningman was cathartic
I’m sure.  I love environments where honest expression
thrives and I hope that someday I am able to be there
and experience the whole thing for myself.  I’m sure
there’s really no way to put it into words,  but I’d
love to see you try. 

Glad to hear my initial concerns about you were
over-cooked.  Early on I lost someone important to me
and her echo haunts your words.  The frame of a
broader life surrounds your thoughts.  Sadly, she
didn’t get far enough to complete the frame.  I know
the therapy of writing, of expression for that matter,
and hope you continue to add to your blog – whether
public or private.

It’d be fun to write every now and then when there is
a thought.  Your honesty is compelling.  There
wouldn’t have to be a reply.  There would be no
obligation either way.  Like you, writing for me is a
form of therapy.  You’re more courageous than I am.  I
privately seek objection or agreement, or simple
response.  You’ve the balls (?) to let it all hang
out.  I admire that.

Peace to you and welcome home.
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I just got back into town from Burningman. I loved all of your responses to my initial blog entry. I was inundated with private messages and e-mails. I am glad I touched a chord in all of you that responded. Writing for me is a form of therapy. I thought I would share some thoughts with you all that were rambling in my head over the summer, and I have been quite suprised and pleased at the outcome. However after writing a similar response to numerous individuals I must reiterate a few things.

Please do not take my writings into such dire constraints without the understanding that these writings were written without a filter and written over the course of a few months when I had hit a few rough spots. During this time I got off my antidepressants. I have PTSD, post-traumatic-stress-disorder from a horrific event I lived through, and I was on heavy medication for more than a year. Life is not always rosy, and we all have our demons. I choose to keep mine in the bright sunlight. The pen has proven to be mightier than the sword. I know this to be true for me. Many ladies have contacted me, have concurred with some of my sentiments and have felt healing from what I said; one has even started her blog.


Peace.

Here are some responses I have received. Remember you can post anon here on my blog! Share with everyone.
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You’re going to get 10 million replies.  I know that
so I’m mostly writing this for me.  If you happen to
read it and it helps, or hurts, or makes you think, or
makes you laugh than it was worthwhile.  It is
worthwhile for me to write.

Loneliness is pervasive.  We battle its effects with
anything we can grasp.  Kittens, sex – meaningful and
meaningless, tours, books, art, work, marriage,
whatever it takes.  I forget the movie or the play or
the book where I read or heard that people get married
one day when they run out of things to talk about.
That was the case for me. Where it ended doesn’t
matter.

You know this already.  You’re way to smart and have
thought thoughts that are way too deep not to know
this, so I’m mainly saying it for me.  You have to
find some way, some reason to love yourself.  I never
would have guessed from the prose on your site that
you were veiled.  Do you have a split personality?
Are there times when you love who you are and times
when you hate who you are?  Without alcohol? Without
drugs?  Without companionship?

I’m not an analyst.  I think they’re for shit.  In my
experience analysts become analysts because they’re so
messed up they don’t know what else to do, so they
make appointments with people who are less warped then
they are in a vein attempt to pull them down.

I can’t help you.  I don’t know you.  I’ve never seen
you.  I know your words resonate somewhere down deep
and forced me to write.  I battle loneliness.  Your
battle and mine are similar, though mine takes a
separate path.

You are beautiful.  You are brilliant.  You are
valuable.  You have a deep soul.  You battle demons.
You win sometimes.  You lose sometimes.  You are
unique.  Uniqueness is the definition of perfection.
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Greetings Michelle. We have not met, and you may not desire it, but I want to acknowledge your beauty and brilliance.
There are very few things in life that gat the attention they deserve, and the recognition necessary. I have spent most of my life wishing I had taken action in certain situations instead of acting as a voyeur and dealing with consequence later.....I am working on stopping that.
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I read your blog.  It made me feel sad.  Unfortunately, I have no words of wisdom for you.
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Hello, this is X (better known as XX).  I have read your posts for some time and always find them quite quirky and entertaining... I saw your post this morning and went and read your blog... 
I wanted to drop you a note to let you know that I think you are a phenomenal writer.  I am an avid reader and I found your writing to be brutally honest, insightfully and most of all, very well written.  I couldn't stop reading it !!!  Even though I was currently involved in my current obsession at the time (X).  You should absolutely write a book.  While I'm giving unsolicited advice.......   if you don't already have a members section on your site, you should really consider it.  It is easy to do, and I think w/your following, it would be really successful and a great outlet for your creative energy.  I did X's members site and if you have any questions or I can be of any help, just let me know.  
I just wanted you to know that I really envy your writing ability.  It is truly a gift to be able to express your self so creatively....
Best of luck and have a great day !!!!
[edit ],
X
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I have a fetish client that has a penchant for wrestling which got me doing some revisiting of images from one of my fav artists who died awhile back. Ever heard of the artist Eric Stanton?

http://www.wildseduction.com/featuredartists/artandlust/Eric_Stanton.html

http://www.mutoworld.com/Stanton.htm

Eric Stanton worked as a commercial fetish artist for 50 years. 90% of his work was done on commision. His favorite muse was his wife which he met in 1971.

http://membres.lycos.fr/malainbertrand/DESSINS/Stanton/page_01.htm

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.