netmichelle

So, I should have known that something fishy was up. I got an e-mail from a super hot model, you know: blond, 5'2" 95 pounds and 25 and oh-so-yummy...I know...I know. I fell for the bait like all you other guys. She tells me of a group shoot then the coin and directives, so I travel in my long stretch ghetto fabulous limo also known as the Los Angeles local bus transportation and behold: I am truly in the ghetto. I walk three block and get honked at 6 times (and I look like I could represent, but, it is good to know for the ego boost) so I head upstairs and it is hot, the inadequate fan is running at mach 5...girls are like everywhere man, dancing girls, you know: the ones without a good ass but plenty of cleavage, or some that look like they need their fix, others with pimp hubbies with a careful eye on the property AKA THE WIFEY...oh bother! Here we go. I proceeded to apply the pancake makeup and ended up sweating most of it off, or rolling the rest on the floor. I ended up taking over the shoot. Everyone wanted to shoot the tattooed girl. Later I convinced one of the girls with boobies and a whip to shove her high-heeled shoe on top my ass and play spank me. That rocked. Sorry, since it was a paying dirt bag gig, I did not get copy. So let me translate this. This means that my body will end up photoshoped and yes, you guessed it, I will be published but probably for LA Express or some other spank copy. Now I am responsible for more girls getting spun in the washing machine of the biz. Knock Knock. "Yes? But you aren't the girl in the picture..." LOL! Strange how this life keeps making figure eights on the same piece of ice.

I am going to be working on a pay section of my website. It is going to look radically different, and will have all sorts of stuff that will blow your mind. I am so looking forward to giving you 100% pure unadulturated stuff. I have already been sensored, apparently a link on my links page shows blood sports: Persephone, with a web link to her fetish model site, and I was told to take it down. I haven't even faxed the contract and I am censored. Move over Howard Stern. It is my turn.

Here is the offending link:
https://netmichelle.com/banners/persebanner2.gif

Today, I went on one of those stereotypical photoshoots. LOL!

So, I should have known that something fishy was up. I got an e-mail from a super hot model, you know: blond, 5'2" 95 pounds and 25 and oh-so-yummy...I know...I know. I fell for the bait like all you other guys. She tells me of a group shoot then the coin and directives, so I travel in my long stretch ghetto fabulous limo also known as the Los Angeles local bus transportation and behold: I am truly in the ghetto. I walk three block and get honked at 6 times (and I look like I could represent, but, it is good to know for the ego boost) so I head upstairs and it is hot, the inadequate fan is running at mach 5...girls are like everywhere man, dancing girls, you know: the ones without a good ass but plenty of cleavage, or some that look like they need their fix, others with pimp hubbies with a careful eye on the property AKA THE WIFEY...oh bother! Here we go. I proceeded to apply the pancake makeup and ended up sweating most of it off, or rolling the rest on the floor. I ended up taking over the shoot. Everyone wanted to shoot the tattooed girl. Later I convinced one of the girls with boobies and a whip to shove her high-heeled shoe on top my ass and play spank me. That rocked. Sorry, since it was a paying dirt bag gig, I did not get copy. So let me translate this. This means that my body will end up photoshoped and yes, you guessed it, I will be published but probably for LA Express or some other spank copy. Now I am responsible for more girls getting spun in the washing machine of the biz. Knock Knock. "Yes? But you aren't the girl in the picture..." LOL! Strange how this life keeps making figure eights on the same piece of ice.

You will be happy to know that I am getting a HAIRCUT and yes I did shower after 2 days, however I am intrigued with the hair growing under my armpit. Maybe George Clooney was onto something.

Yep, you guessed it. I am revamping my website. Nope, it isn't done yet. Very cool looking.

Just got back from...One of those whirlwind trips where I think I left vaginal epithelial cells in 2 new England states, and left several broken hearts. Typical.

One of the encounters was with someone younger than me. This is pretty rare. I was pretty flummoxed when I opened the door. I kept thinking cop, but he was getting a freebie (contest winner) so, I tried to calm down. I proceeded to rock his world. (Evil grins).

Met super fun new client and visited the regulars. I wish they all could meet each other. Maybe I will have a party. If I had to pick just one, I couldn't do it. Some may call me a slut; technically I am a polyamourous chick that likes her lifestyle. Purrrrr...

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Just got the sexy haircut. Am I the only girl that goes to her hairdresser without underwear and leaves a big tip? Don't worry, I didn't shave below...

Chastely unchaste.

After having done a few foot fetish shoots, I think I must have one now too. I keep staring at chicks feet and most of the SucideGirl photos I like have added to my stash have to do with feet too. There is a link put on my website that I adore: it is called: "used and abused shoes." Here is the URL:

http://www.abusedshoes.com/


I have recently purchsed some vintage silk stockings, garters and big panties that I think are from the 40's. I can hardly wait to do a shoot with them.

I love Vermont. What else can I say?

It's getting dark, she spies a dim lit garage, she starts to lift her skirt, touching herself, and then the garage attendant screams....

Since I cannot play an instrument, I decided to play my muse.

Tough life, a lot of work, an hour a day, family, respect, tough work, get home get midnight get up at four-thirty, oh yeah, (orange broom swiping at my ankles) 10 years. Exchanging, people come over here from there, learn how to play (inaudible), oh yeah? Wow. Yeah, that’s cool. Yeah. Gotta do waz right or can’t make it very far. (Ready…gate #2.) No smoking allowed. Not an entrance. Restrooms. Plastic string attached to air conditioning grate to prove that it is on. Raiders. Skill work. Steel buildings, rebarb. It’s tedious, its tough. Carry it all on your shoulders. #5 especially. A couple pieces of rebarb doesnt look like much but it is very heavy. Its hard to pay your dues and make your way up.

5 hour wait. Been here for a while. I don’t care, I’ll talk to anybody. They fuck with the people that they are enemies with, but they will leave everybody else to their own. It used to be much rougher. Pot doesnt do much for me. Cold beer sounds real good right now. Can’t drink on the bus. The homie dude? Oh yeah. Yeah. I will take a mess of Tylenol PMs, that is what I need. It’s a long ride.

Greyhound Bus Terminal conversation that I heard, San Francisco
8:03 pm on a Wednesday night.

The thinking man's sex symbol practices her deep suction on thick creamy vanilla bean malts with a cherry red straw. This heroine fights off angry glares from malnourished wannabe MILFS and fleeting stares from their pussy whipped husbands. This is a big City, but this gutsy gal has decided to conquer it, one dick at a time, one lick at a time. Remember when the air was clean and sex was dirty? It takes a dirrrty girl. Come on baby, let get dirty. Uh-huh.

I found out that my booker was working for another escort company. I was thrilled to learn that she was doing well and had a plan to get me in to the company. It was hard for me to get hired in the Los Angeles escort agencies, they would tell me that I was too old, but she knew that I was reliable and not a drug addled flake like the other girls. There was one small problem. I knew the guy who ran the company, and I wanted to go low profile. So she concocted a new name for me and did not put my photo up on the escort website. I was instead the new girl who was saving up money for pictures. This worked out perfectly. The money was substantially better, and now I started to have confidence. I was getting better clients. When things are good they only last so long.

My booker was a speed junkie. She would work all hours and chat non-stop to my prospective clients on the phone, making me sound like a movie star, a perfect 30s bimbo, a housewife, a college slut, you name it. She was fucking amazing. The problem was that drugs were clouding her judgement. Or that was what I wanted to believe, when in actuality, I realized much later, I was set up. That is all that I can say for now. I will have to wait for more time to pass to elaborate on the details. The individual who was responsible for my demise apologized to me once so profusely that it hit me all of a sudden: that she had quickly carried out her threat to turn me in. Just the thought of her now makes my skin crawl in revulsion.

Now is the time for me to talk about agencies. It is something that I have been reticent to discuss mainly because they are the reason that I came to be. Nobody is born a whore, they are schooled and groomed for this position. Someone had to teach them how. It wasnâ??t easy. I wasnâ??t young or pretty enough. One agency ran by a lady told me that she only takes women that are 18-23 and with long hair. She only gave me the time of day because I was not black. She told me to meet here at a cyber cafe in Hollywood, and she never showed up. She probably saw me and decided to pass. This cafe was later to become important to me. There were many ladies that were prostitutes there, all checking their e-mail and chatting on their cell phones getting ready for their dates, and coming in for food. The place was open 24 hours, so for 2 months this cafe became my second home.

I think working for an agency is like drug running or like bank thievery. It is all a hustle, a scam, a game of smarts, The idea is to not get caught. Play it cool and no one gets get. Make sure that you keep you r eye on the ball and the name of the game is money and the name of the ball is more money. I really donâ??t know how I ended up in this biz. I am a really good natured person. I have never shop lifted, and I have never scammed someone for money. Suddenly I was thrust into a business that I had no business being in. Namely smut. Glorified smut. I had to convince them I was worth giving money to. I had to con everyone that I was better than I was. Basically I was a good looking pan handler.

Let me clarify this. It is so crazy that people have to pay for stuff that they do all the time anyway. Pay for sex? People will have sex anyway. Perhaps we, as providers, we help diminish rapes, we help reduce domestic violence. We keep the familial unit intact. We help keep that big rock of servitude on the finger of the wife. We keep our mouths shut and we take our payment like every other public servant except we know we may be gone tomorrow.

Agencies. I thought slavery was over. The sex trade is alive and well and they will keep shackles on you long after your time is done. They take the prettiest and youngest and then they squeeze the best years of your life out like toothpaste: a little here, a little there, and then one day, you wake up and realize that you donâ??t even have enough for yourself.

When I started I was their darling. Of course I made money. I was new. I didnâ??t know but I was being auctioned as a new girl, my implied virginal state was plied and angled like a fishing line iin the Snake river of Los Angeles. Of course they took the bait, I looked good, smelled good and did not know my ass my mouth.

I was pretty lucky but I got greedy. I started signing up for all the shifts. I was super whore. Better, faster, and more passionate than a politician on a campaign trail. I was determined to be, all that I could be, a w-h-o-r-e. Life was good. Then I started to fuck up. I started looking more ratty, and I had these bags under my eyes that would not go away no matter what I did. I would drive around all night zooming here and there, only to find more often than not, I was not the girl in the picture, and that I would knock on the door and no one would answer.

I started to get upset. I started to bang loudly on those shut doors. I would show up chewing gum because what-the-fuck, I was not giving the fuck, they were paying for my fuck. And fuck them I did. I started to get back at them. I started to give really good service. It was my way of fighting back. Maybe it was my martial arts training but I realized that I was going into the enemy, becoming one with the enemy. It was mind blowing when I turned the tables on them. I was the predator and they were the prey.

I looked deep into their eyes when I went down on them. I grabbed their hair when I fucked them, Occasionally I would lay their in missionary all passive and then I would look at them like a rabid animal and start spanking their ass. I was no longer super whore, I was psycho whore. They would feign to not kiss me and I would suddenly grab them and kiss them, almost violently, this was fun to do as I left them and went out the door. I started making more money. Guys would call up and start asking for me. I was being asked by the agency: What do you do to these guys, they are crazy for you. I shrugged my shoulders. I could care less. I was making money, but more importantly, I was working hard so that I could stay numb. As long as I did not look in the mirror, everything would be okay. Or so I thought.

One night my booker was not there. I made little money. Then that night stretched into three. I was seriously low on cash, and worse yet the agency director started to blame me. What happened. He would demand. Nothing. I went out on the two calls and booked them. Not my fault. I knew that my time as an agency girl was coming to an end.

Thank you for your time that you have taken out of your otherwise productive day to post to my blog. Althought I feel that everyone's opinions have merit, I refuse to subscribe to your raddled drivel and frankly due to their unsalacious and unsalubrious effect I find them to be a desultory diatribe. You will ultimately drown in your own maelstrom.

Peace.

I absolutely love this photo. It sums me up completely.

I think I kissed more girls than I have fingers. Lordy! I am still digesting, more on this later. I think I may get to do a virgin, a virgin girl-girl. This needless to say is making my clitorus a little wigged out. I think I need to go breathe in a brown paper bag a few times.

Who would of thought I could make a few hundred dollars for a foot fetish shoot. No nudity, just my 10 pink piggies. I can still hear him: nice toe point! Good tension! Good wrinkles! I had a nice dark "patina" on the soles of my feet. (It is called dirt.) I got really turned on when he put my feet on the towels and then posed my feet next to a jar of Vaseline. Oh boy. I really want copy of this! I am looking forward to my next shoot. I am never looking at my feet the same way again. Wanna toe suck? Okay, but just one.