Cinematic Underpinnings -- "The Brothers Bloom"

So, I've been rather ill of late, and have faced down a number of challenges since last I wrote.  Violence.  Sickness.  A change of roommates.  And a dash of heartbreak thrown in for good measure.

Being deathly ill has, however, afforded me ample time to catch up on cinematic releases... that is, I get to watch whatever my roommate drags home on DVD. 

One such movie, The Brothers Bloom, left me 1) confused about the title, as only one brother was named Bloom, 2) irritated with the anachronism that fell pathetically short of Steampunk, yet made no sense in modern context whatsoever, and 3) disturbed at how closely escorting resembles a con.

These brothers went round the world creating new characters for themselves, conning people out of money or goods, and in the end, the basis of their concept was, "The perfect con is where everyone gets what they want," or something to that matter.

I was instantly thrown back to where I would size up a client upon entering, then quickly custom-tailor a personality... just for them.  And, of course, everyone got what they wanted in the end: I got paid... and they got laid.  But, I suppose it was all that acting and character-forging that got old for me toward the end.

I remember my "Final Act," as I shall now call it, though at the time it was just "Diana's Retirement Tour."  I was lucky enough to see many of my faithful regulars -- most of whom no longer got 100% fake personalities, but rather, prismatic glimpses into the Real Me.  One such client, my dedicated Kilted Gentleman, got The Real Me as usual (and was my official "Final Act."), and another guy... a brand new, never-met-the-man-before-in-my-life dude ended up getting to meet Me as well.  As in, well... me.  By the end of the week, he even knew my real name, how much I paid for my house, and as he was a doctor, I think he knew my blood type.  LOL

I had dropped The Con.  I just couldn't do it anymore, couldn't be all those girls to all those different men.  I recall days where I was a flirtatious ingenue, a self-assured Sex Goddess, a horny grad student (though I was in school, I wanted nothing more than to actually study by half-past four in the afternoon), a Domme, and a naughty schoolgirl -- all before dinner.  And, for dessert?  Make that a Double with my friend Jenn, served up with a side of Ohmigod-This-Guy's-Pits-REEK.  (It's called a SHOWER, gentlemen!  With SOAP!)

No more gagging over sweaty testicles.  No more horror-tales of grinning through dingleberries and fishy breath.  I was done; the curtain lowered on a Grande-Dame of the Smallest Stage Possible.

My advice to girls out there, wanting to dive into the pool of Courtesans?  Make your character well.  Flesh her out, write her a past, give her a name you'll learn to love and hate.  But, when you're done with her, let her rest in peace.  That, my dear girls, is when the game is over.

R.I.P. Diana *smile*

(Don't worry... that's NOT the end of this blog. That was just a little farewell to a swell gal I learnt to love/hate over the years.  *grin*)

Bi, Bi Birdie

As an openly bisexual woman, well, pansexual, actually, sex can be a tricky thing.

A few days ago, I was online blabbing with some friends in a chatroom, when an interloper butted in to ask the usual banalities: "wut is ur name?" "where do u live?" "do u have a bf?"and so on, completely ignoring the fact that I was having an active discussion with several of my real friends.  And, given that we were being somewhat social with a few other people, I wasn't completely annoyed with having someone jump in to the discussion, but I do loathe irritating people who can't seem to be bothered to write out full words.

(I have never, will never and I mean never, type in lazy, stupid, and immature abbreviations.)

Anyway, this dude not only pestered me in illiterate jargon, but also closely monitored our conversation for possible inlets to harass me further.  When one of my gal-pals mentioned one of my ex-girlfriends, The Mastermind jumped in, "so r u a lez?"

I could only interpret that to be a question about my sexual orientation.

"Actually, I'm a proud bisexual.  Now, please leave me alone."

"Wut do u like better? Girls or boys?"

I should've clicked the "Ignore" button sooner.

At any rate, I've been doing a lot of thinking about sex and sexuality lately, especially since beginning this blog.  And, sadly, that was far from the first time I've been asked to explain if I prefer innies or outies.  It's a popular misconception that everyone bases their choice of partners on plumbing.  I'd rather focus on such little details as personality, intelligence, wit, humour, compatibility, and yes, looks.

There, I said it.

But, to me, a hot girl is a hot girl, and a hot guy is a hot guy.  Moreover, what is hot to me is nerdy to most other people, and what is douchbaggish to yours truly is "hot" to most of North America.  So, beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, yadda yadda yadda.

So, then it should come as no surprise that someone, somewhere, would find me attractive enough to shag.  (Well, actually many someones have, but that is neither here nor there; I'm referring to my personal, not Professional, life.)  Last night (Saturday), I was hanging out with one of my guy friends and we kinda-sorta fell into bed together... again.  It's only the fourth time this has happened with him, so it isn't a huge deal, and out of all the guys I've been with, he was one of the better ones.  Maybe even in my Top Ten of Men.

We had been talking all evening, and it had been been a little while since I last got my freak on with a dude, so when he put his arms around me while I was trying to figure out his espresso machine, I didn't exactly run screaming into the night.  I'll admit that I did consider reminding him that denying me of caffeine is so not sexy, but I decided to just go along for the ride, as they say.

Before I go any further, let me explain something about me, gender, and sex: most of the men I've been with in the past few years were born as women.  (Not all, mind you... I'll discuss the exception(s) on another day.)  They are, as I mentioned in a previous post, Female to Male transsexuals, and despite what you may think, there are scads of FTMs in my area.  Actually, since guys who were born with female bodies transition so seamlessly, there are many, many more than most "straights" ever realize.  But, I digress.

As you also might recall, I'm also in a very, very open quasi-relationship with a woman, so the last time I got laid, I was with her.

This is where it gets somewhat interesting: I noticed something about how I feel after and during sex with a man, versus with a woman.

When I'm with (let's call her) Lizzie, I feel nurturing and giving, yet powerful.  I'm filled with an androgynous need to please her, fulfill her, and I find myself wanting to be the one who makes the first moves.  I crave opening her up, being in her, feeling her, filling her, and tasting her.  I tend to focus more on her needs than my own, and every little chirp and moan that I eke out of her makes me feel proud and sexy.  Afterward, I bask in the soft, dewy loveliness of it all, savouring the scent of her on my skin and our mingling perfumes on the sheets.  I hold her tight, and feel as though I could battle tigers with my bare hands.  In short, I feel like a sexual warrior.

When I was in bed with (shall we say?) Luc, I just rolled over and purred.  Sometimes I like being dominant with male partners, but that wasn't what I needed just then.  Fortunately, Luc isn't submissive at all in the sack... he's cocky, strong, and thanks to high levels of testosterone, he literally oozes maleness.  Perhaps that's why I went along with it.  He is also very fond of mish, which agreed with my swollen knees just fine.

He didn't waste much time on foreplay, unfortunately, but he did kiss me with enough passion and ardour to make my legs grow weak... and between them grow incredibly wet.  Since it was just a fling, I rather welcomed the lack of intimacy that oral sex might've imparted, but I also enjoyed it when he started undressing me right there in his kitchen, overhead lights ablaze. It was so overtly sensual to watch his lust grow as he backed me up against the wall.  Every time he found a new patch of skin to kiss, he made noises of manly appreciation and hunger, and when he whispered in my ear that he had been hard for me all night, I nearly came.

Last night, I needed to feel every inch a woman.  I needed to be fucked.

And, so I was.  After I was down to just panties and stockings and he was in boxer briefs and an unbuttoned shirt, he scooped me up and carried me to his bed.  (It's good to know that all that testosterone doesn't go to waste, even if it was a bit cheesy and showy.)

He told me hot hot I am, how tight, and how good I felt to him.  It was what I needed to hear, and most likely what he needed to say, so I returned the favour.  Between digging welts into the poor guy's back and reveling in the joy of being blessedly multi-orgasmic, I told him what he needed to hear.  It was only fair.

When it was all said and done, my thoughts wouldn't let me fall asleep (as usual), so I did a bit of self-evaluation.  Physically, I was sweaty, tired, and sticky, yet emotionally I felt more girly and pretty than I have in months.  My sense of femininity was renewed, and I felt beautiful in spite of my damp, tangled hair and smudged eyeliner.  Or maybe, I felt more beautiful because of it; who knows?

All I know is that different lovers elicit and demonstrate different sides of my personality.  I don't know if I could be considered "complex," but I do know that all of the pieces are necessary to the whole.  What does that mean for me in the long term?  Am I capable of settling down with one lover someday and doing the whole "suburban family" thing?  Or, am I always going to find myself with a veritable pantheon of partners, with each one answering some of my various sexual prayers?

I like to think that one day, years from now, I'll look back on this quandary and chuckle.  Perhaps I'll reread this entry, recall these affairs, and shake my head in disbelief at how naïve I was.  Maybe I'll even make sure there's enough coffee for my partner (whoever it is), and make them a cup just the way they like it.  Maybe, I'll surprise them in the shower for a quick morning tryst before throwing on my clothes and running out, already late for work.  But even that will be all right, because I'll know, deep down, that I'm wholly satisfied, and that I'll never need anything more than what they have to offer me.

Maybe.

But, for now, to answer your question, Mr. Mastermind, I like both.

HDIC

Ahhhh... HDIC.

Today is one of the most celebrated of all Canadian holidays.  Small children get hyper with joy at the mere mention.  Grown men's eyes gleam with anticipation.  The streets run golden with foamy rivers of Molson and Labatt.  Households prepare for it, calendars are cleared, and the country more or less shuts down.

Well, at least it should.

All joking aside, Hockey Day in Canada is one of my favourite days, personally.  Three all-Canadian games, back to back to back, with plenty of fun during intermissions and whatnot.  Sarah Harmer was just on a few minutes ago, and I looooooove her.  I love her even more now that I just found out that she owns a pair of Guy Lafleur's skates from 1976.  *swoon*

(And you have to love anyone who a) was featured on the Men with Brooms soundtrack, and b) did a duet with The Hip.)

Many of my clients used to find it kind of comical that their escort was more interested in bantering player stats and trade acquisitions than, well, whatever it is other girls discuss.  (What do they discuss, anyway?!  I'm curious now -- I'll have to ask around.  Makeup and shoes, maybe?  Or perhaps the state of their vaginae?)

Anyway.

On my Retirement Tour, a really awesome client brought me a special gift.  Well, I got quite a few special gifts that week, several of them quite luxe, but this one made me smile quirkily.  I dig quirky.

The gentleman had been trying to see me for years because of our long list of commonalities -- both from Ontario, both taller than most, and both completely obsessed with hockey.  So, he brought me something you normally don't contemplate bringing an escort, especially upon first meeting: a Maple Leafs throw-back sweater.

Not flowers, not chocolate, not even lingerie.  (The latter is a perennial Client favourite.  Like we don't have enough 'work clothes.'  *sigh*)  He brought me a hockey jersey.  How cool is that??

While many of my clients were irritating, pushy, demanding, or just plain stinky, some were pleasantly surprising.  I made friends of several of them and we still stay in contact.  Unfortunately, due to his bizarre schedule, it's hard to stay in touch with Mr. Hockey Jersey, but every once in a while there's an attempt in either direction.  But, mostly, I just have a fun memory and really awesome sweater.

I'm actually wearing it today.  I was going to wear my old Mats Sundin jersey, but this one looked better with my skinny jeans.  And my cute high-heeled boots.

I am still a girl, after all.

Biting the Bullet

I'm going to do it: I'm going to write back to my Man Friend.

We're sharing a lot of similar situations, sharing a lot of similar emotions, but I've been highly reticent in responding.  Must respond, must recover, and must move forward.

Beyond that, I spent a night in Hooker Land with a fellow Worker.  It was great!  I laughed; I cried; I visited a whole hell of a lot of Canadian escorts' sites.  It was hilarious.

At one point, we actually worked for the same agency in Boston, so we bonded from that experience.  I loved working in Boston, actually.  I generally stayed at the Park Plaza, the Doubletree, or the Holiday Inn Express (depending on the week), and loved it.  I miss the chicken fingers from Vinnie's across from the Holiday Inn Express in the Financial District.  I had clients ranging from Harvard profs to Harvard students (on the Crew Team) -- and a few fellow Canadians who flew out to see me.  I'll never forget that.

It was a wonderful year, except that the Agency Owner took more than half my money.  There were times I rode home with almost no money.  That was horrid.  I told the 'phone girl,' Cynthia, that a guy tried to rape me (my second client ever) and she didn't believe me.  The next day, she booked him with a girl a foot shorter than myself -- I'm over 6' -- and she ended up in hospital getting her anus reconstructed.

But, those of us that bond, bond for life.  I love my Industry friends... and they are real friends... because they know The Real Me.  The Me that worked as an escort.  The Me that has other interests.  The me that is affected by multiple disorders.  The Me that I like being....the REAL Me.

*sigh*

I guess it's time to Bite the Bullet and write my Man Friend.  I can't say I'm not nervous (because I am), but I'm at least going to try.  I owe him that.  And I owe Me that, too.

Thanks for the support, Ladies.  I mean that.  *smile*

Spongechick Hookerpants

Oh, Cramps...how can you be so evil?!?!?

I hate my uterus.  I'm sorry, men, for all of the graphic reality this is to follow, but I can't hide it.  If any of you so-called 'hobbyists' out there think we don't work on the rag, you're very, VERY much mistaken.

All of us have done it.  It isn't pretty, but yeah, here's how it goes...

So, Escort gets her period unexpectedly.  She's not on The Pill (I NEVER was on the Pill...and NEVER did BBFS, obviously), so it takes her by surprise.  Instead of freaking out and asking the Madam to send her home early (and incurring charges), she does what all the other girls do: she stuffs in a makeup sponge.

Yes: I said a makeup sponge.  Sorry.

Nothing else works quite as well, and we all have our favourite brands (I swore by Life Brand Sea Makeup Sponges from Shoppers Drug Mart.  Unfortunately, they were discontinued).  And, no, it doesn't just stay in all day -- you have to pull it out between clients and rinse the sponge.  No, not 'throw it away,' but rinse it.  How gross is that?  But, we all do/did it.  It's de rigueur in the Escorting World, and no, guys NEVER EVER notice.  And I mean never.  However, the Instead Cup (which I've used for years here in Canada) can be mistaken for a diaphragm whilst in the act, and one girl told me it makes the guys even more irritating when it comes to condom use.  Ergo, it isn't used as much.

Oh, if only you housewives knew how stupid your husbands can be!  You'd laugh alllll the way to the bank.  And I mean that.

So, yes, girls work in Biohazard Mode, but it isn't hazardous for them... only for the men.  As are so many of the acts we perform(ed)...

As a final note, gents, when you're happily performing DATY on a girl at 4 PM (or later), just remember that you're probably #4 or six of the day, and yeah, she might even be on the rag.  Sucks, don't it, Boys?!?

*LOL*

Reality blows.  ;)

Groundhog Day

Today is officially Groundhog Day.

Is this post going to haunt me repeatedly?!

So, Punxstawney Phil didn't see his shadow this year... allegedly, spring shall come early(ish) this year.  Woot!

Once upon a time, I was having a martini with some friends at another friend's place, and one of my dearest BFFs (let's call him Mr. Davis) turned to me and said, "Hey, you know what, Diana?  I've always wanted to go to Punxsutawney, PA for Groundhog Day."

I put down my drink, looked at him, and smiled.  "How far do you figure it is?"

"Let's find out.  We have a few hours until midnight."

"Let me grab my Chucks," I responded, rising to grab my favourite sneakers.

So, about four or five hours later, we were driving around downtown Punxey, looking for a parking spot, cruising past the Craft Fair toward Gobbler's Knob.  It was hilarious, and we took great joy in flicking through local radio channels for the local news and music.  It didn't disappoint.

Phil saw his shadow that year, unlike this year, but we didn't care.  We loved the freedom of being somewhere new to both of us, and we totally bonded on an even deeper level.  We signed the Guest Book at the Punxy Library.  We saw Punxsutawney Phyllis as well as Phil.  We later went to the local Craft Fair at the school, and I bought my parents a magnet and myself a t-shirt.  (Good girls go to bed on time, but THIS GIRL went to Gobble at the Knob! Gobbler's Knob, Punxsutawney, PA)

This year, we made a pact to revisit Punxy next year, and I'm actually quite excited.  It's the kind of things that can only happen between really, really, REALLY good friends, but we're already plotting and planning our trip.  This won't have the fun of being spontaneous, but we, at least, won't have to stay at a little dive-motel along the way back North.  I am, after all, a 'recovering escort,' and to me, that means four-star accommodations... or at least three-star.  *shudder*  It was pretty harsh last time.  LOL

And, I'll have a change of underwear this time.

Am I doomed to repeat myself, like the Bill Murray movie?  I'm going to talk to a friend later -- a fellow sister from the industry, but we've both agreed that we will NEVER get 'over' our pasts in the Industry. We make jokes about paying for things with cash in unmarked, unopened, white envelopes, going into 'hooker mode' when faced with certain types of older men (it once happened with my new uncle: my aunt's husband totally gets escorts), and viewing vodka as a 'work environment.'

Let's just say that I never drink vodka anymore.  Ever.

Actually, I hardly drink anything at all anymore, except sometimes wine.  Too damned many medications.  I still enjoy a fine vintage Bourgogne, but there are no more weeks of slugging liquor to self-medicate the parade of clients.  If I ever go back, it'll be lucid and very, VERY selective.  Wine is good -- vodka shots at 8 AM?  Not so much.

I am having issues with a Man Friend of mine.  Not a client, but an actual friend.  It would seem that his description of me, 'writing more,' and my actually writing more weren't in synch, so I don't know what to do.  I've been confused as hell, but I suppose that goes along with the territory.

It just goes to show that there is NO such thing as 'expertise' when it comes to matters of the heart -- not even from a pro...

*sigh*

Happy Groundhog Day, everyone!

Occupational Axioms

I had a great day in The City yesterday.  As a whole, I had a wonderful time shambling around both fore and aft an important meeting I had scheduled midday.  Since the client I was meeting with is a total fashionista, I had to dress the part.  My efforts paid off, and I have a solid event lined up for March.  Oh, the joys of working freelance!

Meeting or not, I wasn't about to kill my knees and joints by hobbling around downtown Toronto on four-inch stilettos all day, nor was I about to sacrifice my dignity by wearing godawful, hideous trainers whilst commuting around on mass transpo.  In fact, aside from my beloved black, hi-top Chucks, I don't even own any sneakers.  (I hate it when I look over a business woman and she's pretty and respectable from the ankles up.  A designer suit and silky hose do not go with sweat socks and Nikes.  Ever.)  Instead, I paired some super cute flats with my sassy ensemble and lovingly toted my favourite heels in a reeeeally big purse I have just for such occasions.

The red stilettos were a major hit, and, for some reason, this woman was more impressed with my Dolce & Gabbana shoes than my résumé and the glowing referral she got from another client of mine from the fashion crowd.  I've always found it funny that people would rather pay people who don't look like they need the money.

It was especially true in the Industry.  As an escort, the more luxe your hotel, the more polished and groomed the girl, and the more expensive your clothes and shoes, the bigger your tip, the better your review, and the longer your appointments will be.  There were many times that gentlemen brought me wine, jewellery, and/or chocolates, and we whittled away our hour sipping Champagne and talking.  I satisfied many a gentleman with my oral skills -- oral communication, that is.  (Having an advanced degree is extraordinarily helpful in an industry where many of your peers never made it past Grade Nine.)

Even in my perma-tipsy state, I took great care with my poise, language, and grammar.  I almost never wore lingerie like the other girls; I preferred elegant cocktail frocks, especially the perennial hit: the Little Black Dress.  I tried to never let on that between each appointment was a frantic scramble to shower, touch up the makeup and hair, gargle with mouthwash, dispose of the used condoms and wrappers, toss his used towel in the closet and get out a new one for the next guy, straighten up the bedding to look completely untouched, slug back more booze, hide away the money, light fresh candles (if necessary), get dressed, and look completely at ease by the next knock on the door.

On occasion, there were also 'accidents' to remedy.  Since there's no time to wash your hair, dress, or get a new duvet, semen is just easier to quickly hit with a hairdryer and squirt with Febreeze.  Yes, that includes the hair (it brushes out).  I always Febreezed the bed between each guy, anyway -- that 'Fresh Linen' scent is a working girl's saviour.

All this behind-the-scenes stuff took place in under thirty minutes, so that by the time the next gentleman was on his way up, I was back to looking like a million bucks.  And, at the end of our hour together -- regardless of what transpired -- I often found an extra fifty or hundred on my nightstand.  I thought it was fairly normal until I spoke to one of the other girls.  I didn't usually fraternize with other women from the Industry (actual friends notwithstanding), but I was bored.  She invited me out for drinks after work.  Over the phone, she asked that I fetch her from her room after my last appointment, and when I got there, I was stunned.

She was at least ten years my senior, but that factor can be completely irrelevant in a well-preserved, sophisticated courtesan.  And with proper lighting.  However, she was dressed like a slutty teenager from the 1980's and all the fluorescent lights blazed forth.  Strewn about on the bed were masses of cheap, tawdry, novelty lingerie -- like the scratchy kind from porn stores -- and her room reeked of cigarettes mixed with old room service.  The beds were both unmade and there were no candles or music for ambiance.

Basically, it was the polar opposite of my room, attitude, dress, and manner of comportment.

I later found out that our starting rates were $100 apart, and that she sometimes 'made up the difference' by allowing the guys to have anal sex with her or by doing what's known as BBFS.  It stands for 'Bare-Back Full Service,' and refers to intercourse without a condom.  Or, in my translation, Russian Roulette Suicide.

I went out with her that night, but never again.  And it also reinforced that it really does take money to make money.  All night I wanted to politely suggest to her that she might want to invest in her looks a bit, perhaps work to keep the room fresh and sensual, but I never did.  It seemed cruel and would've probably fallen on deaf ears, anyway.  Instead, I called it an early night and went back up to my room.

It was a night of platitudes -- not only do you have to spend money to make money, but it's also better to be alone than badly accompanied.

And with that, I think I'll sign off.  I have something that has been torturing me mentally, but I'll keep it to myself for now.  I won't go scrawling about it anywhere just yet -- not here, not to the man himself -- until I give it some more thought.

Think before you speak, look before you leap, and all that jazz...

Nocturnal Conditions

I had a rather unusual experience last night.  I'm not sure how to process it.

I date, but it has been awhile since I've been in a real relationship.  I have a girl I 'date,' but we're far from monogamous, and neither of us are really ready to take that plunge.  Maybe someday, though.  I know I wouldn't exactly rule it out.

But, I guess that's not the point.  Currently, I live with a roommate, which is normally not that odd, except that mine is one of my ex's.  Let's call him Seamus.  There was a time when we weren't even on speaking terms, but we ran into each other one day, and realized that we had good initial instincts, but lousy direction.  We make good friends (normally), and we can (usually) co-habitate without killing each other, but going that extra step was not a good idea.  We need separate rooms, beds, and lives -- just like me and all my other friends.

Last night, I had a particularly bad time.  Everything was hurting...I laid in bed and tried to not think about it.  It was just too much; I started crying.  And once I started, I couldn't stop.  I thought I was quiet, but Seamus crept in and asked if I was all right.  I told him that I was fine, just in pain, and he left without a word.  I figured I was being left alone to suffer in silence and solitude.


A few minutes later he came back with a cup of my favourite tea and my medication.

I took my meds and drank my tea while he perched on the edge of my bed in his boxers, half asleep and yawning, with his hair sticking up everywhere.  Afterward, I thanked him and excavated a spot on my nightstand for my empty mug amongst the discarded barrettes, accessories, books, and other sundries typically laid aside before bed.  I snuggled back down under the blankets and expected him to leave.  Instead, he quietly climbed under with me.  And, despite the fact that I was completely naked, and despite the fact that we have a history, he just held me.

Not even an errant hand on a boob.

There's a gross social misperception about sex and intimacy.  The two are by no means necessarily concurrent. I've certainly had loads of sex with no intimacy, and I've experienced intimacy with no sex whatsoever.  Sometimes, though, the two do twine together, and that's when it's great.  And yeah, special.  But that wasn't what I needed last night, and thankfully, he got that.  In fact, that was one of the (many) reasons we didn't work; we were always much better at non-sexual intimacy.  And that makes a good friend.


Before I started Working, I had an inkling that my personal sexual life and dating scope would forever be changed, but I had no idea to what degree.  It's staggering to remember how differently I used to view matters of the heart, especially when it comes to biological men (as opposed to transmen...FTMs...look it up).  I'm essentially a completely different girl now.  Not that it's necessarily a bad thing -- the New Girl is a lot more savvy, a lot less trusting, way more adventurous in bed, and sure as hell knows what to look for a guy's computer.


And, no, in case you're wondering, work was not why Seamus and I split, even though I worked through all of our relationship.  He was very supportive, actually.  I'm sure I'll delve more into the details at a later date, but for now, I think I just want some soup.


I'm not sure which is more painful right now... the flare-ups, or the sudden reflections that I'll never get that other girl back.  

A Cowgirl No Longer

Girls leave The Industry for a myriad of reasons...some get too old, some get too prudish, others get married.  Me?  I got too sore.

I used to love playing sports and staying active.  Hockey, curling, yoga, hiking...I grew up genuinely enjoying feeling my body move, stretch, and flex.  Then I bashed up a knee.  Then the other.  Then I started hurting more and more...then I went under the knife a few times.

I used to dread when guys asked me to, 'get on top.'  In Hobbyist Speak, it's called Cowgirl, or sometimes shortened to CG in reviews (oh, yes, the guys review girls on lurid online forums), but in Diana Land, it was just pure hell.  Try writhing around, bouncing up and down on Swiss cheese kneecaps, while simultaneously trying to smile, moan, and remember the name of the guy underneath you, and while in excruciating pain.

I remember all too clearly being in the throes of an appointment, happily zoned out in missionary, faking orgasms at crucial times, and suddenly, Mr. Two-Thirty (as in, when his scheduled appoint began) says, "Mmmm, Diana...get on top, baby."

Ooh, yay.  Now I get to be in pain AND pretend like I like you.  Thanks!  *sigh*

(Now you understand the vodka.)

So, I've been getting worse for some time, and was recently diagnosed with fibromyalgia, of all things.  I have several other conditions that have been identified over the years, but fibro makes a lot of sense.  Unfortunately.

For some time, I considered returning to Work.  In all honesty, there are times I miss many of the aspects, as I've said before.  And, to be be even more frank, I've contemplated it for financial reasons just about every blessed second... but it simply can't happen now.  There is no plausible way I can handle eight to ten guys a day anymore.  Emotionally, I've healed sufficiently to return in earnest, but my body will never be able to withstand the pummeling.  Literally.

And, I suppose that's why I decided to start this blog.  I can talk about it now because it's in the past.  All part of my 'femme fatale' history that will always elicit a twinkle from my eyes and a stifled giggle whenever I hear women heatedly speculating about the topic at cocktail parties.

"...in the past..."

That's a hopeful phrase.  I suppose it will never truly be in my 'past,' because it definitely left its mark on me.  Not necessarily bad, mind you, more like unusual.  To liken it to a tattoo, it is far from the Scarlet A that society would like to have the masses believe.  Nor does it bear any resemblance to a trashy Tweety Bird on the butt, nor the ubiquitous Rose-on-the-Boob that peppers trailer parks across every province and state (and usually found in conjunction with mullets and Daisy Dukes).

No, I'm pleased that I thought through my tattoo, considered it from every angle, and even debated how I may feel about it when I'm eighty.  In my opinion, I chose a quality artist, selected attractive colours, and in the end, it's something unusual, intriguing, mysterious, and perhaps a bit sexy.

However, like a tattoo, it's also not something I show to everyone.  And it's definitely not 'office appropriate.'  (Let's just say I won't be adding to to my CV.)

Tripping Down Memory Lane

I guess I should begin with explaining WHY I have chosen to pen this blog.  It's not every day that a former escort decides to bare her soul and talk about her experiences.  There's a huge stigma against girls like me -- even after the fact -- so I realize that not everyone will want to read this.  Mind you, I'm retired, so if you're expecting some torrid play-by-play, I apologize in advance, but you're about to be very sorely let down.  And bored.

Working for five years changed me.  A lot.  More than I think I noticed at the time.  But, no, in case you're wondering, I wouldn't change a thing if I could.  In fact, I'd go back in a heartbeat if I really felt like it (or needed to), so that should tell you something.  To be even more honest, there are a lot of days when I wake up and genuinely miss it.  Miss the excitement, miss the glamour, miss the power, and yes, miss the money.

When you're pulling in several grand a day, it's kind of hard to go back to an office job.

I was in the shower earlier this evening when it hit me.  I was shaving (yes, down there) and suddenly remembered the flurry of activity I used to go through when I was working.  My morning routine vacillated  between comical, depressing, exciting, and jaded.

7:30 AM:  Wake up in the "clean bed."  Stare at ceiling grumpy while hating life.
7:45 AM  Extract self from bed; begin making up "clean bed" to look like "jizz bed."  This is an art form, really, and it took me about a year to learn the subtle little tricks.  Like, when you get into your new hotel room, take off the extra pillows from the Jizz Bed.  Hide them in the closet for later.  Pull the duvet and sheets up over pillows and tuck in pillow on both sides.  Make it look nice and tight, with delineated pillows under duvet.  Or, if it won't reach, pull up sheet and duvet under pillows and tuck in tightly.  The main idea here is to make the bed look neat and uninviting enough to discourage guys from trying to pull the sheets back.  More on that later.
7:55 AM  Start shower to let it heat up.
8:00 AM  Prepare breakfast.  And by 'breakfast,' I mean a meal replacement bar and a cocktail.  Yes, I said, 'Cocktail.'  Generally speaking, I always kept a bottle of vodka and a case of energy drinks in my mini fridge.  More on that later, also.
8:04 AM  After choking down first cocktail and chalky protein bar, it's shower time!  By now, the whole room is damp and warm from wasting water.  For some reason, this feels vindicating.
8:20 AM  Clean, preened, and scrubbed to a sheen.  Brush teeth.  Time for hair and makeup!
8:50 AM  Mentally review all the things escorts should not wear: perfume, lipstick, face powder, etc.  Deliberately spritz self with body spray, douse pussy with a healthy coating of 'feminine deodorant spray,' and apply lip stain.  Repowder face.
9:00 AM  Mentally note that there is one hour of freedom left.  Make sure the clock is set ahead at least five minutes (so they'll leave early!), put on a stretchy dress (easily removed!), go out to get ice (dorm the door for a quick reentry!), and begin free-pouring cocktails.  Now is not the time to be temperate... now is the time to drink.
9:30 AM  Go around the room and put out fresh little tealights.  Candles are flattering and set the mood, and have the added benefit of creating a 'bubble' in which to work.  It makes it easier to forget later, and emotionally distance oneself from the workday.
9:30 AM (Also)  Get call from madam that I have a ten o'clock appointment.  Joy.
9:35 AM  Lower temperature in the room.  A cooler room means less sweating and perkier tits.  Also, it makes the guys want to get dressed faster 'after.'
9:40 AM  Nerves and adrenaline are pumping and twitching.  Why am I not sufficiently drunk yet?!  Begin doing straight shots of vodka.  Ponder state of liver, then ignore it.  Call a friend 'in-the-know' to gripe.  Bitch and moan about being too sober while lighting candles, closing blackout curtains, and cuing up seductive background music.
9:50 AM  Get off phone to concentrate on drinking.  Begin pacing agitatedly.  Pace to washroom and pour out a measure of Listerine and gargle thoroughly.
9:55 AM  Begin chewing Altoids while continuously drinking.  Must smell minty fresh, and not like I've been sucking down booze since eight AM.
10:01 AM (but says 10:06 on bedside clock)  Madam calls to let me know my guy is downstairs.  Eat a few final Altoids, plaster on huge fake grin, and mentally 'get into character.'
10:03 AM (10:08 in 'hooker time')  There's a knock on the door.  The curtain comes up, and the day begins!

My mornings now are so much easier.  They also don't involve vodka, which is a very, very good thing.  Instead, I make coffee, have scrambled eggs, and pad around in my fluffy, pink robe and slippers while waiting for my roommate to be done in the shower.  I leave my bed rumpled, listen to the weather on TV, and turn up the thermostat when it gets chilly.

I do, however, still shave (everything) each morning, still agonize over my appearance, and still use powder scented pussy spray.  I had never even considered it before I started working, but now I can't imagine not using it.  In fact, while my shower started the trip down Memory Lane, it was after that I really became motivated to write this all down.  I was spritzing myself liberally with 'pussy spray,' and the scent caused another little memory bubble to float up and burst in my brain.

And it made me smile.

But now, I'm going to go out with my friends and seek some nocturnal amusement.  Undoubtedly, at least a few men will hit on me, and some of them may even buy me drinks.  (I'm not being arrogant, just guessing from the ongoing, obvious pattern.)  I already know I won't go home with any of them (I'm actually quite picky and reserved in my personal life), but I'll let them pay for a drink, chat me up, and maybe I'll even like one of them.

Those drinks are just a public version of what I used to do behind hotel doors.  Women don't even realize it, but guys all seem to think that our 'time and companionship' is worth the money, and I happen to agree.  Especially the complete strangers.  I'll admit that it feels completely different with guys I know and like... then, it's actually quite intimate.  I have no idea why, but maybe I'll figure it out...

... and maybe this blog will help.