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Am I officially a prostitute now? A whore? I just fulfilled a lifetime dream of accepting money for sex, didn't I? Although the sex was masked behind "nude housecleaning."
Even that was a misnomer. I crossdressed for the gentleman. Wig to heels. Which I kicked off in order to run his vacuum and perform other chores. He got a helluva bargain: my slender, girly body for $10 an hour. With a $30 minimum. Hell, the gas I burned driving to the next county and back consumed 10% of that. Plus some cleaning supplies I purchased, just in case. And I ruined a pair of pantyhose. That's, like, five bucks right there if you include prorated shipping from No Nonsense. I told him this was an "introductory" rate and that my typical fee was $50. Minimum.
He deflected by asking how much next time if he wanted to fuck me. $100, I informed him, not missing a beat. He smiled. Not sure if that was a tacit "OK" or not. And another thing I told him, though in far less demanding fashion than presented here: if he wanted to fuck me we'd have to do this later in the day, so I could get my body ready. Meaning "douche" myself and open up my hole. With my dildo. This 8 am to 11 am gig was a killer. I'd worked till after 10 pm the previous night at my real job.
The complimentary blowjob was fine, I didn't mind this. It was part of the deal. Like cleaning his toilet. My jaw would ache the next day it had taken me so long to get the old guy hard, let alone to ejaculate, but that was OK. That's the role of the prostitute, isn't it? Isn't that what theyÑweÑdo? Serve our clients no matter what?
The good news is he wants me back. Date TBD. He's divorced (as am I) and lives alone in his spacious house in a deed-restricted, waterfront community. But he has grown children, other relatives, and it's the holiday season...
"We'll call this your special `holiday rate,'" he said, as he tucked several folded bills inside the waistband of my black sheer-to-waists. He was smiling. I was smiling. His hands had been on me, all over me, in one form or another, ever since I walked in his door. "I included a little extra in that," he added.
I thanked him. Then I changed from my Sissyman outfit into my Clark Kent attire. And drove away in my Honda. Now the four ten-dollar bills lay wrinkled on my bed. It was somewhat unbelievable. I'd done a lot of bizarre things in my lifeÑsexual things. But money for sex? I could rationalize it and say he paid me to clean house for him for the better part of three hours. And this I did. But still, after I was inside his house and after I guided his hand to my pantied genitals, and he fondled them, roughly...the illusion that this was just about running a Hoover, or washing dishes, or cleaning windows or scrubbing a toilet...blew away like smoke in a gust of wind.
Add to that: "And for that I include a complimentary blowjob. If you want one," I explained, as his fingers manipulating my little balls inside their web of sheer nylon over microfiber. Not that it was likely he was a cop in the first place...but a hooker can't be too careful, right?
"Oh I'll want one all right," his reply.
What to do with the money? Aside from stick it in my wallet. Treat myself to a nice bottle of wine? Wasteful. Extravagant. I'd just suck it down to get giddy-drunk, without pausing to appreciate its character and complexities. Might as well go up and get another 12-pack of Mich Ultra from the convenience store. I'd left the pack I'd taken to my new client's houseÑnerve medicine--behind in his fridge. (Another expense!)
I rationalized that cleaning house in women's underwear for older men wasn't about the money. The money was symbolic. Another degree of decadence. A fantasy fulfilled. A Belle du Jour moment. But a necessary one. Otherwise these guysÑwell, guyÑwould just take advantage of you. Use you. Give back nothing in return except, maybe, for that day's load of semen. Men are users. I'd learned that well enough over the past ten years of meet-ups on Deanslist. Wham, bam...
No wonder women hated men. The Feministas anyway. I couldn't blame them. On the other hand...
We needed them. WeÑhetero women, gays, bi's like me, transgenders et al....we needed their cocks. Longed for them. In our mouths, our cunts (if we had one), our asses (we all definitely had one of those). The price? Selfishness, usually. I'd "dressed" for countless men. Had any of them ever offered to buy me the first pair of stockings? Or panty? Or anklet? Or...anything?
A guy, a regular Dom, had once pierced my urethra with a sound he inserted without my permission. I ended up with over a thousand dollars in out-of-pocket expenses. Had he ever offered to pay? Or at least help out?
Selfish prick! I never heard from him again.
I digress. I was talking about money. The $40 I earned. I was watching an episode of Cops recently when a guyÑa gurlÑan African-American prostituteÑwas being arrested for offering "her" body to a john in return for $40. He wanted to "play" with her it seemed.
My "john" had just this day played with me; fondled me; groped me. For hours. It was part of the territory. Then I got down on my stockinged knees and sucked his cock. His complimentary BJ. I could still taste his sweet-and-salty cum. At least I thought I could.
Food! It was nearly four p.m. and I hadn't yet eaten today. (If you don't count skinny cans of Mich Ultras as "food," or a dollop of semen.) I had just earned $40! Enough for a very nice meal at a nearby Italian restaurant. Including a couple of glasses of house red. My ex had been Italian. Little did she know...
I could shower, change into a fresh pair of Olga's panties under my otherwise manly attire, and go enjoy a very nice meal. Thanks to my first "trick."
Even from my apartment bedroom I heard my cell ping an incoming text. After toweling off, partially, I ran to it on my kitchen counter. It was from my new friend. No, my client. My employer. His text:
Next time ill [sic] go for the hundred.
He wanted to fuck me! I performed a little water-dripping dance in the nude. I did the math. A regular thing? Hundred a week...let's say 50 weeks out of the year...? That could add up to almost $5,000 annually in tax-free income. Wow! Now we were talking...serious cash!
And what if I managed to pick up a second client? Or a third? (I'd have to be discreet. In my posts. New pics?)
Jesus! And then, as everyone in sales knows, come the referrals. This whole thing could snowball into a new career. What had been a fantasy up until today could become a reality beyond my wildest dreams! Who wouldn't rather sell his sexy body than work in a paint store?
A middle-aged woman took the stool next to me in the Italian restaurant. Mario's. No oneÑno oneÑcould make a chicken parm like my ex but...theirs was pretty good. I guessed the woman had sat at the bar in order not, like me, to take up a table in the cramped restaurant. Even a table for two. We struck up a conversation. It eventually, inevitably, led to this:
"What do you do for a living?"
"As of today? I'm a male prostitute."
She laughed, stroked my arm. She was horny, on the make. We both laughed. I was high.
"No, really," she said, sounding hopeful.
"I sell paint."
"What?"
"At the moment? I'm a paint salesman."
She blinked. Perhaps in disbelief. She'd once been pretty. Oh, well...
"Oh."
The conversation petered out from there. Fine with me.
I was already thinking about my client's cock up my clean ass next visit. His load of semen. I was already spending his $100 fee...