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Thread: Bad experience: A New York escort's confession

  1. #1

    Exclamation Bad experience: A New York escort's confession

    I have been reading an interesting blog on confessions from New York SPs:

    http://www.nyhotties.com/

    One of the stories that got to me was Alexa's bad experience:

    Caveat Vendor — Part II

    “Hello?”

    “So I saw your ad in the _____”

    “Yes?”

    “Is that really you?”

    “Yes.”

    “You didn’t use some pic from Hustler or nothing, right?”

    “No. That’s really me.”

    “Whaddya charge?”

    ”___ per hour.”

    “You gotta be kidding me.”

    “No, that’s what I charge.”

    “OK. Whatever. Can you come over in the next hour?”


    As you might have guessed, I experienced some real misgivings about the appointment with Bill. When he told me his address, my doubts increased because he lived in Hell’s Kitchen.

    Hell’s Kitchen has undergone a recent wave of gentrification with lots of hip new restaurants popping up on 9th Ave. As young professionals moved into new luxury apartments on 8th Ave with floor-to-ceiling windows and a fleet of doormen in crisp uniforms, the crack whores, pimps and other undesirables retreated to the peripheries.

    Pockets of seediness still exist, though, especially around 10th and 11th Ave and close to the Port Authority. Runaway teenage girls still get off the buses at Port Authority and run right into the arms of waiting pimps every day.

    Hard up for cash and new clients, I ignore my doubts and agree to the appointment.

    Stepping out of the cab, I’m immediately struck with the oh-so-lovely fumes of rotting garbage — someone had ripped open a white garbage bag and had scattered the contents on the sidewalk. Navigating around the rotting food, I ring the buzzer.

    Seeing Bill allays some of my mounting doubts and fears. Based on our conversation, I had half-expected to be greeted by some balding fat man in a stained wife-beater and with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Instead, Bill’s a fairly normal looking young guy, at least as far as I could tell. He has a bit of a beer belly, but he seems otherwise fine. His old but clean blue jeans and black polo shirt fit well with his tall frame.

    As I prepare to ask him for my fees, he says, “Suck my cock, bitch.”

    “Excuse me?”

    “I said, ‘Suck my cock! Bitch.’ “

    Bill slaps me hard across my left cheek. He quickly follows up with another hard slap across my right cheek. Before I can react to his initial attack, Bill grabs my hair and yanks it so hard that I fall to my knees. Weighing only 105 lbs, I’m no match for him.

    Still holding a fistful of my hair in his hand, he opens his zipper with his other hand and whips out his cock. While I’m gasping for air, he jams his now hard cock into my mouth.

    At first, I’m so disoriented that I don’t even realize that he’s face-fucking me. My only thought is that I can’t breathe. When I start gagging, he pulls his cock out and lets me take in some air. Finally, I realize that I’m being raped.

    As Bill continues to ram his cock in and out of my mouth, I panic. Although my brain knows that I have to get out of there, my body remains frozen. He keeps yanking my hair and pushing his cock into my mouth.

    Finally, some primal instinct forces me to act. Without thinking, I bite down on his cock and squeeze his testicles as hard as I can.

    Bill shrieks. He lets go of my hair and falls to the ground. Doubled up in a fetal position, he rocks back and forth with his hands on his crotch and moans.

    I bolt for the door.

    When I get to my apartment, I’m a complete mess. With my disheveled hair and makeup running down my eyes, I look like some cheap-ass version of Tammy Faye Baker.

    To this day, I still can’t remember how I returned to my apartment. I’ll never forget the metallic salty taste of Bill’s blood on my tongue, though.

    The next day, I go to the clinic to get tested for AIDS. More importantly, I call Allison and ask if I can work for her again. And so my education in the business begins.

  2. #2
    Working rage-aholic
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    He got what he deserved. Hope she didn't catch anything from him.
    Why are homely people discriminated against...we're the majority

  3. #3

    Paralysis Bound

    I also liked reading this story on her blog. Yet another bad experience:

    Paralysis Bound

    Last week I got a call from someone new. “Hi Alexa. This is F. I’m a friend of D’s?”

    “D! Oh my God. Where is D?” The guy had just about dropped off the planet.

    “He got switched to our Tokyo offices. He sends his regards though.”

    “Oh well. Please please send him mine.”

    “Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner sometime?”

    Of course I would. A friend of D’s is a friend of mine no questions no exceptions. And this guy already had won me over with his tentative, formal and deferential manner. Besides he had also invited me to one of my all time favorite restaurants, Aquavit, a long-standing Swedish place in midtown. I dreamt all night of herring samplers and the horseradish aquavit I had had with it the last time I was there.

    When I got to the restaurant on the appointed night, I looked around for a man matching F’s description of himself—sandy brown hair, green eyes about 5’10” in a black suit. Who knew, maybe he’d even be cute. I couldn’t immediately see anyone who fit the bill though. The hostess eventually lead me to a table off to the side.

    To a man who was in a wheelchair.

    I was confused and probably looked it. Wouldn’t you mention ‘wheelchair’ if you were in one?

    F interrupted my thoughts. “Didn’t expect that I’d be in a wheelchair, huh?”

    He said it as a challenge, almost with a sneer. I was flummoxed. He didn’t sound a bit like the sweet and shy guy on the phone.

    “Well no but—F?” Maybe this wasn’t him at all.

    “Right. Because people in wheelchairs don’t date or have sex drives, do they?!” This had the possibility of veering horribly off course. I tried to adjust. “No sir. I saw Murderball, I did. Wouldn’t think that for a moment.” I smiled my brightest smile.

    F—or the person now impersonating him—seemed impervious to my charms. In fact, he seemed to have the deepest well of venom I had seen in quite some time. Man. It was like another thing sitting next to him at the table.

    “Forgive me. I was only surprised because you were very specific on the phone about how tall you were and you—”

    “I am 5’10”!”

    I breathed in and counted to four. “You’re right. You are. So nice to meet you.” I turned to the waitress. “Can I have a flight of aquavits?”

    Yeah. It was going to be a long night.

    After a bunch of fits and starts to the conversation, we finally got going. F talked about how long he’d been in New York and how he liked living in Park Slope, where he had bought a townhouse about a year ago. He had hired one of the city’s top interior designers and was thrilled with the result—a place that felt old world but was also flooded with light. Offhand he mentioned the phrase, “before the accident—”

    Accident. The second he said it his face changed. He looked down. Swallowed hard. I kept eating.

    “I bet you’re wondering what happened.”

    “No. Of course—”

    “I was changing a light bulb.”

    I looked up. Jesus. Life was so ridiculously unfair sometimes. It hurt to even look at him. I opened my mouth—

    “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.”

    I stared down at my plate. There was at least a full minute of silence.

    “I can’t believe this.” he finally said.

    I didn’t respond.

    “…I had girlfriends. Before. Women loved to be with me.” Another pause. “You don’t believe me?”

    “Of course I—”

    “And now I’ll have to hire whores for the rest of my life.”

    It stung like a slap.

    Goddamnit. In one full swoop he had dumped the sum total of his own ugliness and anger onto me. I felt pinned by the weight of it.

    But not for long. I signaled for the nearest waiter. When he arrived, I gave him my credit card. “Hi. I’d like to pay for what we’ve had so far. I’m going to go to the rest room. If you could just bring the check to me at the host station that would be wonderful.” Then I turned to F. “Good luck to you.”

    I knew his outburst had nothing to do with me. He probably had had a host of women since the accident giving him looks of pity. Looks that probably cut like knives.

    Rationally I knew that. But irrationally as soon as I hit the pavement outside the restaurant I broke into a run. I let the reassuring noise of my heels clicking away on the pavement carry me all the way home.

  4. #4
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    I understand her feelings, but my softer side understands his bitterness, too. How would you like to be wheelchair ridden the rest of your life, losing not only your freedom, but any appeal to women? He was wrong to take it out on a stranger, but his resentment is natural. Most women will write him off on first glance. Life is cruel.

    "We all lead lives of quiet despair" I forget who said that, but there's much truth to it. To it I would add, some of us choose not to be quiet.
    Why are homely people discriminated against...we're the majority

  5. #5
    Quote Originally Posted by btyger
    ...................

    "We all lead lives of quiet despair" I forget who said that, but there's much truth to it. To it I would add, some of us choose not to be quiet.
    It was George Bernard Shaw who said, "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation".

  6. #6
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    She was right to leave. Nobody should have to put up with verbal abuse.

    The guy has so much venom he is likely to hurt her physically, not only verbally. Many people in wheelchairs have fantastic upper body strength.

    My mom is in a wheelchair; so I have learnt a thing or two about adjusting to losing your mobility. His resentment is a reflection of his attitude before the accident. He could have chosen to be happy to have survived the accident in the firstplace; Feeling like a survivor instead of a loser. Ever go watch the wheelchair olympics? These guys are not only supreme athletes, but they are good looking too!

    Ronnie,
    Naughtylady
    They will forget what you said,
    they will forget what you did,
    but they will never forget the way you made them feel.

  7. #7
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    I'm certain that if he would have put his bitterness aside, he would have enjoyed himself alot more.

  8. #8
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    Naughtylady,
    I understand your concern for her safety. She was right to leave. But can't you at least understand his (misdirected) anger? He needs some help, which he's obviously not getting...and is looking for in the wrong places.
    Why are homely people discriminated against...we're the majority

  9. #9
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    A few years ago, a local provider who now lives in the States told me that when she worked in NYC prior to coming to Mtl, one of her clients turned out to be one of the worse serial killers in NYC history. I can't remember his name, but when he was later arrested, charged & found guilty, she recognized him from the picture. He had murdered many callgirls in the NYC area. It freaked the hell out of the sp who told me this. I don't think she worked in NYC for quite a while after she discovered that the john she saw was a mass murderer.

  10. #10
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    Oh I definately understand his anger. The anger is a part of acceptance. I just said that his venom reflects his personality before the accident.

    Ronnie,
    Naughtylady
    They will forget what you said,
    they will forget what you did,
    but they will never forget the way you made them feel.

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