I have been reading an interesting blog on confessions from New York SPs:
One of the stories that got to me was Alexa's bad experience:
Caveat Vendor — Part II
“So I saw your ad in the _____”
“Is that really you?”
“You didn’t use some pic from Hustler or nothing, right?”
“No. That’s really me.”
”___ 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.”
“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.