I wanted cock. I needed cock.
Over the past few weeks, I had been in the presence of no fewer than two dozen penises and was unable to touch them, to wrap my lips around them, to swallow them. While I was being facialized, I had been within a couple of inches of those massive rods, and had longed to reach up and wrap my lips around their engorged heads and envelope them with my mouth. I hadn't been on the receiving end of a real, live penis in almost two years. I was suffering from major cock withdrawal.
I set about rehashing through many of the e-mails I'd gotten in response to my original Craigslist posting. Many of the original respondents wanted to know if I'd suck them off or give them a handjob to help facilitate matters. My agreement with Nikki was that there was to be no touching involved, so of course I had to refuse. At the time it really didn't matter to me. But, being that close to all of those dicks brought back fond memories of going down on my last boyfriend, a boyfriend who came in at a good seven and a half inches in length. That was before I'd learned to deepthroat, too. Now, I longed to be penetrated. Forcefully. Being fucked by a strap-on, while a satisfying experience, is nothing like taking it from the real deal.
I was to be moving to San Francisco after my graduation this spring, and I was going to need a job to help pay for school and other living expenses. The southern Florida environment was ripe for making a living as a dancer, but things were slow for dancers in the Bay Area. In my trip out there a couple of months ago, we'd scoped out some clubs and found none that really appealed to me. I'd been working at a high end place for a good three years now and I didn't want to move down to what amounted to, basically, a dump. We didn't see any place in the city that just bowled us over. This was disheartening because it meant I'd have to find something else to do – something that would allow me to continue living in the lifestyle I was accustomed to.
In both work and at school I had met women who worked as escorts, basically high priced prostitutes. In fact, during one of my Human Sexuality courses, one of the women I'd befriended, herself an escort, suggested that I consider working. She seemed to think I'd make a good one with my looks, intelligence, and perspective on sexuality. While I didn't disagree with her, I just couldn't see myself fucking people for money. One of the things I really like about the club I worked in was that it was a "clean" club – the dancers didn't have to perform sexual services for customers to keep them coming back or to make decent money. It wasn't for lack of the customers trying to get us to do it, though. But the fact is that we didn't have to – I made far more than enough to pay for college, pay cash for my car, and save and invest a good bit for the future just giving private dances. In fact, I regularly paid more in taxes than most people my age made in a year.
The situation in San Francisco forced me to reconsider things, though. In my honors project for my undergraduate degree, I'd interviewed over 100 women involved in prostitution. Almost half of them were streetwalkers – abused, drug addicted, sad individuals. Half the remainder were brothel workers, and the other half were high end escorts in the Miami area. People outside the sex industry like to paint all prostitutes as sad, abused, drug addicted women who are exploited by "the patriarchy." What I discovered, though, was quite the opposite. Those working as escorts were all well spoken, intelligent, level-headed women. Many had degrees or were working on them, in fact. Though I had some reservations about a couple I spoke with, these women were hardly the archetypical "whore" that they were often portrayed to be. They were strong, well-spoken, confident women. This piqued my interest.
I had been discussing my project with Nikki as it developed over the course of two semesters, so it was no shock to her when I broached the subject of becoming an escort when I moved to California. Like me, Nikki was very fluid and open about sexuality in general, even as it related to our personal relationship. We'd had an open relationship with respect to other women since we'd become an official couple in May of 2005. Each of us was free to play with other women, with or without the knowledge of the other. Sometimes, we even enjoyed another woman together. The one caveat in our open relationship, and that which had driven the original condition behind the "no contact" rule when I started experimenting with facials, was that we agreed not to play with men. This derived largely from the desire to not get pregnant and catch diseases, but also substantially lessened the possibility of one of use becoming emotionally attached to someone who might drive a wedge between the two of us.
Originally, Nikki was supposed to move with me to Cali, but she'd gotten a job with a travel agency in Miami that she really loved – one that she could apply her degree to. We'd planned to move back to the Miami area once we got our graduate degrees anyway, and these two things kind of combined to give rise to the possibility of her remaining in Florida while I was on the west coast. So all of this combined into a situation where it seemed feasible for me to work as an escort. And this had taken place before the Spitzer scandal broke into the headlines.
With that as a backdrop, I e-mailed a guy calling himself "Aragon," to see if he was still interested in cumming on my face, and explained that I might be willing to accommodate the special request he'd had. Within a minute of my sending it, he replied in the affirmative. "Are you serious? I'd love to if you're available." He was one of the ones who'd offered to pay for it to begin with, so I figured he'd probably still be up for it. He'd also taken the liberty of sending a photo of his rather gorgeous cock with his first e-mail, so I knew what I'd be dealing with. He looked clean, in shape and his original e-mail didn't scream at me "I'm an asshole."
We worked out the finer details, and I agreed to meet him in the outer parking lot of a grocery store not too far from the house. In exchange for $150, I'd blow him and allow him to spray my face with his seed. "What made you change your mind?" A legitimate question, of course.
"I've been cockless for almost two years now. I'm having withdrawal," I replied, laughing as I typed it out.
A fleeting thought passed through the back of my mind – at some point, I might be arranging to fuck people like this, basically. Deep down I knew I would, though I hadn't allowed myself to fully admit it yet. Did my fascination with the idea of the facial lead to this, or was it just a natural evolution of my own sexuality? Were those even two separate questions? It didn't matter. Within that mix was a sense of excitement, though. Based on what I'd learned in my discussions with the escorts for my project, it seemed like a unique and interesting way to earn some money if you knew what you were doing. It was, for all intents and purposes, the ultimate expression of the basic supply and demand theory of economics.
At the appointed time, I drove to the parking lot and parked toward the front near the store and waited for Andy to show up. He was running a few minutes late, but I saw his van pull into the parking lot just as I was wondering if he was going to flake on me. He parked in the section I asked him to, and I got out and started walking toward the truck. I was wearing a bikini top and a pair of short shorts. One thing about south Florida is that it is almost always swimsuit weather, and a girl walking around in a bikini, even at a grocery store didn't faze anyone.
A big smile flashed across his face as he saw me approaching. I reached the van's passenger side, opened the door and climbed in. We exchanged pleasantries and I asked him if he had the money. He handed me a wad of money and I counted it as being $160.00. "I don't have change."
