I was a HookerMature

I like sex. A lot. And they say you should do what you love…

It’s not that I’m not good at anything else. I’ve worked plenty of jobs, made enough money, made some friends, lived, learned, laughed, loved. But there were two problems with my life then. One, there was no excitement. I never faced challenges or took risks, I just did what I was told, clocked out and went home. I was never scared of anything, so I never conquered anything. It was just… dull. And two, there wasn’t enough sex.

It’s been three years since then, and I’ve just about gotten it down to a science. 

Last night was one of those times where the whole thing ran so smoothly I could hardly believe my own ingenuity. I’d chosen a quiet bar this time. No band, and no dancing. It was plenty full of people, but the focus was more on the drinking itself than on having fun. Maybe I was in a mood. Or maybe that was just the vibe rubbing off on me.

Rodney (I never asked for his last name) sat down next to me and ordered a top shelf bourbon I’d never heard of. That’s always a good start. Then he opened his wallet, pulled out a wad of cash that I could see had at least two hundreds in it. He put a 10 in the tip jar. I didn’t pretend not to stare at his money. Usually the more of it they’ve got, the more it turns them on when I look at it. 

“It’s not worth it,” he said as he caught my eye.

Such a bold declaration. I tried to look only politely interested. “Why not?”

He sighed. “I make the money, I pay the bills, I buy my wife and kids whatever the hell they want, just to keep ‘em from having to earn it themselves. Then they get needy and pushy and they get pissed off when I try to tell them how to use my money, but they don’t want to learn how to make their own. So the better I do for myself, the worse I’m doin’ for them, know what I mean? Course you don’t.” He took an impressive swig of his bourbon and looked away from me.

“Nope, sure don’t,” I said. “Wish I had someone to buy me whatever the hell I want.”

“You say that.” He turned and looked at me straight. “But then what use would you be? What’d be the point of you, if someone else did all the work for you, and you didn’t have to provide for yourself? What good would you do for him?”

“I don’t know… whatever wives normally do, I guess. Cleaning, cooking, sex, raise the kids…”

“Take it you’re not married then?”

“Nope.”

“Boyfriend? Kids?”

“Just me.” 

I took that opportunity to smile at him… a specific smile that I’ve been working on perfecting over time. Smiles can say a lot, and in situations like these, it’s best to get as much information across as possible without using words. It was easy in this case-- he was attractive. Not young, but not old. Looked like a hard worker. And it’s hot when they hate their wives.

At first I wasn’t sure where he’d go with it. He hadn’t seemed too interested in me yet, and he didn’t return the smile. He just looked at me like I was beneath him, like he had too much on his mind to bother giving a shit about me. But then he grabbed my empty glass.

“What are you drinking?” No smirk or anything. Like I was boring him.

I shrugged. “What are you buying?”

 

It’s hard to be flirty and indifferent at the same time, but I could tell that’s what he needed. It took a good few hours, and a lot of that bourbon, but eventually he warmed up to me. We talked mostly about him. He makes his money in real estate, buying foreclosures and cheap properties and then fixing them up to sell. I listened to all the boring shit his wife never cares about while I tried to appreciate the bourbon. It tasted like regular cheap bourbon to me, but maybe I just need to refine my taste. 

He laughed when I laughed, even if he never laughed directly at anything I said. I thought he was pretty funny when he talked about his wife, but maybe that’s just me. “She’s a big girl, bless her heart,” he said. “Lost 80 pounds though, about down to 250 now.” And apparently she’d cheated on him a few years ago and they’d stayed together anyway. For the kids, she’d said, but he knew it was for the money. “Why didn’t you just leave her?” I asked. He downed his drink while he thought about it, but only answered, “Fuck if I know.”

Once he’d had enough alcohol in him, the switch finally happened. It’s like it suddenly dawned on him that I was still sitting there listening to him; that for some reason, I must have been attracted to him. He stopped bitching about his life and started asking me questions, like what I was doing there, why I was drinking so much, why I cared about his problems. I confirmed everything he wanted to hear. I was a lonely troubled soul too, just looking for an escape. He could hardly believe his luck, that here I was, interested in the things he talked about, appreciative of his struggles, single, and willing to have sex with him. It was smooth sailing from that point.

We got a hotel room. I told him we couldn’t use my place because I live with my sister. I never tell them where I live, but I don’t want to claim to be from out of town either. That’s too hard of a lie to keep up once I get wasted. 

Sex. It never gets old. At least, not the way I do it. I’ve talked to prostitutes who hate their lives, who swear they’ll quit as soon as they get that acting job, or accepted into college, or enough money to do whatever it is they’re waiting for. They’re always waiting, building up to something, looking to the future and not enjoying themselves. You have to enjoy the sex, I tell them. It doesn’t have to be such a dirty deed. One of them actually called me a whore.

But once you’ve spent a whole evening with a man, let him spill out his troubles and confide in you… once you’ve got him believing that you really give a damn… the sex is more than sex. You’ve given him a reason to like you, to respect you. He’s passionate and intense. And in some cases-- Rodney included-- furious and vindictive towards his wife. You can’t get that kind of passion by advertising yourself. If they know they’re paying for it, they think of you as something they already deserve, so they don’t try to impress you. Plus they feel ashamed, and dirty. But not in the good way. So I lead them on, let them believe I’m the woman of their dreams-- and they, the man of mine-- for the entire night. They never actually know what they’ve done until the next morning.

Rodney’s a good man, and he deserved one night with someone who recognized that. I let him fall asleep next to me, then slipped out of bed and took the cash from his wallet. I left him 20 dollars in case his wife asked for it before he had a chance to refill, so hopefully he wouldn’t have to explain why he’d spent it all. I wrote a note on the hotel’s notepad, because I’d learned the hard way that it’s best to be straightforward about this part.

I was a hooker.

Then I left. No law breaking, no paying for sex, and hardly stealing. I’m sure Rodney would agree it was worth it. But he won’t come looking for me again, and he won’t report me, or else he’d have to tell his wife what he did. He just needed to relax and spend an evening away from his family-- physically and emotionally. He would never have sought that out for himself, so I gave it to him for a price he was more than capable of paying. Now he can go back to his wife and try to sort things out, with a little less pent-up frustration. Everyone wins. 

I’m really getting the hang of this now. 

The End

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