An unfortunate thing about this world is that the good habits are much easier to give up than the bad ones. – W. Somerset Maugham
Yesterday I talked about some of my favorite regular clients, but today I want to discuss some other regular customers who for one reason or another aren’t on quite the same level. Though these gentlemen were good and reliable customers whose needs and habits were just as predictable and trustworthy of those I discussed yesterday, they weren’t as likely to provoke a smile from any particular girl for reasons which will become clear.
The first of these are service regulars, who always patronize the same escort service but enjoy seeing different girls. One of ours was the Programmer, who clearly enjoyed talking to me on the phone almost as much as he enjoyed seeing whores. I was the first girl from our service he dated, and though he rarely saw me after that we always spent at least ten minutes on the phone when he called before finally getting around to talking about what kind of girl he wanted that night. Eventually we developed such a rapport that I would call him whenever there was a new hire, and he would see her as soon as possible and report back to me about how she treated him. He was especially good for this because he had some chronic health problems which required medication that tended to make him go limp, so he wasn’t the easiest customer to deal with and was therefore a good test of a girl’s patience and manners. One night he called, and after an unusually long discussion I asked what sort of girl he wanted that night; he replied, “You know, I haven’t seen you in a long time.” It was true; though I talked to him quite often, we hadn’t actually seen each other in a couple of years. So I went on over, and while I was working on him I noticed him looking at me quite intently; when I gave him a quizzical glance he said with a smile, “I had just forgotten how pretty you are.”
Not all service regulars are that nice; the Hotelier was similar to the Programmer in some ways, but in other ways very different. He was the manager of one of the larger, more expensive downtown hotels and had neither the time nor the inclination for a girlfriend; he would’ve seen two girls a week if we could have provided him what he wanted. The reason we couldn’t was that his requirements were too rigid; not only did he rarely want to see the same girl twice, but any girl we sent had to be as small-busted as possible. Doug once said to him in exasperation, “There are only so many titless girls in this city, you know!” To make things worse, even the few girls he would consent to see more than once didn’t really like visiting him; he saw Barbie several times that I recall, but she complained that he was both rude and unnecessarily rough. He was never rude to me on the phone, though, which leads me to suspect that he was a bit of a snob and treated me with more respect because he could tell I was his intellectual equal.
One night this seemed to dawn on him, and he said, “You know, Maggie, we’ve been talking for months but I’ve never seen you.”
I replied, “You wouldn’t like me, love, I’ve got great big titties!”
A few weeks later I offered to drive a girl who had no car to see him, and when he heard I was coming he insisted on coming out of his house to meet me. As I reached out to take his hand, he looked down to my chest and said, “Wow, I see what you meant!” I had to laugh at the absurdity of his responding to my comment so long after I had made it.
Men who treat whores carelessly during sex aren’t unusual; most appear not to realize just how rough they’re being, and some even respond to girls asking them to be more gentle. But I had one regular who specifically wanted to treat me that way; in fact, it was because I could take it that he became my regular. He was turned on by being really cruel during sex, calling the girl dirty names and giving really vulgar orders, and even slapping her bottom during rear-entry sex with considerably more force than most men apply. This was not an unconscious or uncontrollable impulse on his part; he was a married man whose wife did not allow him to act thus with her, so he had to find a whore who would. On our very first call he told me what he wanted to do and I replied that it didn’t bother me; after that he saw me every time he was in town for months. But lest my reader think this man a cad I must point out that he was scrupulously polite before and after; it was only during sex that he felt the urge to abuse his partner. In fact, he once got so carried away with his insults that it must have worried him, because he suddenly stopped and said to me quite calmly, “You know I don’t really mean any of this, right?” I assured him that I understood it was just a sexual thrill for him, and he launched right back into calling me filthy words with great gusto.
Regulars of this sort aren’t as pleasant as the usual type, but there’s still a comfort zone in knowing what to expect from a client, even if it’s something difficult. As I once told Grace after a visit with the Sadist described above, this is part of the social function whores serve; we allow men like him to experience the “perverted” desires that horrify their conventional, sexually naïve wives. The Sadist didn’t ask to be the way he was, and an experienced and understanding whore allowed him to release his impulses so that they did not break out in some destructive and uncontrolled manner with a woman who could not possibly comprehend them.
The Sadist wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, but neither was he the sort of regular who really tried one’s patience like the Diver. This young man worked offshore, and like most in such positions he worked two weeks on and two weeks off; because he was a specialist, however, he might be called back at very short notice and so always made the most of his time at home. As you can probably guess he was extremely well-paid, and so could easily afford to hire a whore several times a week while on land; unfortunately, few girls wanted to see him. It isn’t that he was rude, physically repellent, cheap or anything like that; it was that he was so addicted to porn that he seemed to sincerely believe that intercourse was some sort of endurance contest. A call with him was always the same; there was invariably porn on the TV when one arrived, and within minutes of completing the credit card paperwork he was in the saddle and riding away, with the girl positioned so he could watch his movie while inside her. He wasn’t interested in massage or anything else and only wanted a few minutes of oral stimulation, then it was straight to work nonstop for the next hour. We all tried to bring him to completion more quickly than that, but nothing ever worked (and Aphrodite knows I tried everything I could think of and a few things I invented on the spot). He just kept going and going and going like a piston in a cylinder until he heard the phone ring for callout, then finished right on cue. The man could easily have done porn; he could go for as long as he liked, then climax exactly when he wanted to, and that was never less than at least 45 minutes (leaving no time for cleanup, getting dressed or anything else). I’m not sure whether he just wanted to spend every possible minute rooting, or whether he was laboring under the common male delusion that women really want it to go on for that long, but in any case it was both painful and exhausting and left one so sore that any calls after him couldn’t help but be unpleasant.
Then there was the Crackhead, whom I’ve already mentioned in my column of July 14th; he owned a construction business until he smoked it all away, and would pay me to babysit him for two to four hours, often several times a week, while he smoked his crack. And that’s all it was, babysitting; he talked about sex a lot, but never actually wanted to do anything (unless you count asking me to watch him while he played with his own nipples). Sometimes he wanted other girls, but because he was paranoid and belligerent he either scared them away or refused to see them twice. I was the only one he would see repeatedly, week in and week out for over a year, because I was neither afraid of him nor interested in smoking crack, and he therefore knew he could trust me neither to steal his stash nor freak out and run away as some other girls had. He honestly seemed to have a sort of genuine affection for me, and often asked me philosophical, scientific or historical questions between “rocks”. Grace hated my going to see him, and my visits were certainly both difficult and unpleasant, but I am nothing if not pragmatic and couldn’t resist making $500-1000 per visit, several times a week, just by sitting around (often fully dressed) and putting up with his weirdness for a few hours.
Men like the Crackhead, the Diver and the Hotelier, though difficult to deal with, were still in the end legitimate regulars because they were willing to spend large sums of money on a fairly regular basis. But there were other men who couldn’t be called regular customers because they rarely if ever purchased anything, though they certainly called often enough. These were the nuisances, and though I can’t think of what true educational purpose tomorrow’s column about them might serve, I believe you will at least find their stories entertaining in a train-wreck, tabloid television sort of way.