When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. – Hunter S. Thompson
There are straight calls, fetish calls, couple calls, calls with two or more girls and those with two or more clients; in-calls, out-calls, multi-hour calls and quickie calls. There are calls in which the client doesn’t want sex and those in which he wants absolutely nothing else, calls in which he just wants a show and calls which are mostly dates. There are hard ones and easy ones, good ones and bad ones, unusually profitable ones, cancellations and those which are barely worth the money; but some calls are so weird they simply defy categorization. I’m going to tell you about a few such calls because I think you’ll find them interesting or even funny, but if there’s a lesson to be learned here it’s that those who claim our work is “inherently degrading” have their heads so far up their arses that there is absolutely no hope of their ever seeing the light of day again.
The first of these was one of the last calls I ever accepted from Pam’s service, in the first few months of my career. The gentleman seemed oddly impatient on the phone, and when I tried to describe myself he interrupted me with, “I don’t care about all that; who do you look like?”
“You mean a celebrity?”
“Well, I don’t really look like any celebrity, but some guys have said I look kinda-sorta like Angelina Jolie except fairer, and some have said I look kinda-sorta like Julia Roberts except a lot prettier. And I’m not as tall as either of them.”
“What?” It was an amazingly rude question.
“Do-you-have-a-tube-of-lube?” he repeated, intoning each word as though it were a letter in a word he was spelling.
“Yes,” I said.
He told me which hotel he was in, then “How soon can you get here?”
I was already on the road and it was an easy hotel to get to, so I said, “Maybe twenty minutes?”
“Try to make it fifteen,” and he hung up.
I had encountered ruder and more hurried customers before, but he just felt strange. But the hotel was one which refused to allow cops to play their nasty games in its rooms, so I knew I was safe on that account; I just figured the guy would be rude, rough and quick, so I let the agency know I was on the way. I got there in the time he had asked and went up to the room, then knocked on the door; the customer looked as though he were seriously stoned, with glazed eyes and a vacant expression, and I heard another male voice in the room behind him.
“Do you have the lube?” he asked.
I thought it was bizarre to ask such a thing while I was still in the hall, but I played along. “Yes.”
“Let me see it.”
I obediently pulled the tube from my purse to show him; he took it from my hand, gave me a $100 bill, said “Thank you,” and unceremoniously closed the door in my face. I looked at the C-note to make sure it was real, then shrugged my shoulders, put it in my purse and returned to my car, giggling quietly to myself as I realized what had just happened. When I shared the story with the operator (figuring he would get as much a laugh out of it as I did) he instead demanded I turn in a third of it; of course I refused, since it was technically a generous cancellation fee and services are not entitled to any percentage of such fees. This was another of the incidents which soon caused me to sever ties with Pam.
It hadn’t taken me long to figure it out; the caller had a gay lover in the room with him and they were stoned out of their gourds and therefore couldn’t leave the room. But they needed lube to engage in their planned activities, so one of them said “Let’s call a whore, she’ll have lube and will even deliver it!” So of course he didn’t really care what I looked like; he just wanted to be sure he didn’t accidentally ask a maid or room service girl for lube!
The second of these incidents at least had the form of a traditional call; the gentleman had asked Doug for an educated, older brunette, so that was right up my alley (I think I was 35 at the time). When I talked to him he asked me to dress even more conservatively than was my habit, and to wear stockings and heels; that wasn’t a strange request at all. But then he asked me to describe the shoes; I described my usual “work shoes”, a nice little pair of fuck-me pumps with three-inch stiletto heels.
“That’s not what I’m looking for,” he said; “do you have anything plainer and more conservative?”
“You mean like ‘granny heels,’ plain and kind of boat-like with maybe a two-inch heel?”
“Black?” he asked.
“That’s exactly what I want! Wear those!”
I agreed, presuming I was to recreate the look of a teacher or librarian he had a crush on as a boy. But once I got there, he paid me and asked me to sit in a particular chair; he then instructed me to cross my legs and talk to him while playing with my shoe.
“Like this?” I asked, letting the back of the shoe drop off of my heel so the shoe was left hanging from my toes, then flexing my foot so as to pop it back onto my heel.
“Yes, exactly right!” he beamed enthusiastically. “just keep doing that while you talk to me.”
“What would you like me to talk about?” I asked.
“Just anything, it doesn’t matter,” he replied.
So we sat there, both fully dressed, while I talked about whatever came into my head and played with my shoe as he wanted. He just sat there conversing with me, making no sign of sexual arousal and not even particularly looking at my foot that I could discern; I felt like Violet Hunter in “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches”, except that the curtains were closed! But after about 35 minutes he stood up, smiled, and told me that I could go. I asked if I had given him all he wanted and he assured me that I had; he thanked me profusely as I left, but gave me not the slightest clue as to what any of it had been about! The only thing I can presume is that my initial theory was correct; obviously the lady he fancied had the habit he had asked me to replicate, and he let me go once I had stimulated him thus for enough time that he could achieve climax in the solo masturbation session which no doubt immediately followed my exit. Now, I must assure my reader that I am not in any way ridiculing this client; he was a perfect gentleman and treated me fairly and courteously in every way. Would that all clients were so easy and so generous! But one must admit that it was, as Holmes would say, a most singular case.
The third and final incident started as a completely normal early-evening call, but once it was finished the client had a strange request: “Can you drive me to the airport later tonight?”
“Sure, but wouldn’t a cab be cheaper?”
“Yeah, but I want to go in my own car, plus I want you to keep me company while I’m waiting for the flight.”
“As long as you understand that I’m still going to charge you $300, I have no issue with that.”
He agreed, and explained that while in Korea with the military he had met and fallen in love with a local girl, and she had accepted his proposal but insisted on doing things traditionally, with his returning to the States, securing a job, buying a house and all that before sending for her. Now after many months of separation he was about to meet her plane and they would soon be married; he had therefore thrown himself a one-man bachelor party by hiring a whore and now intended to celebrate in the hotel bar. But he had no intention of risking his bride’s life by fetching her drunk, and he was far too nervous to attempt meeting her sober; he was so nervous, in fact, that he wanted someone to keep him calm while waiting at the airport. So I arrived at his hotel about 11:15 (her flight was due about midnight), drove him to the airport and waited with him; the flight arrived on time and everything went as planned. The girl was quite lovely and accepted his explanation that I was a coworker who owed him a favor; I drove them back to the hotel, helped her with her small luggage while my client got the large ones, then wished them luck and returned to my own car. It had taken about 90 minutes altogether, but I was satisfied with my pay (which was very generous considering I was basically just a glorified portress) and had another interesting story to tell.
These three calls were probably the oddest ones of my career; though all escorts have a few such stories to tell, I have found that these stand out even when professionals swap stories. Some calls are barely like working at all while others are as difficult as anything I’ve ever had to do for money, but there’s one thing that’s incontrovertibly true about escorting: It is rarely boring and almost never predictable.