The Best Days of My Life
by Willow & Maple Forest
chapter one - A Slow Start
I've reached the point in my life I have the time and the inclination to look back at my life and times. Decades of personal excess and misogynistic abuse drove me from my lucrative career of DNA analysis and into a series of failed attempts at rehab. Honestly it is difficult to see how I survived those days, finally ending with a stint in prison. Yet I have more than survived. I've returned to college and I'm starting my life again. So an English class assignment to describe the happiest time of our lives had me looking back to when I was in college. I had the best part-part job imaginable, I worked as a happy hooker. And it was the complete opposite of what I thought it would be or feel like.
This true story I'm telling you is actually a dramatic recreation of my life. So the identities of everyone and everywhere in my past have been obscured and irrelevant details have been deleted or changed. But I can assure you, the men I met were all real and all of the sex I describe happened as I described it. And I actually loved having sex as a job and climaxed with every man entering me.
I started college late so I could earn money for school. For several years after high school I had a full-time job at a halfway house for female non-violent offenders reentering society. Working the night shift was hardly a job for me. Staying up all night and checking the residents as they slept paid better than the same position during the day. From the very first night I found lots of the women wake up in the middle of the night and sit in the tv room (without the tv on) so I'd talk to them about their lives before jail. Many of the women had been working as prostitutes and they told me about earning big money with little effort. They loved my reactions to their stories about what the men did with or to them. So a naïve high school grad starting the job was not the adultish gal quitting to start college with a nest egg.
To prove to my parents I was really serious about school, I had saved money for books and incidentals. Now they would pay my tuition and on-campus housing costs. So I started college much later than my freshmen classmates. But living in the dorms was an absolute revolution to me. The gals on my floor were all instantly my best friends. They seemed to respect me and asked advice from the "older woman" on the dorm floor. Once they learned about the work I was doing they were supportive and even helped find clients for my "part-time job".
But I'm getting ahead of myself, let's start at the beginning and say my name is Diane and I'm going to college in one of the fly-over states near one of the state's largest cities. I was majoring in biochemistry and it was a real challenge for me. I found myself in a struggle to keep up my homework and have any kind of a social life. My freshmen year I was keeping the balance but my sophomore year the classwork and labs started consuming more time till all I was doing was studying. Then one of my dorm friends introduced me to the magic of cocaine. It changed my life for the better in ways I never imagined.
She dragged me out to a dance club, but I was too worn out to get on the floor. So she pulled me into a bathroom stall and proceeded to cut lines of a white powder on a makeup mirror. I snorted my first lines. Even before I was out of the restroom I felt like I'd never ever felt. I danced until my feet were sore, then back in the dorms we smoked weed and made a lot of coke disappear before dawn. Suddenly I realized had a test in organic chemistry in three hours and I was too tired to attend the class let alone take the exam. That's when my friend rescued me and changed my life.
Even without studying, my score was as good as when I studied my ass off. And I stayed awake attending all of my morning classes. But when I was back in my room, I crashed like Skylab. Later in the evening my friend popped in to check on me. I couldn't stop talking about how great I felt and especially how well I did on the exam. I don't know if she offered or if I asked, but within an hour I had an eight-ball of coke in my drawer. And for the next several years I'll admit I was on coke as often as I wasn't, and even though disco had died, cocaine and sex with random strangers seemed as popular as ever. And my little habit was nothing compared to the strung out addicts I was buying my coke from. I was doing as well in classes as before cocaine but I actually had my social life back and even better than before.
This was the best I'd ever done at anything in my life. I was holding my own in my classes and my social life had blown up. I'd found a sort of equilibrium in the coke I used in a week and realized how much I was spending to buy it. By anyone's standard, the cash I dropped on coke was excessive. And it was rapidly adding up to be a problem in the future. The money I'd saved had to be there for my folks to continue paying for college. So I had to start earning big money. And soon.
I had to get a job, a part-time job so I had time for classes and socializing. And I had to get really good job. I mean a really, really good job. Only there was not going to be any part-time jobs I could earn several hundred dollars a week, hell most didn't pay that much in a month! So the problem was finding a job that paid a hundred dollars an hour for four to six hours a week. One job leapt to mind. The women in the halfway house had told me all about a way to get big money.
I had to start working as a prostitute. The money from turning tricks would cover my "medication" expenses and it would only need a few hours a week to earn it. At least that was how I thought it would work. "Only how do I find men to pay me for sex with them? And what if they want something kinky?! I've only had sex with seven men and like twenty times! Wow!" My thoughts are disrupted by my roomie clattering into the room.
She really looked like she'd had a rough day. "I can't believe how long we were knee-deep in muck and trying to net minnows."
"That's where you've been all day?" I asked. "You got a bunch of calls, I left your messages on your desk."
"Oh thanks. I'll look at them later." She was rolling a joint as she spoke and looked at me after licking the seam sealing pot inside the paper, "You wanna start this?"
"No, you go ahead," I began, "I'll lay out a few rails to get this party started."
After we smoked the joint and slammed the lines, I asked my roomie what she thought about me becoming a prostitute. And she convulsed from laughter, "You out on the stroll, that's hilarious. You don't have experience fucking anyone, let alone strangers you pick up."
"Yeah, you're right about that." I smiled at the thought. But later that night when I was back from getting an eight-ball for the weekend I once more thought about being a prostitute. It was the only way I could think of to make the money I needed to fund my habit and maybe make some extra cash. I've had sex and I enjoyed it, so why couldn't I fuck someone for money? But the idea faded as I thought about how to find men to pay me for sex. In the days before computer ads and cell phones, I really had no idea how to find men. Plus it was illegal, what would cops do if they saw me?
But the idea was stuck in my brain. I'd started to think it couldn't be that hard to find men looking to pay for sex. In years of living in the nearby metro area I'd heard prostitutes would walk on a stretch of downtown everyone called the Loop. It sounded right to me. My only role models were my friends from the halfway house who worked in brothels or for pimps. Or girls working the streets on TV dramas. Dressed in obviously slutty clothing, they flagged down cars or bent-over the window of a stopped car and they made some deal. I could do that, it doesn't sound hard. Only I can't just stand on a corner, I'd attract police attention. But if I looked really hot and walked around the downtown Loop I could surely attract attention from some guy wanting a quick fuck. I was certain I could close the deal if I had the chance.
Saying I would be a streetwalker couldn't help unless I got out on a street and started looking for horny men with money. But it didn't turn out to be all that easy. On the twenty minute trip into town my heart was racing and there was the worst gnawing I'd ever felt grabbing my gut. It didn't get any better when I was parked a few blocks from the downtown Loop. It was after nine o'clock and nothing was moving, not even a car on the roads. I took a deep breath and opened the car door. I sat with the car door open for an eternity and broke out in a light sweat. I kept telling myself I could do it. "I could let some guy grope my body then screw me however he wants. What's so hard about that?" I grabbed the door and slammed it harder than I'd ever done. I fumbled trying to put my keys in the ignition. When the engine roared to life I backed out of the parking spot and turned to leave.
My tires squealed as I shot out of the parking lot. I was speeding all the way to the interstate and until I took the second exit to campus. I drove home feeling a mixture of disappointment and a new resolve. Back in my dorm room my roomie could see how disappointed I looked. "You're back early," she began, "What'd you do, find a John as soon as you got out of the car?"
"I didn't get out of the car at all." My voice was flat, but my disappointment was turning into disgust at how weak I was. "I got all dressed up, even putting on a garter belt and drove to the downtown Loop. I parked the car and opened the door, but I couldn't put my foot out. I can't make any money like that."
