My name is Patricia. Well, let's say Patricia Morgan although obviously, Morgan isn't my real last name. I'm Tricia to the world and Patty to a very few. If you want to know what I look like google "bbw deedra rae." It's not me but close enough as not to matter. She and I could be very close sisters if not twins and, well, for obvious reasons I'm not going to put my own picture up here.
I ran across a book called The Happy Hooker by Xaviera Hollander (which I presume to be a nom de plume). But the book caught much of my experience and it seemed to me that since it was 40 years old it was time for an upgrade. So here I am.
I came late to The Profession. Well, at least in terms of engaging in sex for money. I started at 28 helping my husband "earn" his promotions on my back. Okay, on my belly and on my knees and on all fours too. When he reached the top of his career ladder - he's Vice-President of Seven Boring Things for a Fortune 500 company now - he no longer needed those services. But I had developed skills and I enjoyed the work. So I decided to turn pro.
He was reluctant at first but I pointed out a couple of things to him. First, he was the one who started me on this path and he hadn't seemed to mind when I had one of his boss's cocks down my throat or even if my face was buried in a boss's wife's lap. Second, we would make the standard pimp arrangement, 60-40 with him on the big end. He would handle security and the money and I would handle everything else so to speak.
We're both adults and, well, he understood that when it got down to it I would do what I wanted to so in the end he agreed.
I was 44 when I turned pro and I didn't know how it would work out, to be honest. I like to think I clean up pretty good, but, well, I was 44. And I had finally given up dieting and accepted that gravity wins. My boobs have always been big, my bras are 44FF, and I just accepted the sag. My belly was what it was and I gave up trying to lose it. My son had actually been a fairly small baby at 7 pounds 2 ounces but lord he had left me with a roadmap of stretch marks. No amount of Vitamin E or any of the other "removers" worked so I just decided I'd live with them.
So I did some thinking. What was my market to be? Would young executives on the rise think "mommy" if they saw me? Would more mature men be interested in someone who wasn't a Barbie Doll? About the only thing I was sure of was that I was NOT going to be a streetwalker hustling to turn half a dozen tricks a night. I would be a well-compensated escort or call girl or whatever the current word was, or I just wouldn't pursue this. It's not like we needed the money.
I felt stupid asking David, my husband, about this but he is, after all, a business and marketing guy. I have never deluded myself that he "needed" my help to get those promotions no matter that he thought he did. But I like to think I sped his climb up the career ladder.
Once I got past the initial awkwardness - - it's not all that easy talking to your husband, the man you love and are in love with, about how to best sell your ass - - he seemed to get into the idea.
"Okay," he said, meeting my eyes, "what do you want to be?"
"Huh?" I said, practicing my brilliant repartee skills.
He chuckled.
"I imagine that you don't see yourself as a twenty-dollar streetwalker trying to turn a dozen tricks a night," he said.
"Okay," I said understanding what he meant, "no, I don't see that. I kind of, well," and I stammered a little. It felt weird just saying it out loud like that.
"Well," I continued after taking a drink of my screwdriver, "I think of myself as a, what do you call it? an escort? A call girl? I picture dinner and drinks and maybe dancing and then, well, I see myself spending the night."
"uh-huh," he said, "so you ain't cheap."
I laughed softly.
"I'm many things honey, but cheap is definitely not among them," I said.
"Okay," he said, trying to be clinical but he was chuckling too, "let's talk about limits."
"Huh?" I said again.
"What are you prepared to do?" he said, holding my eyes with his.
"Oh God," I said, "I don't know."
"Well, let's see," he said, "I've seen you do oral and vaginal sex with men and women so I guess those are part of the standard package."
"Standard package?" I said.
"Yeah," he said, "basic branding. You need to establish your basic program, your standard package. Then, well, extras are extra."
"Extras?" I said, trying not to feel completely stupid.
"Okay," he said, taking a deep breath, "would you do anal?"
I felt myself blushing.
"You know I like that," I said.
He smiled.
"Yes honey, I know you do," he said throwing in a bit of a leer, "but that should be an extra charge. Men would expect to pay extra."
I guess I looked puzzled because he chuckled and said "seriously Tricia. I do know what I'm talking about."
"Ooookay," I said, drawing out the vowel, "so what else would be 'extra'?"
"Welllllll," he said, this time it was him drawing out the consonant, "let's see. There's titty fucking, facials, handjobs, hair conditioner, spanking, bondage, water sports, toilet play, age play, roleplay, humiliation, public...."
"Okay," I said holding up my hand, "I get it."
Another drink of my screwdriver.
"So let me see if I have it right," I said contemplating the contents of my glass and not meeting his eyes, "the standard package would be vaginal and oral sex. Extras would be anal, boobs, hands, feet, and all the rest, is that about it?"
"Yep," he said tipping his own glass to me like in a salute.
"God," I said, "I don't know. David," I held his eyes, "am I making a mistake here?"
"Oh no," he said, "if you want to stop then stop, but you do it because you want to. I will not make that decision for you."
Which made me giggle a little.
"I know honey," I said, "you didn't want me to do it in the first place."
Another drink of the screwdriver and I realized I had drained it. As I was making another I was thinking. Hard.
I sat down and met his eyes again.
