I Want Out

    Not for the reasons you may think. Not because of what I discovered at the office last night. It was a wake up call. I won’t say I was immune to hearing that, but I am fully conscious that every time I walk through a door that could be me. 

    It’s because of the client I had last night. It was a weird call. It was a bad call, but certainly not my first bad call. He said one thing to me though, one stupid thing, and in that moment I realised I was done. We were in his room and he was trying to kiss me while we fucked and I kept subtly dodging, offering him my neck, or my cheek or something instead. 

    He looked at me, and said in a smug and certain voice, “You have a boyfriend.” 

    I looked back at him and said with as much certainty, “I don’t. What makes you say that?” 

    “You won’t kiss me.”

    “Oh, I don’t kiss.” I do kiss, but I saw his stack of cash from which he paid me. There was some left over, but not enough for GFE.

    “Kissing makes you care.” He said. 

    He was so smug, like he knew everything. In my head I thought, “Oh honey, there’s nothing that could make me care about you.” And in that moment I knew that enough was enough. That attitude is so far from what the attitude I came in with. I no longer feel like I’m doing any kind of good. I no longer feel like the clients care about me in any way. I am no longer making any kind of connections with these men. There is no honestly or integrity in what I do. 

     

     The night before, I had a good call. It was in my favourite out of town town, which of course means some very much needed extra buck for me. The guy was great. Totally some one I would date in real life. Just a dude. A guys guy. We talked for quite a while, and enjoyed a glass of wine. He had a little baby puppy named Raisin. I tried to convince him to change her name to Raisinette, but he wouldn’t go for it. He worked in my most favourite place in the world so we talked about that for a while too. Then we went into the bedroom and it was really nice. I did kiss him, and it kind of felt like a first kiss. Of course one thing leads to another, and he stops, and suggests we go back to the living room, “So we can make love in front of the fire place,” I won’t say that was my first red flag but it was definitely the biggest. He didn’t want to fuck in the bed. There were a lot of things that didn’t jive there. There wasn’t a huge feminine presence, but a woman did live there. My bet was his girlfriend was out of town. I tried to put it out of my mind and just enjoy my time with him, but I couldn’t. I felt like he was being just as dishonest to me as he was to her. And I felt like he was a douche for having me there in the first place. And this is what I’m calling a good call these days. 

     Last nights call: Fuck. A big part of what I’m getting sick of is being thought of as a commodity. He calls, tells me where he lives, and I tell him I can be there in 45 minutes. I have to stop off at home first. Then I realise that I was wrong about where this address was, and I phoned him back to say it was going to be closer to an hour. 

    “That’s soooo long!” He whines. 

    “It’s just an extra 15 minutes,” I assure him, “I’ll be there before you know it.” I made it there in 43 minutes from the initial phone call. 

    I knock on the front door. No answer. I can hear the TV is on quite loudly, maybe he didn’t hear me knock. I ring the doorbell. No answer. It’s effing cold out here, and this is annoying. I call. I can hear his house phone ring loudly through the door. It rings and rings and rings, then the fax picks up. Did he leave? Did he just decide not to wait? I walk around to the front window and peer in from the snow covered garden. I can see him in there. He’s passed out on the couch. I bang on the window. Fuck. I didn’t haul ass all the way down here, just to turn back. This is bullshit. I go back and bang on the door some more to no avail. 

    “Well, here goes nothing,” I think, and try the door knob. It opens. “Jeff?” I call out. No answer. I step in, and call out his name again. I’m now standing in his front foyer yelling at him. He’s dead to the world.... or just dead? I walk over to him, still yelling out his name. Finally I give his shoulders a shake and yell at him again. 

     He wakes up with a start, throws his arms around me and pulls me down on to him. I didn’t jump back quick enough. He hasn’t even said hello and he does this. Commodity.  

     “Hold on!” I say, and fake a laugh as I climb off him. “Let me call in and let them know I made it safe.” I walk away from him as I make the call. This is also my time to let them know how I feel about the guy. I told them to cut my time call 15 minutes short. He was so drunk. Guys that drunk usually can’t fuck which meant I’ll either be left trying to get him hard, or just talking to him. None of these things were appealing. 

     We go upstairs and get down to it, and everything he did hurt. What guy doesn’t know that you don’t go for the gold with the first thrust? 

    “Woah!” I cried out with surprise, “Warm up! Warm up! Easy now.” 

    Everything he did hurt me. His whiskers chaffed my cheek, his watch band cut into my shoulder blade, his arm pinned down my hair, his fingers dug into my ass and created bruising around my hip bone. And his dick! It was bent like Gonzo’s nose. I thought it might feel cool, but it just pressed into me, digging into the back of my uterus. And he wasn’t trying to be rough, he was just drunk. There were a couple times where I asked him to adjust or stop, and he did. He was very apologetic. 

    “I want you to know I really do respect you as a person,” He assures me. 

    As a person? He has to qualify it? Mmmm-Hmmm, I’m feelin that respect.  

   You know when you’re super drunk at the bar, and it’s the end of the night... or mid-night... and you find yourself having this really deep and introspective conversation with amazing person you just met out side the bathroom stall? That’s what my job is like. So deep and intimate, and total total bullshit.