When sex work is unsexy (Part 4)

Leaning over the bathroom sink, I wash the oil off my hands and then splash my face with water. I’ve made it to the halfway mark.

I feel my confidence flooding back. I can do this. I can’t guarantee this will be the best sexual experience this guy’s ever had, but I feel sure I can get him off and then get out of here unscathed.

Back in the bedroom he’s propped himself up on his arms again, the same angry expression on his face. I flash him a smile as I come in and ask him to turn over on his back.

At this point I usually would start massaging the client’s chest, teasing his nipples as I let my dick touch his face. But given how poorly he was handling my dick with his fingers, I don’t want to bring it anywhere near his teeth. Instead, I sit on top of his thighs facing him, and begin to gently rub his balls.

I normally ask a client what position they want to fuck in, but given his mobility issues, it seems like the best course of action is to get him hard as quickly as possible, sit on his dick before it can go soft and then flail around and moan, trying to make it seem like he’s giving me the ride of my life.

His dick begins to stir slightly, and I gradually move my fingers to the shaft, enticing it to become erect. Then, just as I think things are finally going well, he abruptly sits up like a corpse coming back to life.

He stares at me, his mouth hanging open, and then tries to kiss me again with the same horrible attempt to devour my face.

I ease him back down onto the bed and shift my position so I’m still sitting across his legs, but closer to his feet. I was hoping I could get away without sucking him off. But right now I’d rather face his dick than his lips, so I bend towards him, taking him in my mouth.

Even though we showered together just over an hour ago, there’s a ripe aroma emanating from his foreskin. I hold his dick in my hand, drool as much saliva as I can over it, and then rub it up and down to try to clean it off.

The flavour is slightly improved but still unpleasant, so I just focus on running my hand up and down the shaft, while occasionally touching the tip with my tongue until he’s hard. Taking his cock briefly in my mouth, I use both hands to open the condom, then return to jerking him off, while I apply some lube to my ass.

When he seems like he’s as hard as he’s going to get, I sit up, slide the condom onto him, and then straddle his crotch.

Holding his cock with one hand and prying my ass open with the other, I manage to get him inside me and then begin slowly riding up and down. Usually by this point in a session, I would have managed to get myself hard as well, but my dick is still hanging limp, so I grab it and close my eyes as I begin to jerk myself off.

Just as I’m getting close to getting hard, he roughly grabs at my dick, his fingernails scratching me. Determined to try to make the session to work, I just push his hands away, not bothering with any excuses. I can feel his dick has started to go soft inside me, so I ease up my rhythm, but it slides out of me. I glance at the clock. Just over an hour left.

I shift my position again so I can bend to reach his dick with my mouth. I slide the condom off, and begin sucking him but I can already tell he’s not going to get hard again. In this situation, the worst thing you can do is pretend like the erection is going to happen and try to get them back inside. Not being able to get hard is going to make them feel like a failure. It’s better to move on to other things and let thoughts of penetration fade.

It seems too early for me to come, but there’s not much else left to do, so I lie down beside him and begin to jerk off.

“Are you gonna help me come?” I say.

He just stares.

I bring one of his hands to my chest, placing the finger on my nipple.

“Just rub there,” I say.

He begins stimulating me and I press my face into the side of his neck.

“Oh baby, that feels great,” I moan. “Just keep doing that and you’re gonna make me come so hard.”

I keep jerking myself off until I explode.

“Wow,” I murmur. “That was so good. I haven’t come that hard in a while.”

I don’t know if my performance is fooling him at all, as his expression hasn’t changed since I arrived. But at this point, all I care about is getting out of there. I excuse myself to the bathroom again to clean my dick off.

As before, I take an inordinate amount of time washing myself, trying to eat up the seconds. When I return to the bedroom he’s lying exactly as I left him, motionless.

I cuddle up next to him, and take his now-soft dick in my hand. It’s not an absolute must for a client to come during a session; some guys just can’t and for other’s it’s not important. But generally, an orgasm at the end of the session is going to shape their memory of the entire experience. If they come now, you’re a lot more likely to get a return call.

I continue to stroke him, but the flaccidity of his dick makes it seem highly unlikely he’s going to get there. There’s not much sense in humiliating him for being unable to get an erection, so I just let go and try to engage in a little conversation.

There’s a thick guidebook about Vietnam on the shelf so I ask him about his trip there. He’s been three times, he tells me, but the last visit was more than 15 years ago.

We talk about places we’ve both visited. The conversation is stilted, partially on account of his English, but also because he just doesn’t seem to want to talk. We end up lying mostly in silence, with me occasionally asking a new question. Finally, I give in and check the clock. I’m overjoyed to see there’s only ten minutes left in the session.

I give him a kiss on the cheek and announce I need to get going. I grab my bag and head to the bathroom. I debate taking another shower to wash the experience off, but decide I’d rather just get out of there. When I step into the hallway, he’s standing there fully dressed with the same expression on his face that he’s had the entire time.

I’ve managed to run out the clock. Now I just need to collect my money and go. This part of sex work really shouldn’t be awkward. The arrangements have been made in advance. But there’s still a part of me that hates having to actually ask for the money. I slowly put on my shoes and my jacket, waiting for him to say something but he remains silent. I go over to him put my hands around his waist and deliver a kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks,” I say. “That was great.”

His expression doesn’t change. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or whether I managed to deliver something that he actually enjoyed. At this point, I honestly don’t care. I just want to leave.

“So,” I say. “I should get going now.”

He says nothing.

“We just need to take care of business before I go.”

We stand there, silently, me offering an awkward smile, him just staring. Finally I can’t take it anymore, so I decide to dispense with politeness.

“I just need to get my money and then I can go,” I say.

He continues to stare for what feels like more than a minute, then turns and walks into the living room. He returns 30 seconds later with a handful of bills and I breathe a sigh of relief. I give him another embrace as I take them from his hand.

“Great to meet you,” I smile. “Keep in touch.”

As I step into the hall, he lurches forward, grabbing the edge of the door to keep it from closing, staring after me as I walk away from him. I momentarily debate taking the elevator but I can’t bear to have his eyes on me any longer than necessary, so I walk past it to the door for the stairs.

As I push it open, I turn back and he’s still staring at me. I offer a little wave, then step into the stairwell, letting the door close behind me. Walking away from his building I have the urge to look back, but I feel almost certain he’s staring out the window at me. I continue through the alley between the lingerie store and the defunct Irish pub, to the main street and then turn in direction of the train station.

Some days what I do is a genuine pleasure. I enjoy the experience itself and the money is a little bonus. Other times, like today, it’s clear that I’ve been paid to do something I really didn’t want to do. It’s not a feeling of guilt or shame, but more like a sense of pride and accomplishment. Sex work can be hard and horrible in certain moments. But right now, I’m hyper-aware that the wad I bills I can feel in my pocket is money I’ve really earned.

Next: When sex work is unsexy (Part 4) >

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