A Roaring Girl: An Interview with the Thinking Man's Hooker

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© 2010 H. A. Carson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 8/4/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4490-8091-4 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-8089-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-8090-7 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010903924

Foreword

The following interview was conducted over a ten month period with a woman who worked as a call girl, professional dominatrix, and phone sex operator from the mid 1980’s to the late 1990’s. The woman’s true identity remains a mystery. She identified herself only by a variety of admittedly false first names i.e. the professional names she had used in her former occupation. In our initial online contact, she described herself as the thinking man’s prostitute, a self-styled appellation which I found both amusing and intriguing. My piqued curiosity eventually became a series of lengthy interviews conducted almost exclusively by phone and e-mails. We met only once. I found her surprisingly attractive and sophisticated, refreshingly intelligent, and astonishingly analytical and articulate in her analyses of both the sex industry and modern American sexual mores in general. I have presented said interview below in its entirety with minimal editing. The quotations and paraphrasings as well as the opinions expressed therein have been reproduced in the subject’s own words. The names, including aliases, have been changed to protect the innocent (and, in some cases, the guilty).

H. A. Carson

Prologue

Well, here we are. Finally. Time is money, and I assume you’re eager to get started. So, what would you like to know first?

I’LL FOLLOW YOUR LEAD FOR NOW. WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO BEGIN?

At the beginning I suppose, with the title. I’d like this interview to be entitled A Roaring Girl after Daniel Defoe’s second most famous protagonist, Moll Flanders, who was:

"Born in NEWGATE, and during a Life of continu’ed Variety for Threescore Years, besides her Childhood, was Twelve Years a Whore, five times a Wife (whereof once to her own Brother) Twelve Years a Thief, Eight Years a Transported Felon in Virginia, at last grew Rich, liv’d Honest, and died a Penitent."

I, too, am a Roaring Girl. I, too, was (nearly) Twelve Years a Whore. But unlike the irrepressible Ms. Flanders, I am not nor have I ever been a Thief, although sad to say, I’ve been ripped off royally and all too often--by gypsy urchins on the streets of Rome; by medina guides in Marrakesch; crippled beggars in Bombay; Hong Kong jewelers, Vegas Gigolos, and of course, the Dead Con Man... But those are other interviews. Moll was five times a Wife, but I was married only once (for three ecstatic years!). I never had a Brother (much less fucked or married him!), and, while I am no longer a teenybopper, praise the Lord, I am still very much alive! While I am not a Felon (nor have I even been convicted of a Misdemeanor!), I, too, have lived a Life of continu’ed Variety. And, in my opinion, I have always liv’d Honest. While I spent a mere Eleven years in the wacky world of Frontline Prostitution (which anniversary would that be, I wonder: leather, latex, astroglide?), I’ve turned a trick or two...thousand in my time. I make no excuses or apologies for having done so. A woman may use her Private Parts for Procreation and Recreation (even though forty years after the sexual revolution, society STILL seems to have problems with the latter!), so why not for Financial Remuneration? Therefore, I am not, nor have I ever felt the need to pretend to be, a Penitent. Unlike Moll, I was neither a foundling nor an orphan nor an illiterate adolescent devoid of other options. Actually, I was Valedictorian of my high school class, a National Merit Scholarship Finalist, a Member of Phi Beta Kappa, and (mirabile dictu) a Seven Sisters girl. Whether Defoe would consider me a true roaring girl or simply a poseur, I shall not presume to speculate. However, I have been, for much of my adult life, a Whoring Girl. I know Prostitution. From Flatlbacking to Phone Sex. and all forms of erotic gratification for remuneration in between. So fasten your seatbelts, Dear Straight World! It’s going to be a bumpy read!

I MUST ADMIT I’M IMPRESSED! YOU BEGIN BY QUOTING DANIEL DEFOE, SEGUE INTO A PERSONAL TRAVELOGUE, AND FINISH WITH A PARODY OF MARGOT CHANNING IN ALL ABOUT EVE. FROM 17th CENTURY ENGLISH LITERATURE TO CLASSIC HOLLYWOOD FILMS. YOU’RE EXTREMELY WELL SPOKEN, AND YOU OBVIOUSLY HAVE AN EDUCATION. HOW DID YOU GET INTO ALL THIS?

Well, I majored in Comp-Lit and I like watching movies.

I GUESS I DESERVED THAT.

Indeed you did. FYI, not all prostitutes are illiterate junkies. I’ve known sex workers with masters degrees. I knew three R.N.’s who left nursing to become prostitutes. Xaviera Hollander spoke five languages and was Secretary of the Year at the U.N. So, please, park your Law & Order stereotypes elsewhere.

Having torn you a new one, I suppose this is as good a place as any to begin. It is the universal question asked of working girls on all levels: What’s a nice girl like you doing in a life like this? I am quite a nice girl actually. I’m nice to my mother (I supported her for six years, and I still call her every single day to check on her); I love animals--I’d adopt every abused, unwanted animal in the world if I could; I’m polite and respectful to everyone who’s polite and respectful to me. And, yes, mirabile dictu, I can actually read and write. I can cipher some, too. I even attended an eastern Ivy League women’s college on a four year academic scholarship. Ironically, my dear old alma mater used to be known among sexually predacious Ivy League males as the Brothel, so perhaps my turning out into whoredom was somehow predestined and, therefore, only a matter of time. (LOL!) I once worked in a studio near San Francisco with a girl who had attended Mt. Holyoke. We used to say we were probably the only two hookers in the city produced by Ivy League colleges. On further consideration, there are probably quite a few of us Seven Sister girls out there turning tricks. Degrees in Comp Lit and Art History don’t make much money in the real world. But, I digress... I’m sorry.

You wanted to know how I got started... First, let me say that prostitution is like anything else. It’s a living. A means of making money. Period. It is not a lifestyle. Pimps came up with that inane term: the Life--as if some moron in a Superfly hat could ever really know what it’s like to turn tricks. Prostitution is a business. It is not romantic or glamorous. But neither is it disgusting, demeaning, or tragic. It can be dramatic often laughably; sometimes frighteningly so. Yes, it is potentially dangerous--but so are coal mining, law enforcement (by which I mean real law enforcement i.e. SWAT, homicide, narcotics-- you know, cops who at least attempt to protect and serve. NOT vice! They’re pork of a different chapter!) and, nowadays, teaching. Most of the time, prostitution is just like any other job involving physical labor. The only difference is that it pays better. The minute a woman begins to think of it as a lifestyle or, God forbid, raison d’etre, she’s in serious trouble. The handwriting is on the wall.

I entered the business as anyone would enter any business. I wanted off the nine to five treadmill, where there’s no money, no freedom, and no future. I had two choices: spend forty years or so at E. E. C. or some other cookie cutter company and retire with a gold watch and not much else. Or get grants and loans for grad school; and after years of hard work, emerge with a doctorate in something dealing with languages and/or literature--the two disciplines at which I excelled. Because everybody knows English and French professors make the BIG bucks. Yeah, right. Not to mention, paying off all those student loans would devour what little profit margin exists in academia. Even at that rarified level of teaching, you’re still essentially a worker, toiling for a boss, jumping through hoops for a paycheck. And, last (literally!) but not least, some nutjob student can always stroll into your classroom and blow your face off. At the risk of sounding like Sarah Palin: Thanks but no thanks.

Hooking was actually my second choice. I thought, fleetingly, of becoming a drug dealer. In fact, people used to tell me I’d make the perfect dealer because I don’t do drugs of any kind. I don’t drink alcohol either--not even beer or wine with meals. (Remember Frank Lopez’s advice to Tony Montana in Scarface: Don’t get high on your own supply!) And, of course, the money is surreal. A dealer can make in a single transaction what a hard working girl makes in a year--and that’s serious money. But I never seriously considered it. The penalties are too stiff. Decades in prison for dope dealing as opposed to six months in county jail for prostitution. Prostitution is a mere misdemeanor in California, and you don’t get jail time at all until your third or fourth offence. Plus, dealing drugs brings you into contact with serious people--career criminals and dirty cops who might, like, seriously kill you. The margin for error was just too wide.

I was an adult when I turned out--not a teenager looking for trouble. I was twenty-three, and I was looking for the shortest distance between two points. Prostitution was my straight line.

SO, HOW DID YOU START?

I entered the business backwards. Most girls begin with vanilla sex: half ‘n half, 69, massages and handjobs... Nothing fancy or freaky. With me, it was the exact opposite. I turned out as a professional dominatrix, and my first trick was about as freaky as they come. You know that old saying: If you’re gonna get wet, you might as well go swimming. Anyhow, he was recommended by a nosebleed-high class call girl in Beverly Hills. I’ll never forget him--although his name escapes me. Perhaps I never knew it. But I do remember him. A girlfriend of mine believed that you always remember your first trick. Your first trick, she used to say, is a little like your first love. I wouldn’t go that far...

WHAT MADE HIM SO MEMORABLE ?

He ate my feces.

JESUS!

I would have chosen a more appropriate expletive like: Holy shit!

HE ACTUALLY ATE IT?!

Yes, but that’s not what made him weird. It definitely helped, but, luckily, it didn’t come as a surprise. Ashley had told me he was into brown showers. She said I’d have to be able to poop on command, because he wanted it natural. The guy was a real purist. He wanted only firm, intact turds, and he’d be pissed if I took a laxative or an enema. Luckily, everything came out okay. Literally. The psychiatric term for it is coprophilia, and it’s actually more common than you’d think. Whenever anyone asks me about the weirdest thing I’ve ever done, it’s one of the first things that comes to mind-- in terms of actual physical sexual acts. I’ve done fantasies that were much more bizarre of course; but that was the really strange thing about this guy. He didn’t have a fantasy! He just wanted to eat my shit! Plus, his dress and demeanor were straight out of central casting. He looked like he’d just come from the set of The Sopranos-- right down to his $3,000 suit and his gravelly Vito Corleone voice. Most copro guys want the brown shower to be the climax (both literally and psychologically) of a humiliation/domination session. This guy wasn’t into either. He didn’t role-play. He just took off his expensive suit and lay down on the bed. I just sat on his face and crapped in his mouth. He came almost instantaneously. Most brown shower guys do. The minute turd touches tongue, they’re done. Anyway, I gave the Godfather a wet towel and some mouthwash. He donned his Armani suit, gave me $350, and left. That was my first trick. And my first brown shower. Pretty easy, actually.

SOUNDS LIKE YOU’VE DONE A LOT OF THEM SINCE.

I’ve done a lot of everything since. But, yes, I’ve done quite a bit of advanced toilet training.

The most interesting was probably Dr.Coyl. He was a wealthy Black physician from San Diego, and he was obsessed with eating shit out of a white woman’s asshole. He was so terrifed of being caught in a house of ill repute (his exact words--no shit!) that he would see me only in hotels in San Francisco, Sacremento, or L.A. --never in his hometown or mine. The man was totally paranoid. When I refused to do outcalls, he paid me $100 just to have lunch with him first just to make sure he was OK. One of my colleagues often boasted she could spot a brown shower trick a mile away--even if he was in a room full of perverts. Something about the eyes, she claimed. I don’t know about all that, but after chatting with Dr. Coyl for ten minutes, I knew he was the real deal. Unlike the wiseguy wannabe, the good doctor loved domination and humiliation--especially verbal abuse with racial slurs. He was another purist-- most brown shower guys are. The coolest thing about him was that he used to pay me by the turd! I’m not kidding. Plus, he was super into flatulence, so he also paid by the fart. For a couple of days before our session, I’d practically live on prunes, bran muffins, yogurt, and corn. (He liked to see the kernels in the turds.) The day of our session, I’d eat baked beans and lentil soup and more yogurt; and all day long, I’d grit my teeth and refrain from using the toilet. I’d hold it until that evening--which is no small feat, believe me. Shitting on command is...hard. Anyhow, Dr. Coyl would tongue my asshole while I farted in his face. I’d actually fart directly up his nostrils, while he inhaled it like oxygen. He’d lie on the floor or kneel behind me with money clip in hand, and every time I let one, he peeled off a $20 bill and handed it to me. If the fart was smelly and wet and/or particularly loud, I got $40. Each turd I dropped in his mouth got me $100. After awhile, he asked me to bring a girlfriend along, and we’d take turns using our toilet. My friend, Allie, would sometimes bring a can of pork n’ beans and scarf it down in the bathroom when he took a break just so she could get a few extra twenties before the main event. That was another strange thing about Dr. Coyl: he didn’t come immediately like most brown shower guys. He took a lot of breathers. (His term.) I guess he had to, considering what he was breathing--and eating. An hour session could easily turn into three. And remember, we were paid a $200 per hour session fee as well as tips for the farts and turds. If you were super gassy and literally full of shit, you could walk out with a lot of money. Dr. Coyl was a great trick! Messy, but great. One of the most generous I’ve ever had. And one of the nicest. He was a genuinely nice man. One of the freakiest, too, considering his ethnicity. One of the things I learned pretty quickly in the B&D/S&M division of the sex industry is that sexual fetishism is a white guy thing. Very few Black and Hispanic men are into it. Very few Asians. Except for the Japanese. They’re kinky fuckers.

YOU MEAN THERE ARE REALLY STATISTICS CATALOGUING THE SEXUAL PRACTICES OF JOHNS ACCORDING TO THEIR RACE, COLOR, CREED, OR NATIONAL ORIGIN.

I don’t think it’s written down anywhere, although it might make an interesting dissertation for somebody. I’m simply saying that in my experience which is extensive if I do say so myself, I’ve had very few Black clients who were into sexual fetishism. Most Black, Hispanic, and Asian clients are pretty vanilla. Even when they role play, the fantasy usually ends up in vanilla-ville.

EXAMPLES?

I used to have two really good Asian regulars. Bradley Jonathan Chong was a spoiled rich Eurasian kid who actually used his full name when he called for an appointment. As if he were a celebrity or something. He was extremely handsome; I’ll give him that. He was like James Shigeta--the old Japanese movie star from Flower Drum Song, or John Lone from The Last Emperor. Even hotter. And he was 6’ 2. I used to tell him he should learn to speak Cantonese (he couldn’t speak Cantonese or Mandarin, do you believe it?) and move to Hong Kong and become a movie star. This was circa 1990 before Hong Kong was returned to China. He could have done it, but he was too lazy. Besides he was only twenty-one, and he was having too good a time living off Mommie and Daddy. Anyhow, on his first visit, he wanted a French massage" i.e. a blow job. He wanted me to kneel and suck him off while he called me filthy names. No problem. When he undressed, I understood why this incredibly good looking young guy who could have scored in any club in the world wanted not only to pay for sex but to pay extra to verbally abuse me. Fully erect, Bradley Jonathan Chong was just under three inches long and almost half an inch in diameter! The poor guy was smaller than my pinkie finger. I fell to my knees and started sucking away. He grabbed my hair and thrust himself--all two and three quarter inches of him--into my mouth shouting: Suck my big dick, you dirty whore! You fucking, cocksucking whore! Choke on it, Slut! Choke on my big fucking dick! Choke on it... That was the fulcrum of his fantasy. I started gagging loudly, desperately, helplessly. He came instantly. Brad was a great trick. Easy as easy and lightning fast.

The other guy, Skeet, was the opposite of Bradley Jonathan Chong. He was short, fat, and forty something, and no one would ever call him handsome, elegant, or upscale. He, too, wanted a blow job, but his approach was totally different. Although I already towered over him, I had to don six inch stilletto heels and a skin-tight red spandex cocktail dress. He liked super heavy makeup--especially thickly layered red lipstick and lip gloss. I’d put on the record he’d bought me for our sessions: Little Richard’s The Girl Can’t Help It --and go to work. That was his fantasy. I was Jayne Mansfield, and Skeet was a rotund, Asian Tom Ewell. I’d sit on a chair in my mirrored bedroom; Skeet would approach me and shyly ask me to dance. To his delighted surprise, I’d accept and take his hand. Of course, when I stood up, he’d find himself staring straight into my tits. We’d dance (that was a riot!), and when we were done, I’d kiss him leaving his lips almost as red as mine. Then, I’d cover his face with glossy, wet look, red lipstick kisses. From there, it was a slam dunk. I’d squeal (in my best Jayne Mansfield voice no less) something about the buldge in his pants--hardly noticeable, but hey, it was his fantasy. He’d unzip and lie on the bed. I’d play with him while I unleashed my 40DD’s in his face. Then I’d suck him & he’d come on my ruby red lips or I’d jerk him off between my tits. Again, bottom line: vanilla and easy.

HOW DID YOU KEEP A STRAIGHT FACE THROUGH ALL THIS?

The first thing you learn as a hooker (and it’s probably the most valuable lesson you learn in the sex trade) is this: No matter what happens, always keep a straight face. Never evince an unguarded emotion. Never laugh or frown or recoil. Never show amusement, contempt, bewilderment, or revulsion unless you are 99 and 44/100% sure that it’s the reaction the client wants to see. In other words, don’t adlib. Don’t deviate from the script. Improv is allowable only within the guidelines of what has gone before..

WHAT IF THEY DON’T TELL YOU WHAT THEY REALLY WANT?

They always tell you--eventually. It is a pain, of course, when they hem and haw. Sometimes you have to drag it out of them. Sometimes, they’re so repressed or disconnected from their own sexuality, they really don’t know. But those guys are rare. Usually they’re just bashful. Or more often, considering the sex-negativity of this culture, they’re just plain ashamed. Remember, these men tell prostitutes things, show us aspects of themselves that they have never revealed to anyone else in their whole lives--unless they’ve been in therapy. I remember being shocked the first time a trick told me he’d discussed me with his therapist. Shocked is the wrong word. I found it disconcerting and rather creepy that I was actually a part of this guy’s life--sort of. Ugh! On a lighter note, when new clients tried to tell me what they wanted, the conversations often went like this.

Me: (friendly, smiling, upbeat) So, how can I help you today?

Trick: Uh, I...don’t know if you can.

Me: Oh, I’m sure I can. What are your fantasies... or interests?

Trick: (looking like he wants to get up and run.) I...I’m not sure.

Me: (still smiling sweetly, but getting annoyed) Well, you must have some idea. It’s OK. You can tell me.

Trick: Well, I’m...I.... I guess I.... Well....I sort of.... want to be dominated.

Me: (the clock ticking; me thinking: Of course you want to be dominated, Moron, otherwise why would you have called a dominatrix? Duh!!) Well, you came to the right place. Of course, domination is a pretty wide spectrum. What specifically are your fantasies?

Trick: (alternately blushing and blanching like a secret bedwetter. (Could that be his fantasy? I wonder. Bedwetting? Or maybe he’s just a looky-loo. Shit! I should have double booked!) Well, it’s kind of weird.

Me: (Soothingly) That’s Ok. I’m sure I’ve heard it before. It’s alright. Really. Anything you say or do here never goes further than this room.

Trick: (perspiring, but relaxing a little; smiling weakly) You know, you’re very nice. Now I feel kind of bad about telling you what I want. I guess I wasn’t expecting you to be so nice. And...well...my fantasies are ...kind of...weird.

Me: ( thinking:, despite my kindly nod and sweet smile: Oh give me a break! I don’t care if you want to hang upside down from the ceiling like a bat while I whip your asscrack with a TV antenna and make you come onto my shoes!! Let’s just get on with it! You’ve already wasted ten minutes of my time! So help me, if you throw all my appointments off schedule...! Maybe I should stop being nice and just start yelling at you. Maybe that’s what you want, Blockhead!) Well, we’re both nice people, and we’re both adults, so just forget about weird. Sex has many facets, and they’re all good. You can be completely honest with me. It’s O.K.

The amazing thing is that when he finally stammered out his fantasy, it was usually something I’d already done three ot four times that day with other guys. An elderly regular of mine believed there are only a dozen actual fetishistic fantasies. Everything else is a variation on one or a combination of several of them.

HMMM... CAN YOU NAME THEM? THE DOZEN BASIC ONES I MEAN.

I figured you’d ask that. Let’s see:

# 1. Toilet Training. i.e. coprophagia (which includes coprophilia) and its sister school urolagnia. Urolagnia is golden showers which I’m sure you can figure out even if you’ve never heard the term. (A bit of trivia for your next cocktail party: Havelock Ellis was into urolagnia. Isn’t that amazing? I wonder if Margaret Sanger pissed on him...)

# 2. Foot Fetishism which includes both bare and shod feet, also high heel shoe and boot worship. Plus nylon stockings and pantyhose. And, I almost forgot, bobby socks. (Yes, there are guys who actually worship girls in bobby socks. c.f. # 3)

# 3. Clothing Fetishism which, in my opinion, includes lingerie, leather, rubber and latex wear, uniforms, (a friend of mine in San Francisco had an authentic Nazi uniform complete with jack boots and arm band. It really freaked me out the first time I saw it. It must have cost her a pretty penny, but I’m sure her Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS routine made her a small fortune!) and gloves. Clothing doesn’t have to be sexy to become the object of fetishism. One of my regular phone sex clients fantasized about me helping him rape cheerleaders but only if they’re wearing bobby socks. (I had to wear them, too!)

# 4. Corporal Punishment--which is a wide spectrum ranging from over-the-knee hand spanking to severe whipping and flogging with belts, riding crops, cat o’ nine tails, paddles, and straps.

# 5. Torture which usually means nipple and/or CBT i.e. Cock and Ball Torture; but I have actually tortured guys’ feet. Go figure. Speaking of feet, torture includes tickle torture as well. You’re probably wondering why torture and coporal are separate. Torture is far more intricate, and the pain is more localized than plain old corporal. Oddly enough, most corporal guys are not into torture of any kind. You can beat them bloody, but pinch their nipples or clamp their cocks and they start screaming the code word. And vice versa. I’ve jabbed hot needles into the heads men’s cocks, and they loved every second of it, but they blanched at the mere thought of a flogging. Torture and corporal punishment may seem like the same thing to the uninitiated, but for most tricks they are mutually exclusive.

# 6. Enemas, and other medical/hospital/naughty nurse/dominant female doctor fantasies

# 7. FF which stands for Forced Feminization--NOT Fist Fucking although it can sometimes include that as well as other types of anal play and dildo work. Forced Fem can be anything from guys who wear my panties to men I dress up, make up, and take out in public. Many of these men want to be treated like girls which for them means being fucked like girls even to the point of being forced into sex with other males.

# 8. Of course, there are clients who have no interest in transvestism yet still want to be fucked with dildoes or forced to take a real man’s cock. Thus, I consider dildo rape, fisting, and anal penetration a separate fetish.

# 9. I consider the cuckold fantasy separate as well. As it’s name implies, cuckold tricks pretend I’m their wife, girlfriend, significant other, whatever ( I’m so sure!), and I force them to watch me having sex with another man--a real man. Sometimes, they only have to watch. (I make them kneel at the foot of the bed while I’m getting it.) Sometimes, they have to clean me up afterwards. (I just roll over and sit on the slave’s face) I loved doing cuckold scenes when I was married! After I prepped the slave by verbally abusing him (usually) for his pathetically undersized penis, my husband would burst in and fuck the shit out of me. The slaves loved it of course--especially since my husband’s thick, rock-hard 9 1/2 inches made them feel even worse about their teeny wienies. Imagine! I actually got paid to have great sex with my husband who was the absolute best fuck who ever lived on Planet Earth! Sometimes, the cuckold tricks wanted me to force them to give the real man a blow job, but not always.

# 10. Roman Showers. I don’t know the textbook term for this fetish although I’m sure there is one. I’ve never actually done one. Roman Shower tricks are extremely rare. Even in phone sex, I’ve done only two.

I’M SORRY TO INTERRUPT, BUT I HAVE TO ASK. WHAT IS A ROMAN SHOWER??

Think about it. The Romans. The decadent, hedonistic Romans gave huge orgies featuring not only wall-to-wall fucking but non-stop feasting as well. Well, nearly non-stop. Sometimes, they paused to vomit so they could go back to the party and eat and drink even more. Hence, Roman Shower fetishists are men who want to be puked on. I’m actually glad I never had to do one. Shitting on command is difficult enough. Puking on cue would really be a pain. Although...there’s always Ipecac. Cross my palm with enough Benjamins, and I can make myself do almost anything.

I’M GLAD TO HEAR YOU SAY ALMOST. SO, WHAT FANTASIES DO YOU CONSIDER TABOO?

I’m glad to hear you phrase your question that way. A trick once asked me, (even before saying hello!): So, you’ll do anything, right? I made him leave. The two fantasies I will not consider are the two which I consider abominable, egregious, and reprehensible. It’s sickening to know that there are men out there who are into them. They are the last two of the twelve fantasies, and the only two which no prostitute should ever do. Men who actually do them should be incarcerated, and the keys should be melted down into molten non-existence.

# 11. Bestiality. This is so sick! Why on earth do men want to have sex with animals or watch women having sex with animals? I don’t understand it. First of all, this is animal abuse, and it’s disgusting. I’ll tell you a gross story about a bestiality trick who called my ex-boyfriend. Dirk did escort and massage with both women and men. Dirk was a gorgeous man, and he was even better hung than my husband (but no where near as great a lay!) Anyhow, he got a call from a trick who had all these boxes in his motel room. Dirk just assumed they were merchandise until he heard some of them making noise! As it turned out they were full of small animals--gerbils, white mice, baby rabbits, hamsters, chicks--even kittens! This scumbag’s fantasy was to jerk off while he watched a huge muscleguy crush these little animals with his bare hands and make the bloody fur and feathers squish over his muscles! Can you imagine anything so sick?! Dirk refused and started to leave. The trick told Dirk he was exactly the right type and that he’d double or triple his fee. Dirk asked to see the cash. When the trick produced his wallet, Dirk beat him up, took all his money and his driver’s license, and left him unconscious minus his front teeth and covered with blood--his own. He also took the animals and dropped them off in front of the ASPCA. I’m sorry, but that sick trick got what he deserved. Maybe the next time his little penis (I’m sure it was tiny) gets stiff thinking about tortuously killing helpless animals, he’ll stay home alone and masturbate to the sick images in his head. A funny story about bestiality: In the late eighties, ads in sex papers and porn mags sold photos of a sexy animal lover and her dog. The last line read: Send SASE and $10 for nude photos of me and my woolly love. Catchy. The whole thing was a scam. I never saw the product, but a trick told me he’d answered just out of curiosity (yeah, right!), and for his $10 he received a photo of a naked girl in boots walking her dog (who was, I assume, also naked.) The other photo showed the two playing tug of war with a frisbee. I’m against rip offs in the sex industry, but this one was right on! No laws had been broken. The sickos received what the ads promised--pictures of a naked woman and a dog. What could the perverts do? Complain to the postal authorities that they’d assumed the chick and her dog were a couple?! I think not. Serves them right!

# 12. Pedophilia. The sickest fantasy on earth. Pure evil. Men who want to have sex with children should get the death penalty as far as I’m concerned or, at the very least, life without parole. Human sexuality does not change. Whether you believe these people are sick or just plain evil, they cannot and will not change. Bottom line--either get them off the planet or lock them up somewhere FOREVER! And trust me there are a lot of men out there who like underage girls (and boys). It’s unreal. Of course, the culture encourages pedophilia--or at least, it encourages men’s obssession with jailbait. From the old Brooke Shields commercials (Nothing comes between me and my Calvins...) to Brittney before the meltdown (I’m not that innocent!), males in this society are obsessed with pubescent sex partners. When I managed a massage parlor, I hired a girl named Trina who did business hand over fist. She was an adult of course--nineteen; but at 5’ tall and 99 lbs, with a cutesy pie baby face, she looked just barely fifteen. Tricks loved her! One regular actually visited her every day! Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that a man who wants to fuck a fifteen year old is the same as the guy who wants to molest a child of six. Not at all. But both are definitely pathological--and wrong!

Ooops! I just thought of two more fantasies. One more actually, because Voyeurism and Exhibitionism are opposite faces of the same coin. Maybe my client didn’t mention them because they’re so widespread they’re practically mainstream. From Jerry Springer to reality T.V., American culture is shamelessly exhibitionistic. We are also like the guy in the old Peter Sellers movie, Being There: We like to watch. Of course, the exhibitionistic sex I’ve done with clients went a hell of a lot further than reality T.V. And speaking of tricks who prefer public displays of trickishness... My first year in the business, I saw a regular who loved eating out--in every possible sense of that term. His session consisted of taking me to dinner and eating my pussy under the table in a restaurant full of people. I, of course, could order whatever I wanted. I only vaguely remember him; he was a middle aged Italian man I think. I distinctly recall, however, that he got off not only on the public sex but also on the pure weirdness of appearing in public with prostitutes. In fact, he once showed me some photos of himself with his wife, and I was shocked to see that she was dressed and made up like a streetwalker! Most men who take you out want you to be look as classy as possible. Sexy of course, but chic, refined. Not this guy! Every time we hit Don the Beachcomber’s--or anywhere else for that matter--I had to wear as much makeup and as little clothing as possible. We’d cozy up in a booth--me, panty-less in my micro mini skirt and requisite stilletto heels; he in his three piece suit, leer, and hard-on. I’d pretend to drop my contact lense, and he’d dive under the table to retrieve it. Naturally, the first place he looked was between my legs. It was difficult to keep a straight face through it all, because while he was down there lapping my labia, people were passing, and I was asking him: Did you find it yet, Sweetheart? Do you see it?

My only other memorable public humiliation session was with a guy who paid me to walk him down Hollywood Boulevard with a leash around his cock and balls. Obviously, his cock wasn’t visible; it was still in his pants. But the chain could be seen extending from his fly to my wrist. He walked about two feet behind me. I wore a black leather skirt and jacket and spike heel boots. Of course, because this was Hollywood, nobody paid the slightest attention. In fact, we were probably the least noticeable couple on the street. About ten minutes into our stroll, he got so excited he came spontaneously in his pants. He was wearing a condom. Semper paratus. Come to think of it, he looked like a grown-up Boy Scout--tall and marginally athletic with an earnest, dorky face.

YOU DID BOTH THESE CLIENTS MULTIPLE TIMES, AND NO ONE EVER NOTICED?

Have you ever been to Hollywood? If the worst thing you see there is a Mistress dogwalking a slave or a trick dining out on a call girl, then consider yourself blessed. Or gypped. Depending on your Weltanschaung.

I’LL KEEP THAT IN MIND. WHAT ABOUT BONDAGE?

Bondage...? You mean as one of the fantasies? Yes, you have a point. I guess Wally was wrong about there being only twelve. Amazing, considering he’d been fucking around for more than six decades with whores in almost every country on every continent on earth. Except Antarctica.

SIX DECADES?! HOW OLD WAS THIS GUY?!

Seventy-eight last time I saw him.

AND THIS WAS BEFORE VIAGRA! WAS HE THE OLDEST TRICK YOU EVER DID?

No, the oldest was 82.

You know, I think you’re right. Wally was wrong about the fantasies. The number was probably more like fourteen. Of course, it could be argued either way. Almost all B/D, S/M scenes include some bondage, so I understand why old Wall didn’t consider it a separate scene. On the other hand, there are guys who are into nothing but bondage. Plus, there’s all kinds of bondage. Rope bondage, rubber bondage, leather bondage, mummification, suspension, body bags, plastic wrap, total sensory deprivation, chains, cages, even interactive bondage. One of my specialties was tying guys up in really awkward, super uncomfortable positions with ropes, harnesses, and pulleys which got tighter and more uncomfortable the longer they were in it. And if they struggled to get out of it, they really hurt themselves! I even knew a married couple, Ronnie and Loni--(their real names, I swear! I saw their driver’s licenses!) who were super into bondage. I’d tie them to each other by way of ceiling pulleys so that if one moved, the other was punished. If Loni squirmed, for example, a rope yanked on her husband’s balls; or if Ronnie didn’t hold his legs at perfect forty-five degree angles to the table, he practically ripped his poor wife’s nipples off.

THEY SOUND LIKE A FUN COUPLE.

They were quite nice. A little unusual, because you don’t often find two submissive people together. Anyhow, for simplicity’s sake, let’s make bondage number fourteen.

AND THE FIFTEENTH FANTASY?

Goodness. That sounds like a hokey movie title, doesn’t it? The Fifteenth Fantasy starring... Snuff. Snuff is the fifteenth fantasy. I forgot about it because, like pedophilia and bestiality, it’s quite sick. Obviously, it’s limited to the phone. I’ve done only a few snuff calls. Two were quite imaginative--sick, really; but in a sort of surreal way. The other two were pretty disturbing--especially the last one. I only spoke to that man once, thank goodness, but once was enough. His fantasy seemed too real. Too detailed. Like something he’d either actually done, God forbid, or something he was planning. Either way, it was genuinely creepy.

DON’T HOLD BACK NOW. LAY IT ON ME.

One of my phone fantasy clients wanted me--the dominatrix-- to help him murder his wife. I don’t recall his name; I’ll call him Al. Al’s wife had recently left him for another man who was better hung (or so he thought anyway.) He was bitter about it to say the least and he had several intense revenge scenarios--all ending with her grisly death. The one I remember most vividly was this: Al hires me to befriend his ex and her boyfriend. I seduce the boyfriend, kill him, and cut off his genitals which I present to Al in a mason jar. I then lure the ex-wife to my place where Al is waiting for her. I tie her up and torture her breasts and genitals while Al watches gleefully. Al then shows her the jar with her boyfriend’s bloody cock and balls. He also shows her a dildo that he has made according to her boyfriend’s dimensions. I fuck his wife both vaginally and anally with the dildo while Al laughs and verbally abuses her. Then,--this is the sick part--he straps a second dildo on me, this one resembling a large phallically shaped switchblade. As I fuck his ex-wife, the blade unsheathes. Al masturbates furiously while I stab his ex to death inside her vagina. He comes screaming: Die, Whore, die! I spoke with this client many times over a six to ten month period, and he was so into this wife/snuff fantasy that he would often pay my girlfriend to play the part of the doomed wife. He was an intense dude. I always hoped that I was helping him get this out of his system so he wouldn’t really try to kill his ex or her boyfriend. He lived somewhere in upstate New York. I don’t know what happened to him.

Another regular had a similar scenario, but it wasn’t nearly as elaborate. It lacked all that back story. I don’t remember this guy’s name either. Odd, I’m usually quite good at names; in fact, I have almost total recall. Perhaps I forgot the really violent pervs’ names on purpose. Anyhow, this perv--I’ll call him Sonny--had an Oedipal fantasy. That’s common enough, but his had gone very, very wrong. This was the Oedipus complex from Hell. Sonny wanted me to tie his mother to a rack and help him torture her TO DEATH. The torture itself wasn’t terribly gruesome or even imaginative. It just went on and on--an ever tightening collar, an interminable whipping, nipple and vaginal piercing, some branding and shock box play--you get the idea. The end of the fantasy had Sonny climbing on top of the table and raping poor Mom as she expired. What was creepy about this guy was his sheer intensity. It was almost fiendish.

The sickest snuff call I ever did was also an Oedipal fantasy. I guess Nikolai Gogol was right about every man’s first and only true love... Since he predated Freud, I guess he was way ahead of his time. Anyhow, I don’t remember this psycho’s name either. I only spoke to him once. He called back, but I refused to do him again. He made my skin crawl (which is really saying something. After a decade in the sex industry, I was not easily impressed.) It’s a shame he was such a sick freak, because he was the ideal phone phuck. In other words, he did all the talking. He claimed that what he told me was his true life story. He’d been raised by a single mother who was a stripper. As he grew older (around puberty, I imagine!), he began to understand that his mother’s numerous male friends weren’t just patrons of the corybantic arts. Mom was a hooker who also did low level porn. Apparently, she travelled extensively working the strip circuit and turning tricks, and she took him with her. I guess she’d never heard of military school. Anyhow, at some point, she pissed off some extremely unpleasant pimps, and they decided to make an example of her. They made her the star of their own snuff film beginning with a really vicious triple crown, twelve-man gangbang (most of which was filmed in an abandoned van in the Nevada desert.) The boy watched the whole thing. Then, they made him rape his mother. He was thirteen. Then, cutting to the grisly chase, they dragged her out of the van, beat her bloody with their fists, pissed and shit on her, and lynched her. Then, they buried her in the desert. He watched all that, too. He was afraid they’d kill him as well, but they drove him, blindfolded, to a different location (also in the middle of nowhere) and let him go. Sickening. Do I think this really happened? No, not as he described it. But I would wager this guy was one of the pimps who killed some unfortunate unknown hooker--not a poor junior high school kid witnessing his mother’s murder. Or, even more likely, he himself raped and killed his mother as an adult either alone or with partners. His story was simply too detailed. And even though his hatred of his mother and his level of erotic tension were palpable, he told the entire story in a controlled monotone, almost proudly, like a confessing serial killer. Seriously creepy.

GOODNESS...

...sometimes, sadly, has nothing to do with sex. Fortunately, true perverts are rare. I think women who call men perverts because they watch vanilla porn, or read Hustler magazine, or make love to bodies instead of people should get a load of some of the fantasies rattling around in some guys’ heads. It might alter their perspective.

OF COURSE, ONE OF THE ARGUMENTS ABOUT PORNOGRAPHY AND, TO A LESSER EXTENT, PROSTITUTION, IS THAT THEY CONTRIBUTE TO VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN AND/OR CHILDREN IN THE REAL WORLD.

Yes, yes...I know all about those theories, and I think they’re ridiculous. Rapists and pedophiles are like Popeye: they are what they are ‘cause they are what they are. The sex industry does not create sex offenders. Perhaps, and this is a cautious perhaps, it may feed the fire if the pervert is still young and unsure of himself. Hey, we all want to find people in the world who are like us. People who are, to use that hokey, hackneyed term, soulmates. A teenager who fantasizes about raping women or touching kids receives reinforcement if not justification when he finds his desires are shared by other men. There’s a joke about fetishists: A man with some innocuous fetish--feet, crimson cocktails, whatever--thinks he’s the only guy in the world who sexualizes such things. Then one day, he goes online and finds 5,000 websites devoted to his fantasy. The same is probably true of sexual predators. To an extent. Knowing there are other weirdos in the world might make them feel better about themselves, but it won’t cause them to act out. Jerking off to gonzo porn or child beauty pageant videos (which are, by the way, an abomination! Anyone who doubts there are pervs out there getting off on those things should move to Florida--where I hear there’s great swamp land for sale!) or hiring hookers (which is the ultimate masturbatory experience, is it not?) will not make men run amok in the real world. Attacking that woman or molesting that child is something that man would have done anyway. As anyone who didn’t flunk psychology 101 knows, human sexuality, like personality, is set before age five. Sociopaths are not created by the sex industry or anything else; their evil is intrinsic and ineradicable. I know whereof I speak, because I once knew one quite well.

REALLY? CAN YOU TELL ME ABOUT HIM?

Actually, I’d rather not. Except to say that he was an evil piece of filth; and he’s dead and in Hell where he belongs. However, I did meet a convicted sex offender once. One of the creepiest tricks I ever turned! Except, I didn’t really turn him. We didn’t do anything. We just hung out. It was weird. He seemed...lonely. Strange, huh? That a monster might feel lonely.

YES. VERY.

It was my first year in the business. My naivete made me fearless, I suppose. Plus, I had no idea what he was all about until it was too late. He seemed very ordinary. That’s the stereotype, isn’t it? When one of these nutjobs gets caught, their neighbors always say: He seemed like just an average guy. Well, that was this guy. Average height, average weight, average face, build, attire. You’d never pick him out of a crowd--or a lineup. Just another anonymous John unwinding after work. Or paying for some pussy after he struck out in the clubs. When he said he wanted to talk, I told him the fee was the same whether he talked