A year ago, when I first started escorting, a guy hired me because he said he “wanted a professional.”
Talk about putting on the pressure. He might as well have said he wanted someone with severe performance anxiety.
Me, a professional? It’s not like I’ve had any specialized training or went through a degree program.
Let’s face it, as someone who’s had long stretches with lots of hanky but no panky, whatever schooling I had was done through distance education and online learning.
The designation made me realize that expectations are higher now — more bang is wanted for bucks — and I needed to look the part, like any other professional. A lawyer wears an expensive suit, and a realtor drives a clean car.
And an escort?
My guess was that we wax our balls and buy our underwear off of a hanger.
Sure, there are admirers of every body type, and I tried to convince myself that having a back with a 400 thread count could be my niche. But unfortunately, I read too many magazines to believe that it’s okay to be more absorbent than the cum towel.
Success in this field comes from looking like a Cruiseline model.
Before this, I scoffed at anyone who would wax, pluck, exfoliate and pay real money to have someone cut their freaking nails for them. But now, I was holding my ass cheeks apart for a woman (there’s a first) as she tore the hair from my crack.
The balls didn’t work out so well; I really don’t recommend it. However, once the welts healed, I have to admit I liked being slippery when wet.
For over a year, I invested in personal training, tongue scrapers, manipedicures and stock in the vanity industry. Now I’m the guy in the photo up there, stretching out the elastics in his underwear and working it like a pro.
I’m rather proud of the transformation, but that’s also mixed with a lot of discomfort. In my pursuit of clients and having a mainstream marketable look, I think I’ve sold myself out.
I was secure in my sexiness before the money got involved but now my ego is dependent on how many client inquiries I get a day. If my phone stops ringing, I sometimes stare in the mirror and wonder where I’ve gone wrong.
It’s taken me a year to realize that even though my body is for rent, the papers are still in my name, and it’s up to me, not the market, to decide how it will look.
My first change will be the isosceles triangle shape of my pubic hair. It’s utterly ridiculous, and not me.
I’m growing back the friction.