The Business, As We Call It, and the People Therein

I do this because I’m not me anymore.

Oh, no. I’m that girl at the office Christmas party who you thought about fucking, but never got around to….or the one you did, that you wished would have yelled out your name while you were pegging her over the boss’s desk instead of the name of your best friend in college.

I’m that bigger, better version of your wife with the nice tits, but without the childbearing scars across my stomach, the kids coming in asking what you’re doing, or the cops barging down the door while you’re beating the living shit out of me. Yeah, so, it’s not exactly what you paid for, but you did tell me you needed a real woman who could take it with grace. How was I supposed to know that there was a more dangerous weapon out there than your shriveled, diseased cock? Good lord, would you cover that thing up? No wonder she never wants you.

You know that porno you saw where the man was rewarded with forty hot minutes of naked, kitchen-floor, knock-down-drag-out sex when his lover discovered bite marks from another woman on his neck? They lie. But you won’t find that out until, oh, about six hours from now.

Have fun with that.

Your dead daughter, God rest her, would be rolling in her grave if she knew what you think about doing to her with nothing but a condom, an air compressor, exactly 12 ounces of Astroglide, and a sink full of water, every second Saturday. She’d probably be more disgusted to know that you gave me her old school uniform, and wanted to do this outside of the Texaco Station on Third where she always had to pick up her best friend for their soccer tournaments. I’m sure her friend’s mother will be just beside herself with joy the day you fuck up, or, you know, that cheap prostitute you picked up two doors down is willing to be paid off to drop the little secret that she was in a hotel room half naked answering to her daughter’s name while sucking you off.

That’ll get her more than five bucks and someone with a little too quick of a trigger finger, if you know what I mean.

I look at this as some sort of sociology project. That’s how you have to look at it when you’re in the Business. For some reason, though, the sleaze and the dirt always attract me more than the single guys who book us for singles parties, or for their virgin friends who they feel just really need a lay. Though I will admit it’s kind of cute to see someone with something other than come in their hair. It’s almost novel, really.

I have to say I smile more when I get to fuck in a place where they actually change the sheets after washing them.

But lately, I’ve been settling for places that have sheets I don’t have to pay extra for. Or should I say, you don’t have to pay extra for.
Sometimes, I’ll get guys who want to relive that perfect prom night with their girlfriends. How sweet. Of course, I usually get a nice dress out of the deal, if they’re really into it. You know, something red with one of those really deep necklines. Cleavage is deeper than the Grand Canyon in those things, but you know, you don’t want to look like a Slut, so you have one of those practically useless sheer scarves that everyone just ties around their waist (or under their breasts to really make you guys want it) the second you jump in the limo and wonder if she’s got panties on.

It’s a lot better than ending up in the back of a Dodge Dart, even if the crack whores are looking at you from the windows waiting to steal the tip you’re going to leave for the staff in your drunken prom-patron stupor. I’ve got too long of legs for a Dart, anyway. You can’t be on top of the speed limit in one of those things, let alone someone’s crotch.
So, I appreciate that. I really do. Kudos.

I’m going to make it good this time, you say. Whoops, was I rolling my eyes? I didn’t notice. Sorry. There was once a time when I thought to ask you what you didn’t do right the first time, but, you know, I think I’ve figured it out, considering you’ve been coming to me, asking me to wear this same dress and wig for the last three years now. At least you pay for the dry cleaning on the damned thing, but this corsage is really starting to stuff me up. You know you’re only supposed to use them once, right? Ah, hell. I suppose I should be happy that you’re using protection this time, since she wasn’t so lucky. I suppose I should be glad I didn’t have to make the trip here in the trunk, either, though you do ask me to let you put duct tape over my mouth sometimes, making sure the pink lip gloss smears against the gloves that came with your tuxedo just that way.

Hey, where’d you get her panties, anyway?

As I’m looking slightly down, my hair done up (professionally, of course, because it is prom) just so I can faintly see your hands pulling up my dress and forcing my legs apart (yeah, yeah, I know. Fight at first. Gotcha.), it strikes me that for all that pomp and circumstance, you never saw her tits the first time, either. As you undo your pants, with perfect timing, I take one of these strapped stiletto heels—the right foot, always the right foot—and try to kick you. Of course, I could make that shot in ten seconds flat, but no, it has to be as hard as I can, and just catch the edge of your coat as it rams into your thigh.

Well, okay, so it gets you hard. Hey. Whatever. You’re just lucky I can think about this stuff, because the only thing that makes you want to come more than that kick so very close to your manparts is when you thrust into me and I instinctively start to cry, tears running down my cheeks, because no girl likes being boned when she’s dry. The latex doesn’t help much, just so you know. But hey, it’s your thousand bucks putting this whole thing together, so I can deal with not being able to sit for a few days.

Flinching, I watch your pathetic little face, so desperately wanting to spend yourself in me. Yeah, I know you regret wearing that condom, keeping your come from seeping out of me as you watch afterward, before borrowing a broom from room service.

They’re blissfully unaware that you made up that story about having confetti all over the floor in the room as you apologetically close the door and proceed to ram the broom handle into me as hard as you can, crawling on top to fondle my breasts and tear the tape off my mouth, because my screaming amidst the sound of metal clacking against wood really gets you hot. This is also the time when I’m supposed to tell you how sick you are, how I’m going to report you, so you have a reason to take out the penknife and hold it against my heaving, virgin throat, ramming right into my cervix, you bastard, that always hurts like hell and I tell you not to do that. But you always do it anyway.

You make me stand up after yelping in pain, to take my “punishment”, which, for the uncreative wannabe dom of a prom date (take notes, guys!) is making me suck his cock.

Of course, it was a fluke the first time it happened, but when I stand up, I always shift my weight just a little bit to the right so that one of my heels breaks. He always pays to have it repaired, so what do I care? Suck it, fuck it, break it, whatever. So there I am, down on my knees. Hate to tell him, but everyone always looks the same from down here, even if they tell me they love me while they berate me for getting wet over a broom handle and not his Magnificent Manly Cock. I would start laughing, but no, he has his hand holding the pretty little bun I have my hair up in, forcing my lips to take him in. Of course, being the good complacent virgin, I can’t just bite it off; I have to realize my True Love and Want for Him, and suck as if I were…

….um…sucking cock for fun. Or something. Fuck if I know.

All I know is that God is watching all the more closely, if he’s out there, when you make sure to pull me up by my hair, tell me to get the fuck out, and linger next to the door giving me one last five-finger salute as I limp down the hall in those damned broken heels.

At least he sends me a check through one of the other, more domesticated girls (her husband nor her God know what she does, she says, and she couldn’t give a damn if they did, or so she says.) in the morning, which is more than I can say for some.

Nothing is more abhorrent in the Business than those guys who feel the need to remind me that they could be getting free pussy at home (while, ironically enough, doing me in the ass), but they’re better than that, and you know, it’s like a status symbol to be getting in a hole someone has to pay for. Like a country club where no one cares if you barge in through the emergency exit. Granted, the alarms won’t go off, unless, of course, I happen to have dialed your wife’s office during a meeting and requested to be put on speaker phone while you’re telling me that for all the men that must’ve fucked me I’m tighter than Fort Knox and oh yes let me ram you so hard you’ll feel it in the morning baby yes I’m coming.

I work out more than these sick little vignettes in my head, you know.

Every woman in that room was attached to one of the guys I was in a gangbang last week. Thank god for decent Internet and a video phone in the room. Nicest place I’ve been to in a while. Thanks, pal, but this isn’t going to get me into Casa Cardboard once your wife decides it’s not good for her seven year old to be around a man who consistently has come stains on his shoes when he’s “working”.

With the nuns.

Habits chafe like ever living fuck in the neck regardless of where he does you, I’ll have you know. There’s a tip, ladies.

He wants to get me into the rectory next week. Some of the girls say it’s a little bit jarring to fuck underneath a bloody Jew impaled on a cross, but I just tell them I’ve done and been seen with worse.

Besides, I’ve always wanted to do it in a church, as if to say to God, even the purest of your children love what you’ve created more than they love you, sometimes. A good portion of this planet, in front of you or not, would rather stick their nose in me than in those old musty books (and some of those girls smell about the same, so it’s not that. Don’t even try to tell me that), and some of your purest would kneel before the cock before the cross.

I’ll have your son tell you all about it later. He’s a little indisposed at the moment, hanging above me, here, but he told us all he’d be right back. Seriously. Right after he picked up more chocolate syrup and whipped cream.

I have the slight feeling that his suspended-on-a-cross idea didn’t work as well as he wanted it to, though. If he shows up there, you could tell him that we’ve mostly fixed the problem, now, if he still has the balls to make another go at it.

If not, you know, well, we’ll just leave a message and hope to see him later.
Judging from how things usually work out, though, I don’t know if I would know it was him.

After all, they all look the same from down here.