Old Sex Stories

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Old Sex Stories
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A WOMAN who became a sex worker at age 52 at an exclusive brothel for “mature” ladies tells how it “absolutely changed” her life.
I WAS divorced for one year before I started as a mature-aged sex worker.
I started “work” at the age of 52, I’m 58 now. I worked for two years in Sydney (only on the weekends) at an exclusive brothel for “mature” ladies. It absolutely changed my life.
My husband was terrible at sex, we were together for nearly three decades but he was never sexy to me.
I was attracted to him as a fabulous person, as someone who was like my Rock of Gibraltar. My father was a violent womaniser and this guy was the complete opposite; he was amazing, everyone loved him.
But by the time I was in my early 50s, I’d had enough after such a long time. The sex dwindled off and in the last five years we didn't have sex at all.
So when it was all over and done with, I was sitting at home and the thought of prostitution entered my mind.
“I always wanted to try that,” I thought. And that was it.
I’d always had this curiosity about it, like what goes on? Who are these people? So I decided I’d go in, see what it was about and if I didn’t like it I could always leave.
Becoming a sex worker was just something else I really wanted to try. It was liberating, uber fun and I was paid amazing money as I became the top lady and much sought after.
I was the best actress and no matter what sort of man I saw (hardcore criminal bikies, doctors, TV personalities, “not-quite” 18-year-olds) I made them feel amazing. I became a sexy character that I invented.
I have never had a single stretch mark, I’ve always been very slim and had naturally large breasts. So it was the perfect storm (in a DD cup) for me — as I found my niche there for a couple of years.
For some ungodly reason my body was perfect as was my face and I learnt to act like a sexy vixen after a lifetime of mistrusting and even loathing men. I had the ultimate power over them and it was perfect.
I didn’t need the money, but it was extra cash and I was having a great time, rather than watching Dr Phil or Oprah at home.
Men have always flocked to me since I was a young teenager but I’d been afraid of them and their advances. Being a hooker gave me the power over them that changed my life.
The day I decided to become a sex worker, I took myself over to a mature ladies brothel in Chatswood, in Sydney’s north. I was all dolled up, and when I walked in, they asked if I’d done this type of thing before and if I thought I could do it.
I was sh*tting myself but acting confident.
When I started I had NO idea at all about life as a prostitute, but I soon became an expert.
When a client arrives, the ladies line up and you have a couple of minutes to greet them. There’s a lounge and then men are sat there while we try and build an immediate rapport with them.
We were all dolled up to the nines and we flirted like crazy with the men and made them feel as though they were the best thing since sliced bread.
When he’s seen all the women, he makes his choice, and the receptionist takes you to the room.
I didn’t even know how to put a condom on, I had no idea, so my first ever client had to show me. I literally had no idea.
The first couple of weeks you’re working non stop because the guys like the idea that they can teach you, if you’re new.
We would get these hot guys, totally ripped and muscled. They did nothing for me but they thought they were incredible.
Many of us had regular clients that arrived weekly to see us. One of my clients would take viagra and he’d book me for four solid hours, which was wonderful. He was a sad tragedy, very lonely and inept, but harmless.
Young guys in their 20s would ask me out and I’d decline. Can you imagine what we’d look like together?
We all have our ways to tame the wild men that start getting nasty or want to try and get away without wearing a condom. I would smile a lot and slap one on them before they knew what was happening. Many men want sex with no condom and some of the women would take $100 extra and do just that, but not me. Ever.
We all had regular health checks at clinics but for the women that saw many men and didn’t use condoms it’s probably only a matter of time that they get some hideous disease.
I did fall hard for two men (who never knew about each other) and when I left the brothel I continued to see them as boyfriends.
Both are really wonderful men. Businessmen that treated me wonderfully. We always stayed overnight in top glamorous hotels, never at their home, which of course had me asking whether they were married or not. They both emphatically would say no, that they were divorced.
At the beginning of the “appointment”, you’re handed a whole heap of cash. I thought, ‘holy crap’.
We made $300 an hour and if a guy liked you, after the first hour he would get out his credit card and we’d take it to reception to take some more money out of his account. I only usually liked to be with a guy for an hour maximum though, after that I wanted to throttle him!
The owner loved me, but she had a fierce, unpredictable character that saw her feared by all of us.
She would secretly check up on us; She had men come in as clients and try to get information out of me, like would I meet them afterwards for drinks? Dinner? Sex? I smelled a rat straight away and said that I definitely wouldn’t.
Many of the ladies that start at brothels take numbers from men then ask them to come to their own homes/hotel rooms thereby cutting out the brothel.
People have always said, ‘you’re really sexy’, but I was such a prude in my life before the brothel, that it wasn’t until I’d finished working there that I felt sexy.
When I left I knew that it’d changed me so dramatically. I became obsessed with money when I’d always been unmaterialistic, I became fake and hard around the edges which did not sit well with me at all.
But I absolutely don’t regret doing it as I was such a prude and it set me free.
I’m 60 next year, and reflecting on that time I realise it was all an act, you become this other person. I enjoyed it while I was there but looking back, I don’t know who that person was.
Nobody knows about my time in the brothel, I have grandchildren I wouldn’t want to hurt, but I treasure every moment and I still have women friends who work in the industry. (Some of these ladies are architects, artists, magazine editors and ex lawyers).
I live out of Sydney now. I did work for two weeks in another brothel but it was so absolutely horrific that I just ‘snapped out of it’ and never worked in the industry again. That was five years ago.
I now hold down an office job part-time and live quietly.
— As told to Matt Young. On Twitter @MattYoung
At the start of a new relationship, sex expert Nadia Bokody ended up at the doctor’s office with a very surprising diagnosis.
A $160/h sexpert has found her niche teaching couples how to open their relationship.
Once a secretive act usually ending in a “walk of shame”, a one-night stand is now nothing to be embarrassed by, and the shaming has to stop.

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Her name was Rocky. She was my neighbor. I hated her guts. She was my best friend.

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Before moving to New York, I often imagined myself living in a sparsely furnished loft space, breaking bread with the Young Turks I regularly saw pictured in the Sunday Times. These were the mavericks who made their own rules and looked, as was the current fashion, as though they'd just been yanked feetfirst through a narrow pipe. I myself was not particularly young or Turkish and had no reason to believe that such people might seek me out. Still, though, these were the expectations that preceded a life in Manhattan. If success was too much to ask for, I was willing to accept a two-bedroom apartment and a couple of talented pen pals. When it became clear that even this was beyond my grasp, I settled for a cluttered one-bedroom and a seventy-five-year-old Italian woman, who ungraciously settled for me in return.
Our relationship was stormy right from the start, and had she lived far away, I probably would have called it quits after our first few meetings. As it happened, she lived right across the hall, and even when we tried, there was no escaping each other. We were neighbors for seven years, and not a day passed when I didn't wonder how I could love and hate her so strongly and equally. In the best of times, I was charmed by her unchecked rage and enormous capacity for cruelty. In the worst of times, she reminded me too much of myself, and I worried that I might have to choke the life out of her.
It was our first morning in the SoHo apartment, and my boyfriend, Hugh, had gone off to work. I was unpacking dishes when someone pounded on the door, shouting, "I know you're in there," and "Open up, you bastard." I assumed it was a policeman searching for the former tenant, and I looked through the peephole to find an elderly, extremely agitated woman holding a foil-covered aluminum tray. She was small, the size of a stocky ten-year-old boy, and she wore a soiled gray sweat suit that fit tightly through the chest and hips.
I opened the door, and the woman looked me up and down. She asked me who the fuck I was, and then, without waiting for an answer, she plowed ahead, saying that everyone called her Rocky and that she'd lived across the hall for fifty years, the implication being that she had seniority, that this was her floor, and that I could forget about the coup I was obviously plotting. The landlord was a man named Francis, and, according to her, the two of them were close. "I've known that Irish bastard since before you was born, and every day we talk on the phone. Capisce?" She removed her thick glasses and fingered the duct tape used to mend the stems. "Cause any trouble in this building and I'll kick you up the ass so hard I'll lose my shoe."
I looked down at her feet, trying to imagine one of her tiny, unlaced sneakers sunk to the heel inside my rectum.
"That's right," she said. "Get yourself a good eyeful, you bastard."
She spoke like one of the Dead End Kids, those fatherless East Side delinquents who costarred in a series of old Warner Brothers movies. She said terlet instead of toilet. She cooked with olive earl and addressed groups of two or more as "youse."
"Here," she said, handing over the foil-wrapped tray. "I made you some of my famous eggplant with tomato gravy."
I suggested that she shouldn't have gone through all the trouble, and she waved me off, saying, "I ate some last night, and all morning I've been as sick as a dog. Go ahead, take it."
She beckoned me close as if to share a confidence, then raised her voice, shouting, "Anthony, that old bastard next door, would die if he knew I was giving this to youse. His wife has the Alfheimer, so whoop de shit, right? She forgot how to put a fucking pot on the stove, so all week he's been up my ass, begging me for a plate of eggplant. He gets social security plus a $300-a-month railroad pension, and now he expects me to feed him? The cheap son of a bitch. I told him to stick it up his ass."
She'd begun a character assassination on another one of our neighbors when a door opened and an athletic young man stepped into the hall. He nodded in our direction, and Rocky regarded him coolly as he made his way down the stairs. "That bastard kept me up until five o'clock in the morning," she said. "Every time I laid down, I could hear him on the terlet, shitting his guts out." She pressed the palm of her hand against her mouth and blew against it, creating the sound of a sputtering motorboat. "Pluuuu, pluuuuuuuu."
I'm a real sucker for potty noises, especially when they're made by adults. Rocky's childishness was appealing, but the sight of her trumpeting cheeks was even funnier.
"See," she said. "I got you going. I made you laugh."
The pattern was set, and we would have essentially the same conversation every day for the next seven years.
"What, are you asleep? Get up, you lazy Greek bastard. I've got something to give you."
On an average morning, Rocky would call at around 7:00 A.M. and berate me for sleeping so late. If I explained that I'd been up until four, she'd claim to have been up until five, massaging her swollen leg or suffering another bout of colitis, the latter usually accompanied by such details as, "I shit six times, and I think I sprained my asshole." The coarser digestive problems were never traced to her caustic meatball quiche or famous spaghetti-and-baked-bean casserole but, rather, to a crippling foreign virus spread by a Chinese ConEd employee or a Puerto Rican cashier. Every day she gave me one of her foil-wrapped specialties, and every night I tossed it into the garbage can. It was wasteful, but there was no tactful way of refusing her gifts. She was always offering me something, and I always had to come and get it right now. After hanging up, I'd go back to sleep for a few hours, ignoring her second and third phone calls and knocking on her door around noon. "You ungrateful bastard, you," she'd say. "You're lucky I don't box your fucking ears." This translated to "Welcome! Please enter my home for refreshment and casual conversation."
During the time that I knew her, Rocky spent most of her waking hours perched on the radiator beneath her living-room window. This was the vantage point from which she patrolled our block, and very little escaped her attention.
On a typical day, it might be noted that the woman in 6B stepped out of a cab with a colored guy, that the newlyweds on the third floor tried to grill hamburgers on the fire escape, or that the super wasted half an hour washing his cousin's moped. If William tripped on the front stairs, he was obviously addicted to painkillers. Should Doris take a car service to Staten Island, it meant that she was skimming money from her mother's social-security check. Denial was futile, as, aside from being one of the country's foremost chefs, Rocky was also the smartest woman in the world. She observed those around her and reported her findings to the landlord, who lived several blocks away and couldn't have cared less. Espionage allowed her to feel important, and the tattling left her with a steady stream of enemies she could rail against in the downtime. As my mother would have said, she loved to stir the turd.
I told her this once, and she laughed, saying, "Stir the turd. That's cute. I like that."
I'd been receiving regular, unwanted wake-up calls for more than a year when Rocky phoned one morning, saying something I couldn't quite understand. She'd often boasted that she'd "taken two strokes," and, on hearing her slurred voice, I worried that she might have just taken a third. She met me at the door to her apartment, and I noticed that the lower half of her face was puckered and misshapen. It seemed there had been an accident, and she needed me to do her a favor. She'd been at her window, watching the street below, and when the super of a neighboring building had tossed a lit cigarette into one of our trash cans, she'd yelled at him with such force that she'd blown her lower plate right out of her mouth.
"Itch down in da shwubs," she said. "Go ged it."
I found her damp, plastic-gummed dentures lying in the dirt, unbroken by their five-story fall, and returned them to her, at which point she popped the unwashed plate back into her mouth and ran to the window, threatening to have him "whacked" by her friends in the mafia.
Looking around Rocky's sparsely furnished apartment, it was hard to believe she'd occupied the same three rooms since 1942. Unlike many women her age, she was not a collector. Sentimentality struck her as grotesque, and she returned all gifts to their senders accompanied by a brief anti-thank-you note, my favorite reading, "Dear Theresa, I've got mops better than this wig." The living room was furnished with a plastic-covered sofa that faced her only concession to extravagance: a tower of three television sets, stacked one on top of another. During the afternoons, she'd tune at least two of them to ABC, and on my days off we'd spend a few hours watching All My Children and One Life to Live. Or rather, I would watch them and narrate the activity to Rocky, who sat on the radiator with her head stuck out the window. Whenever there was a break in the dialogue, it was my job to fill in the blanks, saying, "Adam is planting a gun in Brooke's suitcase" or "Vicki is signing the divorce papers."
The romantic entanglements and petty betrayals reminded her of events in her own life, and she enjoyed speculating on what she might do were she buried alive or kidnapped on her wedding day. I never doubted that she could claw her way out of a coffin, but I felt she was definitely out of her league when it came to solving any sort of family problem. Her children had grown up sleeping on chairs in the kitchen and living room, and, from what I could gather, they couldn't leave home fast enough. She'd written off her son over a fifty-dollar debt, and only one of her two daughters was speaking to her.
When her youngest turned fifteen and started thinking of herself as attractive, Rocky had strapped the girl to a chair and dyed her hair the flat, gray color of an old nickel. "She thought she was hot stuff, trotting around in a skirt up to her pussy, but I showed her. I was the pretty one in the family. Me, not Flossie."
Flossie. The girl was doomed right from the start.
"Lots of funny things happen when you're a mother," she'd say. "I should write a book."
Why Rocky's Friendship Was Sometimes Taxing
When Rocky had no new battles on the front, she liked to chew on the old ones. Her favorite involved her former husband, a short-haul truck driver she'd divorced after the birth of her third child. "The bastard thought he was quick," she'd say. "But me, I was quicker. I knew he was fooling around, and I knew who he was doing it with. It was this girl named Jeannie Ferraro who lived over on Sullivan Street and thought she had nice teeth. She didn't think I knew nothing, see. She thought I was stupid."
This was the story's key phrase, and it was always followed by a brief pause during which the listener was encouraged to express a healthy degree of outrage. "Stupid, right? So one day I c
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