Prostitute Homemade

Prostitute Homemade
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The thing about being a prostitute is you need to go in with a plan. You need to get in, make your cash and get out. But it didn’t happen like that for me.
My life whirled in an out of control spiral until I reached a low that I never imagined I could get to. I lost everything, and it was only when I had nothing and no one that I realised I needed to sort myself out or I wouldn’t make it.
The nights were long and I needed something to keep me awake. Twelve, 13, 14 hours straight of 'johns' and I needed something to keep me happy and keep me high, and that’s when I started using ice.
I was a single mum of three kids under 11 when I got into prostitution. I was 33 years old and my job prospects weren’t great. My kids and I were living with my parents, and I told my dad and kids that I was working nights in a hotel but my mum knew the truth.
She kept my secret, still to this day, but I know that I have not made my mother proud.
To me it was just a job. The money was good, and I liked the lifestyle because it was a bit wild and fun and you get used to earning wads of cash in a night. If I saved that money, I could have gotten out, and maybe things would have been different … but I didn’t. I spent the money having a good time, or what I thought was a good time until the good times had me in their grip and I was lost in an ugly haze.
I was never ashamed of being a sex worker. I knew it wasn’t something to broadcast around because people would judge me, but to me it was just a job. Until the job got out of control.
I was using ice very regularly at work, and then after work. After three years of this life one of my clients asked me out. We started seeing each other outside work, and I fell hard for him.
I gave up work and I moved into his house, leaving my children at my parent’s house. He promised that we’d get set up together and then my kids would move in with us, but that never happened, and deep down I knew that was the best thing. We were a toxic mess.
We started having massive benders together. We’d stay up for four days doing a huge amount of ice and then we’d crash. The sleep deprivation alone was enough to make me lose touch with reality but the drugs just bent me out of shape. I lost so much weight and I just disappeared. I became a ghost. I never saw my kids, I lost the few friends I had.
My partner starting mixing multiple drugs together and he became psychotic. He imagined I was having sex with demons and things that don’t even exist. Out of nowhere he would slap me in the face for these imagined things that I didn’t do. He was very volatile and emotionally abusive.
I was with him for about a year when I left and I was thoroughly ashamed of who I had become. I was ashamed of how I’d behaved with my kids. I was ashamed of how I looked. I hadn’t talked to people about my life or my work for such a long time that I felt like I no longer existed.
I moved home to my parent’s house where my kids were living. I had been away for such a long time even before I moved out I was never around. Always working all night and disappearing or sleeping all day. My kids didn’t even know me anymore.
My parents had a European trip booked, but I couldn’t be trusted to look after the kids so they were sent to my sister’s house. My uncle came over one day and we fought and he threw me out of the house. That was when I hit absolute rock bottom.
I was 40 years old. I had no family, and nowhere, and nothing.
I had one true friend remaining in the whole world and I called him and he let me stay with him. He was just a normal guy not involved in any of the mess I’d been around, but he saw I was in serious trouble and he agreed to help.
I went cold turkey. I haven’t touched any drugs in a year and a half. I cut all contact with everyone from my previous life and I slowly started to rebuild myself.
I got a job at a supermarket and although I do miss the money from sex work, this money I make is good, honest money. It’s clean, and it helps me to live a clean life. I would never sell my body for money again.
I’m slowly building a relationship with my kids who are now 16, 14, and 11 years old. They lost a lot of trust in me because I wasn’t a constant in their lives and I didn’t make them feel safe and comfortable. Building that trust again is the most important thing in the world to me now, and losing it in the first place is my heaviest regret.
I’m working as hard as I can to get our relationships to where I want them to be. They don’t know much of my story because I honestly just don’t know what to say to my babies. They just know I was sick. Maybe one day if they ask for more details I’ll tell them but so far we haven’t really said much more.
In time, my friend who took me in and I fell in love. It’s the healthiest and most normal love I’ve ever had and it feels really good. I feel healthy and normal, whatever that even is.
I think my addictive personality landed me where I ended up, and I would not live this life again if I had the chance to do it over. I’m not ashamed of being a hooker, but the lifestyle consumed me and spat me out. I’m just moving forward so I never need to be ashamed again.
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It started as an easy, fun way to make good money. But before long, my life was in tatters.
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Posted in RANDOM 14 Jan 2014 107948 7

Not remotely interested by that ugly nasty thing.
I'm Dominican and I'm equally disgusted as everyone else.. :P
Ima no get hardy when I see these ladies.
I never had payed for sex and this makes me confirm that idea, by the way: #16 look like a guy
Jerking off or better yet fucking a pillow would be better.
there are way better looking at downtown bars ; these are on a off street in shanty town of chamericos ; iuse to date this bar waitress who took me there to see a girl she knew there to baby sit her kid when we went out

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Published September 30, 2015 7:50PM (EDT)

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Rachel Moran
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Testimony of an erotic dancer: "Nobody—not myself, not the other women—enjoys being pawed, poked, prodded and fucked by men we wouldn't give the time of day if we met them elsewhere."
--Peggy Morgan, "Living on the Edge
I remember one evening, in the clinic where I used to drink coffee and collect condoms, a particular humorous remark made to a young prostitute by one of the older women. They were discussing an unexpected surge in trade the previous night and the younger woman mentioned how she'd gone home exhausted after it. 'Ah sure,' said the older woman, 'you probably enjoyed it!' The entire company, myself included, burst out laughing. The humor—for those it is lost on—was in the absurdity.
The truth of the matter is that the nature of prostitution flavours the sexual act as far too distasteful and too sleazy and too bound up with degradation to allow any kind of wholesale enjoyment. Of course this will fly in the face of the fantasists, but the reality of prostitution usually does. A woman's feelings here range between mild distaste and outright disgust and only in unique or very exceptional circumstances will her experience be any different. That is not to say these unique and exceptional experiences do not, once in a blue moon, occur. For some women, they do, and when they do, no-one is more surprised than the woman herself. I would know, because on two occasions those experiences happened to me.
When I was sixteen I was released from a court order, the purpose of which had been to keep me detained for my own protection. It did not have the required effect. The reason for this was clear, and I still wonder how the children's court could have been so foolish as to imagine that a few months of detention would have turned my life around when I was released back onto the streets with no viable alternative to prostitution. If they'd had any real dedication to helping me change my life, they would have detained me for a couple of years and made it a condition of my future parole that I complete some form of training, be it secretarial, hairdressing, etc., and I would have been assigned a parole officer and social worker who'd have ensured I was placed with an apprenticeship or in an entry-level office position. It wouldn't have been rocket science, it could have been done and I know I would have been capable of applying myself to it. Anyway, this did not happen; I was released after a few months and it was at this point I went to live in the brothel on Leeson Street.
The first car that pulled up on my first night back on the streets was driven by a young man in his early to mid-twenties. He was attractive, not disrespectful in his manner and he was shy, quiet, not speaking to me much on the way to the laneway I used. When we arrived there I realised that I was aroused. I hadn't seen my then boyfriend for months and hadn't had any intimacy. I suddenly realised that I missed it; I missed being held and touched. I told him that I'd changed my mind, that I would do intercourse, so he slipped on a condom and it was all over in minutes. He pulled out his wallet and asked how much he owed me. It was the first time I'd ever done anything sexual without being paid first and I knew why: this was not a job.
Nothing would have felt more unnatural than taking money for something sexual that I'd wanted to happen. Also I had never had intercourse for money at that point, I had never sold myself in that way, and I didn't want to be able to say that I had. I told him not to worry about it. No doubt he knew something strange had happened but it was easy not to see his expression in the dark. He dropped me back down to the street and then I went to work for real.
What happened that night is not something that could be seen as prostitution. An act of prostitution had been intended on both sides but none had taken place. What happened actually transcended the prostitution experience: wilful intercourse with zero mental reservations is not prostitution, and could not, to my mind, be framed as such. My co-workers did not share my views. They roundly agreed that in not taking the money I was: 'A fuckin' eejit!'
The second of these experiences happened about three years after that. I was working in escort prostitution at the time. I called to the house of a man who had a beautiful face with a gentle relaxed smile and eyes as brown and shining as polished chestnuts. He welcomed me with a lovely soft English accent and poured me a glass of chilled white wine. I almost never drank on the job and certainly not with a new customer, but for a combination of reasons I broke the rules that night with that man.
Everything in his home was warm; the colors, the smells, the textures. It was all amber and mahogany and the scent of cinnamon. The vibe was very gentle, very neutral. I was relaxed and at my ease. That in itself was highly unusual. I have already described how a woman in prostitution knows when she needs to be alert: she also knows when she doesn't, but because the former situation is by far the most common, in a converse way, situations like this contain more surprise.
He had hired me for two hours and was obviously not rushed. Sitting on his sofa, I realized there was so little tension in me there was almost none; I was not worried about where this was going. I was not mentally bracing myself the way I always did. I was not constructing the wall, not fully. I wasn't given to suspect that I was going to need it. The bald truth was that there was something about this man and this environment that was soothing, relaxing, and seductive.
When we went to bed I found that I didn't mind his hands on me. The first indicator was that I didn't feel repulsed, as I always did. His hands were smooth but firm and slow in their movements. They were not invasive, not intrusive, and when he stroked me it was from the base of my neck to the curve of my calf; he seemed to adore my whole body with his hands. He did nothing to me physically to signify his domination, which was as unfamiliar as to frame the experience as unique in itself. When he gently parted my legs and entered me, I inadvertently let out a little gasp. Then he muttered in my ear: 'You don't have to pretend you like it'. That was when the nature of the experience changed.
This was a very well-mannered man. Apparently decent, he seemed thoughtful. Besides the obvious point of his purchasing me, he was not overtly disrespectful (it would not have been possible to feel arousal for him if he was) but as for the way he viewed me and my part in this experience: he thought I wouldn't like it. He thought he knew I wouldn't like it, and, like so many others before him, his arousal was dependent on the fact that I would not.
Immediately I understood this and felt my response shut down. The wall had sprung up. I felt very disconnected from my own body, as usual, but not for the usual reasons. This time I hadn't stepped out of my body; I had stayed inside it, and found that I wasn't welcome there.
It was very surreal, the rest of that sex. I was as far away from myself as I have ever been, and it was such a strange and deeply disconcerting feeling, lying there feeling all the sensations that would have been arousing had I been welcome to inhabit my own body. For those who talk of prostitution as work, know this: the core skill of a prostitute's 'work' is learning to stay outside of herself for her own sake.
So as for these two experiences: the first was not a sexually pleasurable experience within prostitution; it was a sexually pleasurable experience which had been taken out of the realms of prostitution, because sexual pleasure was not congruent with it. And as for the second: it could have been a sexually pleasurable experience had I not been reminded how surplus to requirements a woman in prostitution is. Her body is useful—the rest of her is irrelevant, and unwelcome. Only if a woman were a masochist, deeply aroused by her own degradation, would it be possible for her to frame this reality as arousing.
As for the overall dearth of a prostitute's sexual pleasure, I have not needed to wonder about that and even if I had I would have been reminded by the bouts of sexual dysfunction I have experienced while writing this book, particularly during periods when I was writing a lot and processing larger quantities of unwelcome memories every day.
The myth of prostitutes' sexual pleasure exists as one of several tactics which are used to sanitize and normalize the prostitution experience. The reasoning behind this is simple: if it is seen to be pleasurable for some women, then it couldn't be all that bad for women generally, could it? This is nonsense, and like most nonsense, it exists for a reason: framing prostitution as acceptable is that reason. It is not the only tactic used to this end, there are several.
The two unusual and isolated experiences I've recounted do not point to the existence of prostitutes' sexual pleasure. They attest to the opposite, because the first of the times I experienced pleasure from a man I met in this way, the experience had to be wholly contorted into its opposite before it was acceptable to me; and the second time I experienced pleasure it had to, necessarily, be rejected. In both cases, my pleasurable responses were incongruent with prostitution. Female pleasure does not belong in prostitution, and both male and female participants intuitively understand it has no place there.
Perhaps my two experiences will be malformed and misrepresented so as to serve as evidence for those who would prefer to see prostitution filtered through the prism of erotica, but a person who draws conclusions from logic will deduce that such a very tiny sampling does not color any experience as a whole. The simple reality is that if you are heterosexual and you meet thousands of members of the opposite sex over a span of several years, you are likely to find at least a very tiny number of them sexually appealing. The fact that I felt this way towards two men out of thousands does not attest to any type of enjoyment in the prostitution experience; it attests to the opposite, because there were surely many more men among them who would have presented as appealing had I met them in any other way. It was the context in which I met them that negated their appeal. This is just more evidence of the way prostitution pollutes human interpersonal relations. The vast majority of men are immediately discounted as unappealing to prostituted women, because of the manner in which they are presented to them. It is only in exceptional and very unusual circumstances that something may happen to cause a woman to feel differently.
Women's actual responses to prostitution are sometimes recognized, inadvertently, by the proponents of prostitution:
'Descriptions of the psychological harm of prostitution sometimes come from its advocates. For example, the New Zealand Prostitutes' Collective wrote in an unpublished flyer that people in prostitution know they should take a break from prostitution: "when every client makes your skin crawl, when your jaw aches from clenching your teeth to prevent yourself spitting in the bastard's face . . . [or] when you can't stand what you see when you look in the mirror."' (NZPC flyer by Michelle, circa 1994)
Melissa Farley, Bad for the Body, Bad for the Heart
Women who need to be administered such advice are clearly not living a lifestyle liable to cause sexual arousal.
The myth of prostitutes' sexual pleasure is somewhat related to another social myth that goes something along the lines of 'women in prostitution desire to be rescued by a man'. Where this myth is entertained in prostitution, it is by men and not women. We are keenly aware that if we are to be rescued, the ones doing the rescuing can only
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