Some groups of gentlemen also wanted to come in groups but abstain from sex, just wanting to watch me doing my own thing while they did their own thing. This was also a nice little earner, as the rate was the same price as a full service, the only difference being that the minimum time frame was half an hour.
There was a plethora of odd and not so odd requests that came through the phone daily. Most were fairly tame attire requests: lacy knickers, suspenders and stockings, stilettos, high boots, G-string, even bikini parade requests. I’ve even had gentlemen bring over their former partner’s dresses for me to wear. Some got a little racy with their love of all things rubber or latex. It was not uncommon for a client to shop around for a girl who met the size of clothing he liked to buy. I was always nervous about the personal hygiene of some of the women who’d worn the item before me but what the hell.
The items that arrived with the clients were revered as though they were magic. Clients ever so reluctantly released them into your care with a silent prayer that you wouldn’t damage them. But these were by no means Dolce and Gabbana, they were straight from the window of any adult shop and generally adorned with at least one pompom. The biggest challenge was trying to keep a straight face while you stood there looking all of $49.99—marked down. Meanwhile, the client was in raptures, flogging himself mercilessly. These were one-hour appointments, which involved twenty minutes of dressing, ten minutes of modelling, fifteen minutes of undressing.
What might appear crazy to me was not always crazy to the client. I cannot tell you how many clients were prepared to spend an entire hour just massaging me. God bless them. They’d often bring in their own homemade oils or lotions, scented with a perfume or essence that perhaps reminded them of a past romance. Rarely was it a comfortable massage but there were worse ways to spend an hour. These clients often only wanted to satisfy me, and rarely requested any penetration, but rather would give me a forty-five-minute massage followed by a good little nibble and, once they believed I’d climaxed, just wanted a good hug. Played out correctly, these clients would return fortnightly like clockwork, often bearing gifts of jewellery, flowers, scarves or other such girly presents.
Young men were the ones I had to watch. Young men think they invented sex, so I knew that I had my work cut out when they booked me for the hour. I noticed a growing number of young healthy clients who’d spend an hour then insist on removing the condom themselves at the end, tying it in a knot, and placing it in a zip-lock bag.
While I thought it was odd I very much understood their thinking. I was familiar with a working girl who had commandeered a client’s semen to impregnate herself, thus justifying a $100,000 a year income for child maintenance from some poor soul. In fact, she abused three different clients’ trust. I’m pretty sure this was not any sort of Darwinian natural selection for a better gene pool, this was purely financial selection at its worst.
I later learnt that the clients who took their used condoms with them were professional athletes who were fearful of rape accusations or paternity entrapment. This was not only self-preservation but also a directive given to them by coaches and managers.
I was inundated with professional athletes, and at one stage I even asked if my number had been posted on the locker room wall. I was informed that they had all been warned not to seek out one night stands and rather to frequent girls like myself. This was a good wicket for me—handsome, virile, well-to-do young men who paid for an hour and left in twenty minutes with condom in tow.
Not that sex with these young men didn’t come with its own problems. Imagine riding a three-minute roller coaster with a blindfold on, you can’t anticipate which direction to brace for next—that was what it is like being shagged by a super strong athlete who had watched way too much porn for his own good. You also got the young jackrabbit approach to sex, which was equally unpleasant, and akin to feeling an epileptic go into convulsions right there on top of you. Every now and then I had to stop proceedings and delicately inform the client that lessons were going to be $10 extra. Most of the clients welcomed a bit of constructive criticism because they wanted to be better lovers. Sometimes they would phone me and say: ‘Got time for a lesson today, Cleo?’