How I became an escort

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Being an escort is a permanent job, but not a very demanding one. I know a lot of people. True, almost all are men on most of them will not see them ever, and I asked them to fuck me whether they had full body mole or a grand total of three teeth.
But it's better than sitting watching the clock until the next tea break in a sinister room filled with employees.
So when my friends are out again in the drawer tired analogy of work in a company and job escort nod wisely and “pity” with them, while we drink our cocktails and we were wondering where they went all promises youth. Theirs is probably on the road that leads to the suburbs. Mine regularly loosen his legs for money.
Practicing escort as a profession in its own right not occurred overnight. I arrived in town as thousands of recent graduates. With only few of student debt and some money set aside, I thought it was arranged for several months but was quickly swallowed my surplus rent and a thousand petty expenses.
One day, a woman who sat beside me holding a magazine just a few centimeters in front; I noticed only after three stations not read, but wept. It was hard not to express my sympathy, but I was hard not to start crying too. So I watched my savings melt as the transport subscription buying became the main event of the week.
And although I have a devouring passion for underwear, even drastic reduction of acquisitions lacy not has to solve the problem. Shortly after I moved I got a message from a person known through my friend N. This is the city of N, which seems to know everyone. So when was bent over backwards to introduce me to this lady, I was quite attentive.
“I hear you're in town – can we see you when you're free,” said the message. It was an old lady, plump and sexy with a sharp accent and impeccable taste. When we first met, I thought it was not my nose. But as soon as his back was turned, he pointed me through half-whisper and furious gesturing as girl is keen on group sex and likes women. As they say, I soaked panties.
I kept the phone message a few weeks, during which my imagination hot, becoming increasingly restless. It went up to embody more tyrannical Gasper, dressed in latex, in my nocturnal reveries. It called almost immediately to tell me that she and her new partner would be pleased to meet with me to dinner next week.
I made calculations in mind, the rent, the number of days in a month, net profit after the evening spent in the city. I thought I would have a fit of regret or surprise because I had been used and paid for it. But there was nothing like that. It felt good, and for a wealthy couple, a meal at a restaurant and taxi did not mean anything. And, frankly, it does not to me seem like a chore. I asked the driver to stop a few blocks from my apartment. Staccato drumming of heels on the pavement reverberated. Although begun autumn night were still warm, and the traces of wax under my clothing the heat radiated sympathetic.