Some of these are original, some downright amusing; note the 'creative' spelling...
Ghetto
Diamonique, Saphire, Coco, Ebohnie, Angel, Ciara
Trailor-trash
Sassy, Candy, Tiphanie, Krystyl, Lacie, Dolly, Cherry
Euro-trash
Yessica, Yasmine, Heidi, Yelena, Natalyah
Wild Card!
Loden, Tigerlilly, Lola, Nolita, Eden, Harley, Maddison
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
This ain't Belle du Fuckin Jour
In case you had not gathered from the list on the right, I am a sex worker. I can't decided whether or not to reveal which city I conduct said sex work in, but it will probably become obvious. The seasons are changing and it is getting decidedly more cold and dark (see, its becoming obvious already...) so I have shirked off my last 4 shifts in order to catch up on my more noble pursuits (if you can call uni and blogging that...), instead I have turned into an increasingly plump, procrastinating, stir crazy hermit.
Having time off from work, even for a few days, is vital in an industry where your looks -- particularly looking young, fresh, nymphy and fertile -- are you livelihood. If you had come to see me on my last shift, a 12 hour double, on Saturday you would have seen a potentially very attractive young gal, albeit hysterically tired, make up smudged everywhere Picasso-style, decollatage erupting into giant oil-induced boils, hair streaked with oil and smelling of various odours, all the enthusiasm of a aneamic sloth and my wrists, Oh my wrists!
It wasn't always like this, I used to be fanatical about my looks even before I began selling them and you would think that getting naked with several men every night would have sent me into the the realm of compulsive primping. Alas, besides shaving my legs every single bloody, ingrown, day and sporting thousands of dollars worth of undies and dress up attire I try to get away with as little as possible. Which in the sex industry means, hundreds of dollars worth of solariums, hours spent trying to get that lost tampon out because you have to cut the damn string, saving up for that all important boob job, hair extentions, facials to dislodge the hours of dirt accumulated from sweating and having halitosis-afflicted elder gentleman breath in your face, the list goes on and on! At the end of each job, when you're sore and easing back in to your miniscule clothing, about to go and sell yourself to someone to do it all over again, it really puts moisturising and perfuming every crevace into perspective.
Last week I worked 7 shifts, approximately 50 hours of hard manual labour. In addition to this, I attempted to show up to at least 5 minutes of my classes, seeing as I just about killed myself trying to get the money together to get into graduate school, I thought I better at least be true to myself and learn something. I even managed to pop into the library. As soon as I set eyes on the man behind the counter, I recognised him as a client.
Fuck, I hate that library.
Lets hope this week I don't massage any fellow students, lectures just wouldn't be the same when you have seen a classmates 'orgasm face'.
Having time off from work, even for a few days, is vital in an industry where your looks -- particularly looking young, fresh, nymphy and fertile -- are you livelihood. If you had come to see me on my last shift, a 12 hour double, on Saturday you would have seen a potentially very attractive young gal, albeit hysterically tired, make up smudged everywhere Picasso-style, decollatage erupting into giant oil-induced boils, hair streaked with oil and smelling of various odours, all the enthusiasm of a aneamic sloth and my wrists, Oh my wrists!
It wasn't always like this, I used to be fanatical about my looks even before I began selling them and you would think that getting naked with several men every night would have sent me into the the realm of compulsive primping. Alas, besides shaving my legs every single bloody, ingrown, day and sporting thousands of dollars worth of undies and dress up attire I try to get away with as little as possible. Which in the sex industry means, hundreds of dollars worth of solariums, hours spent trying to get that lost tampon out because you have to cut the damn string, saving up for that all important boob job, hair extentions, facials to dislodge the hours of dirt accumulated from sweating and having halitosis-afflicted elder gentleman breath in your face, the list goes on and on! At the end of each job, when you're sore and easing back in to your miniscule clothing, about to go and sell yourself to someone to do it all over again, it really puts moisturising and perfuming every crevace into perspective.
Last week I worked 7 shifts, approximately 50 hours of hard manual labour. In addition to this, I attempted to show up to at least 5 minutes of my classes, seeing as I just about killed myself trying to get the money together to get into graduate school, I thought I better at least be true to myself and learn something. I even managed to pop into the library. As soon as I set eyes on the man behind the counter, I recognised him as a client.
Fuck, I hate that library.
Lets hope this week I don't massage any fellow students, lectures just wouldn't be the same when you have seen a classmates 'orgasm face'.
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