I’m back from San Francisco again. This run was not as lucrative–I had two guys flake out on me–but I still pulled in over five hundred in profit after subtracting hotel and travel costs. That’s more than I made in a week at my stupid office monkey job.
The sessions were mostly unremarkable. My first client was an elderly tenured professor from Chicago who paid me a truly awful backhanded compliment. He told me that I was “too smart to be doing this job.” I wanted to murder him. That really upset me, it made me want to cry afterward, because it was so insulting to me and the other women I care about who do sex work. Do you know how many sex workers I know who have advanced degrees? I didn’t go to super prestigious schools, it’s true, but the Ph.D. program was a Tier 1, and there is nothing wrong with my brain.
Anyway, I sent him an angry email afterward, because I just couldn’t let it go. He wrote back, but I haven’t opened it. If it’s anything other than an apology, it’ll just ruin my day.
My final session was notable because the guy had an absolutely ginormous penis. I honestly have never seen anything like it, and you know I’ve seen plenty of dicks in my day. I couldn’t believe it. It was the size of my lower arm. I wish that I could have taken a picture. And the funny thing is, he was a little guy! He was smaller than me! 5’7″ and thin, and he was a total geek, I mean a computer science major for real and he looked just like an extra for The Big Bang Theory!
He was, of course, inordinately proud of his anaconda, and was angling for compliments. I told him what he wanted to hear, but it was all lies. I don’t want to have anything to do with a penis that size. It is completely impractical. Three cheers for 6-inch cocks, that’s what I say!
I stayed at the Sir Frances Drake hotel because I got a great deal on priceline.com! It was fun inside–the decor had an Elizabethan theme, and I was really geeking out on it.
I miss the dungeon and I miss my sex worker friends. Working by myself is very lonely. I can do it for a couple days a week, but I don’t think it’s good for me. I’ve stepped up the therapy with the Jungian (I’m really warming up to this guy, I think he’s very caring and devoted to his craft, which is all I can really hope for in a temporary therapist–I just hope he doesn’t start to sleaze on me, because the last thing I need in my life is another sleazy male authority figure) to two times a week so that I can process the isolation and the weird. I just need to stay focused on making the money so that I can get back to New York this summer! I’m moving into a new apartment in June and I’m going to get a NEW BIRD! I want a Jardine’s or a Meyer’s! I sat in my hotel room at night, surfing the bird ads and crying a little bit because I miss my birds and I’m so lonely.
Let me ask a serious question: while I’m still a sex worker, does it mean that no man will ever love me?
Maybe I should try a little dating this summer. I’ll have my own place again FINALLY, so I can show my face again on the singles market. The dating pool in this stupid town is, well, stupid–it’s one of the reasons I knew I had to get out when I was growing up–but there’s the university, and if you stick around that, there’s always some potential!
Maybe I should have hooked up with a guy on Tinder while I still had that hotel room. What happened to my sense of adventure? I used to be the biggest player I knew! I had the Surgeon as my main squeeze and then at least three other guys in rotation!
Fuck it: that’s going to be my plan when I go back to SF to work next week–I am going to go on a date with a hot man after I’m done with the sessions! “Hot man” = hopeless intellectual way too old for me, as that is how I get them. Bonus points if he’s a married scumbag, because I’m a total creep magnet.
I’m putting up an ad on Cragislist SF!