Freak of the Week - No Means No

I know what you're thinking - how can I have a FOTW when I'm not even working in The Business anymore? Well, that's an interesting story and I'm almost ashamed to tell you about it.

Almost. Lucky for you.

You see, In the last couple of weeks, I've discovered that little old blue-haired ladies don't tip nearly as well as little old horny gentlemen. I guess "discovered" is a bad word since I really knew it was going to happen. I'm not going to fault little old ladies either since they need therapeutic massage too.

But what I really need right now is one good breast release to help me make my car payment. And the one I wasted last night on Derek didn't pay for shit (well, dinner maybe). Now the combination of a well fucked boyfriend and little old ladies with knots in their backs may make for a slightly more satisfying professional life, but they make for a crappy financial life. So here's the bit that I dreaded confessing to you guys.

I've kinda sorta been doing outcall. Now for you newbies out there, "outcall" massage is when you go visit a customer instead of them coming to me at The Business. Before I continue let me state quite plainly that I am NOT doing full service. It's pretty much been what I was doing at work - massage followed by a happy ending.

You see, what happened is that right after I walked out of The Business, I pretty much stopped answering my phone. Then after a week or so, I started picking up and letting my worried Regulars know that I'm still alive and that I've decided to change my situation. I had mostly well-wishers at first with the occasional offer to "...call me if there's anything I can do..."

Then the offers started to come in. "Hey, could you come over to my place for a session for old times sake? My wife is outta town and..." You see where I'm going with this, right?

Well, I've seen 5 of my old Regulars so far, and it's been pretty cool. I've met them at their places, or the occasional Super 8. And I have to admit that it's actually been kinda refreshing not having to watch a clock, or worry about answering the phone. These outcall sessions have been pretty good so far.

Then there's Harold.

Harold is in his 50's and divorced. Professional guy and one of my more reliable Regulars. I could always count on seeing him once a month, and it was always the same thing - 1 hour G-string with a standard happy ending. No options. No role play. No outfits. No spanking. No foot worship. No cumplay. Nothing.

Now that I'm "independent" and decided to offer outcall to some of my more trusted Regulars, I was expecting sooner or later to have someone ask about full service. It always happens once you're outside the doors of The Business. You're 2 consenting adults in the privacy of a room with no one else's rules to abide by. It happens and I really don't blame guys for asking "... what else do you do?"

Well, Harold was the first to ask. And boy did he ask. It was almost like he flicked on his "Inner Freak" switch when he heard I was willing to see him at his place.

So I showed up at his house with my Bag-o-Tricks:

Massage oil

G-strings

Clean sheet (you'd be surpised how few guys keep clean linen lying around)

Baby oil

Baby powder (a popular option)

Extra bra and shirt (in case of cumstains)

Relaxation CD

Hand sanitizer

Breath mints

I had never been over to his place before. It was a typical bachelor pad. As I expected, I needed my clean sheet to cover his bed since his sheets looked like they were ready to crawl away on their own power. I did a quick scan of the room to make sure there were no hidden "nanny cams" to capture the fun. That's one of the reasons why I've never liked outcall - I don't get to control my environment like I could at The Business.

Harold gets undressed and I can see that he has already "risen" to the occasion.

"Uhhhh... Harold...Did you just pop a bottle of Viagra or did you just miss me?"

With a sort of pride in his voice he asks "Do you like it? I figured I might need it to last me for the next hour. So I took a pill."

I think I shuddered at the thought of giving this man a 1 hour handjob. There was obviously some sort of miscommunication on his part so I tested the waters with "Don't you think you're gonna be a bit uncomfortable with that dangerous weapon while you're lying on your stomach?"

"St-stomach" he stuttered. "I was hoping we could skip all that and get right to the point." Now his voice kinda slowed down as if he saw some brake lights way up the road and suspected there was some traffic hazard up ahead. "You do know what I mean, right?"

"Harold," I said firmly, "What were you expecting today? You know I'm not full service."

Guys and girls - you should have seen the look on this man's face. You would have thought I just told him Santa Claus isn't real. Or the Tooth Fairy. And I shot and killed the Easter Bunny.

Crushed is a good word to use here. Devestated another. Disappointed just doesn't seem to do the job. It was so bad, that for a second (a VERY BRIEF SECOND) I was taken back to my younger, more reckless days, and the long-ignored, rarely-used, totally-neglected notion of "Pity Fuck" just sort of lifted it's ugly head and tried to dust itself off and make itself presentable.

Unluckily for Harold, my rational thought kicked in and told that notion to "sit the fuck down." This isn't high school and that isn't my senior prom date who to this day I still can't figure out why I agreed to go with him when I had soooooo many better options.

And this is pretty much all the nonsense that danced through my head at this moment while I stood in the bedroom of a fully naked man sporting a drug-enhanced hard-on. You see, this kind of nonsense didn't take place in The Business because we had rules and people followed them. A month ago it would never have occurred to me to pity fuck a customer because he's giving me puppy dog eyes. But now that I'm in the middle of something that looks more like a date gone bad, I find myself doing and thinking things that are just crazy.

When a session starts to go in the wrong direction, I stop everything, collect my wits, then take control of the situation. So I took a deep breath and told Harold I'm flattered by the thought, but I have a boyfriend and therefore we need to remain professional. And believe it or not, this seemed to make some sort of sense to him. He nodded in agreement as if this sounded perfectly reasonable. Guys are like that - they need rules, formalities and ritual. You take that away and they're lost.

"Soooooo... what can we do then?" he asked hesitantly.

I smiled at him and pulled off my tank top. And an hour later I made my car payment.

CJ