Welcome to my Vegas Weekend

vegas

Hello lovers,

After a thrilling weekend in Vegas, I wanted to share all the fun details of the working weekend of a call girl. Read on to live a weekend in my life…..

FRIDAY

9:30 a.m.

Weekly doctor visit. Can’t miss or work permit’s pulled. At least I get to wear real clothes and a comfortable bra, not the boned thing that shoves boobs up to my chin.

Last night was long and tedious; full hooker gear until four a.m. Shiny pink stilettos are calf-killers.

9:40 a.m.

Coffee at bar with girls. Window shoppers will start around noon. Glad I don’t have the early shift.

Lily talking about customer who couldn’t get off last night. Had him jerk himself to finish in time.  She was pissed he got cum in her hair and she missed next line-up.

 

We get both ends of the spectrum—customers like Lily’s, or like my first who exploded the minute I touched him. Shortest booking in history. I caught another newbie last night whose wife won’t give him a blow job.

Got doctor money and a bit extra from bartender. Not being allowed to have cash in-house just sucks. Madam’s always late getting our pay ready.

Now I know why Cinda used to roll money in a condom and carry it inside her—the only place they won’t check in a room search.

1:20 p.m.

Back at House. Cops are checking doctor slips. Time to get ready for work.

2:25 p.m.

Phone call from regular who will stop in over weekend. He drives from Oregon every few months, for the same thing: Strips me down, puts me hands-and-knees on the bed, checks out my ass like he’s a doctor, starts talking about Canadian politics while he reams me. (Reminds me, need more lube.)

 

Every visit same thing, same talk, always 90-minute booking. Good money. We’ve nicknamed him Doc Banal.

4 p.m.

Show Time! Two line-ups already. Doorbell just rang again so about three minutes before the Avon Calling line-up bell.

6:40 p.m.

Bunch of jerks just came and went. Once, just once, I wish we could make them line up so we could point and giggle like they do. But most are nice, just want someone who’ll listen to them, make them feel like most important thing in the world for a few minutes.

SATURDAY

12:30 a.m.

Feet hurt. I’ve switched shoes again. Booked three, changed clothes twice, brushed teeth four times. Noshed on London Broil sandwich.

Glad we have a swing-shift bartender who can actually cook. Sex makes you hungry.

 

Shit. Doorbell, again. Shoes back on, will try not to hobble to line-up. Ouch.

3:20 a.m.

Caught one more for the night. Repeat customer who likes to hog-tie me. First two visits, I charged him a double-rate so that another girl, Bella, could be in the room with us for safety. Turned out to be okay guy, so now it’s just me.

Strips me down with fake roughness, puts me face-down on bed. Restrains and gags me, not too tightly, with torn strips of sheets, ankles fastened to wrists. Early adolescent training as a gymnast means I’m flexible. It comes in handy.

He sits in a chair across the room, naked, jerking off, while I struggle and moan. Finis. Thirty minutes all-in, if that. A towel he puts on floor in front of him ensures no sticky clean up.

 

Washes himself, unties me, asks if he tied too tightly. He never does. Fifteen minutes at bar, quick drink and small talk, he’s gone. Four or five months he needs another fix.

Nearly bedtime. I’m toast. Clothes can stay on the floor tonight. Love my down comforter.

11:15 a.m.

Giggling in the hallway woke me up. Almost asleep again, then a crash and non-stop, really ugly cursing. Peaches returning from two weeks off.

Darius was dragging her suitcases into her room and knocked over lamp. Peaches is tiny with amazing gold-blonde hair. Darius is six-five, black as black, a schlong almost the length of my forearm.

 

Peaches won’t line-up for black customers “out of respect for Darius.” She calls him her boyfriend but we know better. He’s her pimp.

I know better because he tried to recruit me—smooth talker—after he booked and fucked me, once. Can’t believe I looked that easy or desperate.

3 p.m.

Time to get ready. Half of a major New England fire department is spending a week at the Fire Science Academy, next town over. One of them called, asking about rates. Bartender quoted the minimums and assured them there’s no obligation.

All Houses used to accept Fire Bucks—“currency” doled to the trainees to be spent in any business in the two towns—until some prude with power in the Academy squashed that. Brothels would not be reimbursed for Fire Bucks. So it’s cash on the barrelhead for these guys.

Whoever killed our Fire Bucks is probably another orally deprived dude in desperate need of a blow job.

 

7:30 p.m.

Peaches is on the House computer, logged in on the brothel boards. Seven or eight line-ups, half-dozen parties booked.

Barely legal guys show up earlier in the evening before heading for a local bar to drink the night away. They’re usually with older buddies who brag they “don’t have to pay for sex.”

We remind them they’ve always paid for it, one way or another.

7:40 p.m.

Firefighters are here!

11:15 p.m.

Twenty-seven of them. They were friendly and polite and fun. Which seems to be true of all the firefighters we’ve had visit.

Most of them look, not book, but they’re generous with drinks and tips, right there at the bar. They’re also smart. A breath of fresh air.

Last summer I sat at the bar next to a pair of suits who couldn’t stop with the shop-talk even in a brothel. Sporadically, they’d try including me. Finally one said to the other “well, that would be an equine of a different hue,” and he turned to face me. “Sorry, you probably have no idea what that means, do you?”

 

“Related to a bovine of dissimilar tint,” I shot back, and left them there.

The firefighters are gone, along with a good part of our inventory of Scotch and beer. Two of the single guys booked girls. A few whispered that they’ll be back in a few days, alone.

SUNDAY

Noon

Sunday. Slowest day of the week—local fellas are nursing hangovers. Lily and I outlined holiday plans for the House. Single guys always get invited for Thanksgiving and Christmas, everyone cooks, gifts all around.

5 p.m.

Exhausted from two nights of party and noise. With Peaches back in-house, I’ll be able to beg off early at least one night this week.

Shot an email off to my “guy”. We’re pushing a decade, probably because we recognize that each of us are individuals; neither of us fit a traditional mold.

 

I recapped the most insane moments of past week, for him to read. He’s sending me a new Bullet pen, industrial strength. He kids that I need one that’ll plug directly to a generator.

He’s checking fares to Italy for me, again. And maybe one day . . . a flat in an ancient building off Florence’s Piazza del Duomo, Brunelleschi’s masterpiece from my window each morning. If you ain’t got a dream . . .

10:40 p.m.

Eight doorbells, three line-ups since 5. I’m catching up on brothel boards. Message popped up from a guy I’ve talked to past six months.

He lusts after bald women. My hair’s pretty short. He wants to make it shorter. Keeps asking if I’ll let him shave everything off my body before he fucks me.

 

Answer’s always been no. Don’t want unfamiliar people having razors near me. Plus the offered price has been too low.

Tonight he says he just sold a business in Vegas, might I reconsider his request? I prevaricated. He pressed. It remains unresolved.

Now off to bed…………

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