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A ROARING GIRL
An Interview with the Thinking Man's Hooker
By H. A. CARSON
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 H.A. Carson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-8089-1
Chapter One
I MUST ADMIT I'M IMPRESSED! YOU BEGIN BY QUOTING DANIEL DEFOE, SEGUE INTO A PERSONAL TRAVELOGUE, AND FINISH WITH A PARODY OF MARGOT CHANNING IN ALL ABOUT EVE. FROM 17th CENTURY ENGLISH LITERATURE TO CLASSIC HOLLYWOOD FILMS. YOU'RE EXTREMELY WELL SPOKEN, AND YOU OBVIOUSLY HAVE AN EDUCATION. HOW DID YOU GET INTO ALL THIS?
Well, I majored in Comp-Lit and I like watching movies.
I GUESS I DESERVED THAT.
Indeed you did. FYI, not all prostitutes are illiterate junkies. I've known sex workers with masters degrees. I knew three R.N.'s who left nursing to become prostitutes. Xaviera Hollander spoke five languages and was Secretary of the Year at the U.N. So, please, park your Law & Order stereotypes elsewhere.
Having torn you a new one, I suppose this is as good a place as any to begin. It is the universal question asked of working girls on all levels: "What's a nice girl like you doing in a life like this?" I am quite a nice girl actually. I'm nice to my mother (I supported her for six years, and I still call her every single day to check on her); I love animals-I'd adopt every abused, unwanted animal in the world if I could; I'm polite and respectful to everyone who's polite and respectful to me. And, yes, mirabile dictu, I can actually read and write. I can cipher some, too. I even attended an eastern Ivy League women's college on a four year academic scholarship. Ironically, my dear old alma mater used to be known among sexually predacious Ivy League males as "the Brothel," so perhaps my "turning out" into whoredom was somehow predestined and, therefore, only a matter of time. (LOL!) I once worked in a studio near San Francisco with a girl who had attended Mt. Holyoke. We used to say we were probably the only two hookers in the city produced by Ivy League colleges. On further consideration, there are probably quite a few of us Seven Sister girls out there turning tricks. Degrees in Comp Lit and Art History don't make much money in the real world. But, I digress ... I'm sorry.
You wanted to know how I got started ... First, let me say that prostitution is like anything else. It's a living. A means of making money. Period. It is not a lifestyle. Pimps came up with that inane term: "the Life"-as if some moron in a Superfly hat could ever really know what it's like to turn tricks. Prostitution is a business. It is not romantic or glamorous. But neither is it disgusting, demeaning, or tragic. It can be dramatic often laughably; sometimes frighteningly so. Yes, it is potentially dangerous-but so are coal mining, law enforcement (by which I mean real law enforcement i.e. SWAT, homicide, narcotics-you know, cops who at least attempt to protect and serve. NOT vice! They're pork of a different chapter!) and, nowadays, teaching. Most of the time, prostitution is just like any other job involving physical labor. The only difference is that it pays better. The minute a woman begins to think of it as a lifestyle or, God forbid, raison d'etre, she's in serious trouble. The handwriting is on the wall.
I entered the business as anyone would enter any business. I wanted off the nine to five treadmill, where there's no money, no freedom, and no future. I had two choices: spend forty years or so at E. E. C. or some other cookie cutter company and retire with a gold watch and not much else. Or get grants and loans for grad school; and after years of hard work, emerge with a doctorate in something dealing with languages and/or literature-the two disciplines at which I excelled. Because everybody knows English and French professors make the BIG bucks. Yeah, right. Not to mention, paying off all those student loans would devour what little profit margin exists in academia. Even at that rarified level of teaching, you're still essentially a worker, toiling for a boss, jumping through hoops for a paycheck. And, last (literally!) but not least, some nutjob student can always stroll into your classroom and blow your face off. At the risk of sounding like Sarah Palin: "Thanks but no thanks."
Hooking was actually my second choice. I thought, fleetingly, of becoming a drug dealer. In fact, people used to tell me I'd make the perfect dealer because I don't do drugs of any kind. I don't drink alcohol either-not even beer or wine with meals. (Remember Frank Lopez's advice to Tony Montana in Scarface: "Don't get high on your own supply!") And, of course, the money is surreal. A dealer can make in a single transaction what a hard working girl makes in a year-and that's serious money. But I never seriously considered it. The penalties are too stiff. Decades in prison for dope dealing as opposed to six months in county jail for prostitution. Prostitution is a mere misdemeanor in California, and you don't get jail time at all until your third or fourth offence. Plus, dealing drugs brings you into contact with serious people-career criminals and dirty cops who might, like, seriously kill you. The margin for error was just too wide.
I was an adult when I turned out-not a teenager looking for trouble. I was twenty-three, and I was looking for the shortest distance between two points. Prostitution was my straight line.
SO, HOW DID YOU START?
I entered the business backwards. Most girls begin with vanilla sex: half 'n half, 69, massages and handjobs... Nothing fancy or freaky. With me, it was the exact opposite. I turned out as a professional dominatrix, and my first trick was about as freaky as they come. You know that old saying: "If you're gonna get wet, you might as well go swimming." Anyhow, he was recommended by a nosebleed-high class call girl in Beverly Hills. I'll never forget him-although his name escapes me. Perhaps I never knew it. But I do remember him. A girlfriend of mine believed that you always remember your first trick. "Your first trick," she used to say, "is a little like your first love." I wouldn't go that far ...
WHAT MADE HIM SO MEMORABLE ?
He ate my feces.
JESUS!
I would have chosen a more appropriate expletive like: "Holy shit!"
HE ACTUALLY ATE IT?!
Yes, but that's not what made him weird. It definitely helped, but, luckily, it didn't come as a surprise. Ashley had told me he was into brown showers. She said I'd have to be able to poop on command, because he wanted it natural. The guy was a real purist. He wanted only firm, intact turds, and he'd be pissed if I took a laxative or an enema. Luckily, everything came out okay. Literally. The psychiatric term for it is coprophilia, and it's actually more common than you'd think. Whenever anyone asks me about the weirdest thing I've ever done, it's one of the first things that comes to mind- in terms of actual physical sexual acts. I've done fantasies that were much more bizarre of course; but that was the really strange thing about this guy. He didn't have a fantasy! He just wanted to eat my shit! Plus, his dress and demeanor were straight out of central casting. He looked like he'd just come from the set of The Sopranos- right down to his $3,000 suit and his gravelly Vito Corleone voice. Most copro guys want the brown shower to be the climax (both literally and psychologically) of a humiliation/domination session. This guy wasn't into either. He didn't role-play. He just took off his expensive suit and lay down on the bed. I just sat on his face and crapped in his mouth. He came almost instantaneously. Most brown shower guys do. The minute turd touches tongue, they're done. Anyway, I gave the Godfather a wet towel and some mouthwash. He donned his Armani suit, gave me $350, and left. That was my first trick. And my first brown shower. Pretty easy, actually.
SOUNDS LIKE YOU'VE DONE A LOT OF THEM SINCE.
I've done a lot of everything since. But, yes, I've done quite a bit of advanced toilet training.
The most interesting was probably Dr.Coyl. He was a wealthy Black physician from San Diego, and he was obsessed with eating shit out of a white woman's asshole. He was so terrifed of being caught in a "house of ill repute" (his exact words-no shit!) that he would see me only in hotels in San Francisco, Sacremento, or L.A. -never in his hometown or mine. The man was totally paranoid. When I refused to do outcalls, he paid me $100 just to have lunch with him first just to make sure he was OK. One of my colleagues often boasted she could spot a brown shower trick a mile away-even if he was in a room full of perverts. Something about the eyes, she claimed. I don't know about all that, but after chatting with Dr. Coyl for ten minutes, I knew he was the real deal. Unlike the wiseguy wannabe, the good doctor loved domination and humiliation-especially verbal abuse with racial slurs. He was another purist- most brown shower guys are. The coolest thing about him was that he used to pay me by the turd! I'm not kidding. Plus, he was super into flatulence, so he also paid by the fart. For a couple of days before our session, I'd practically live on prunes, bran muffins, yogurt, and corn. (He liked to see the kernels in the turds.) The day of our session, I'd eat baked beans and lentil soup and more yogurt; and all day long, I'd grit my teeth and refrain from using the toilet. I'd hold it until that evening-which is no small feat, believe me. Shitting on command is...hard. Anyhow, Dr. Coyl would tongue my asshole while I farted in his face. I'd actually fart directly up his nostrils, while he inhaled it like oxygen. He'd lie on the floor or kneel behind me with money clip in hand, and every time I let one, he peeled off a $20 bill and handed it to me. If the fart was smelly and wet and/or particularly loud, I got $40. Each turd I dropped in his mouth got me $100. After awhile, he asked me to bring a girlfriend along, and we'd take turns using our "toilet." My friend, Allie, would sometimes bring a can of pork n' beans and scarf it down in the bathroom when he took a break just so she could get a few extra twenties before the main event. That was another strange thing about Dr. Coyl: he didn't come immediately like most brown shower guys. He took a lot of "breathers." (His term.) I guess he had to, considering what he was breathing-and eating. An hour session could easily turn into three. And remember, we were paid a $200 per hour session fee as well as tips for the farts and turds. If you were super gassy and literally full of shit, you could walk out with a lot of money. Dr. Coyl was a great trick! Messy, but great. One of the most generous I've ever had. And one of the nicest. He was a genuinely nice man. One of the freakiest, too, considering his ethnicity. One of the things I learned pretty quickly in the B&D/S&M division of the sex industry is that sexual fetishism is a white guy thing. Very few Black and Hispanic men are into it. Very few Asians. Except for the Japanese. They're kinky fuckers.
YOU MEAN THERE ARE REALLY STATISTICS CATALOGUING THE SEXUAL PRACTICES OF JOHNS ACCORDING TO THEIR RACE, COLOR, CREED, OR NATIONAL ORIGIN.
I don't think it's written down anywhere, although it might make an interesting dissertation for somebody. I'm simply saying that in my experience which is extensive if I do say so myself, I've had very few Black clients who were into sexual fetishism. Most Black, Hispanic, and Asian clients are pretty vanilla. Even when they role play, the fantasy usually ends up in vanilla-ville.
EXAMPLES?
A Roaring Girl
I used to have two really good Asian regulars. Bradley Jonathan Chong was a spoiled rich Eurasian kid who actually used his full name when he called for an appointment. As if he were a celebrity or something. He was extremely handsome; I'll give him that. He was like James Shigeta-the old Japanese movie star from Flower Drum Song, or John Lone from The Last Emperor. Even hotter. And he was 6' 2." I used to tell him he should learn to speak Cantonese (he couldn't speak Cantonese or Mandarin, do you believe it?) and move to Hong Kong and become a movie star. This was circa 1990 before Hong Kong was returned to China. He could have done it, but he was too lazy. Besides he was only twenty-one, and he was having too good a time living off Mommie and Daddy. Anyhow, on his first visit, he wanted a "French massage" i.e. a blow job. He wanted me to kneel and suck him off while he called me filthy names. No problem. When he undressed, I understood why this incredibly good looking young guy who could have scored in any club in the world wanted not only to pay for sex but to pay extra to verbally abuse me. Fully erect, Bradley Jonathan Chong was just under three inches long and almost half an inch in diameter! The poor guy was smaller than my pinkie finger. I fell to my knees and started sucking away. He grabbed my hair and thrust himself-all two and three quarter inches of him-into my mouth shouting: "Suck my big dick, you dirty whore! You fucking, cocksucking whore! Choke on it, Slut! Choke on my big fucking dick!" Choke on it ... That was the fulcrum of his fantasy. I started gagging loudly, desperately, "helplessly." He came instantly. Brad was a great trick. Easy as easy and lightning fast.
The other guy, Skeet, was the opposite of Bradley Jonathan Chong. He was short, fat, and forty something, and no one would ever call him handsome, elegant, or upscale. He, too, wanted a blow job, but his approach was totally different. Although I already towered over him, I had to don six inch stilletto heels and a skin-tight red spandex cocktail dress. He liked super heavy makeup-especially thickly layered red lipstick and lip gloss. I'd put on the record he'd bought me for our sessions: Little Richard's "The Girl Can't Help It" -and go to work. That was his fantasy. I was Jayne Mansfield, and Skeet was a rotund, Asian Tom Ewell. I'd sit on a chair in my mirrored bedroom; Skeet would approach me and shyly ask me to dance. To his delighted surprise, I'd accept and take his hand. Of course, when I stood up, he'd find himself staring straight into my tits. We'd dance (that was a riot!), and when we were done, I'd kiss him leaving his lips almost as red as mine. Then, I'd cover his face with glossy, wet look, red lipstick kisses. From there, it was a slam dunk. I'd squeal (in my best Jayne Mansfield voice no less) something about the buldge in his pants-hardly noticeable, but hey, it was his fantasy. He'd unzip and lie on the bed. I'd play with him while I unleashed my 40DD's in his face. Then I'd suck him & he'd come on my ruby red lips or I'd jerk him off between my tits. Again, bottom line: vanilla and easy.
HOW DID YOU KEEP A STRAIGHT FACE THROUGH ALL THIS?
The first thing you learn as a hooker (and it's probably the most valuable lesson you learn in the sex trade) is this: No matter what happens, always keep a straight face. Never evince an unguarded emotion. Never laugh or frown or recoil. Never show amusement, contempt, bewilderment, or revulsion unless you are 99 and 44/100% sure that it's the reaction the client wants to see. In other words, don't adlib. Don't deviate from the script. Improv is allowable only within the guidelines of what has gone before..
WHAT IF THEY DON'T TELL YOU WHAT THEY REALLY WANT?
They always tell you-eventually. It is a pain, of course, when they hem and haw. Sometimes you have to drag it out of them. Sometimes, they're so repressed or disconnected from their own sexuality, they really don't know. But those guys are rare. Usually they're just bashful. Or more often, considering the sex-negativity of this culture, they're just plain ashamed. Remember, these men tell prostitutes things, show us aspects of themselves that they have never revealed to anyone else in their whole lives-unless they've been in therapy. I remember being shocked the first time a trick told me he'd discussed me with his therapist. Shocked is the wrong word. I found it disconcerting and rather creepy that I was actually a part of this guy's life-sort of. Ugh! On a lighter note, when new clients tried to tell me what they wanted, the conversations often went like this.
Me: (friendly, smiling, upbeat) "So, how can I help you today?"
Trick: "Uh, I ... don't know if you can."
Me: "Oh, I'm sure I can. What are your fantasies ... or interests?"
Trick: (looking like he wants to get up and run.) "I ... I'm not sure."
Me: (still smiling sweetly, but getting annoyed) "Well, you must have some idea. It's OK. You can tell me."
Trick: "Well, I'm ... I.... I guess I.... Well....I sort of.... want to be dominated."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A ROARING GIRL by H. A. CARSON Copyright © 2010 by H.A. Carson. Excerpted by permission.
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