Hooking up with a Hooker

In 2003, a friend accompanied me to the Melbourne Cup, the race that stops the nation. The event is famous for low-class drunkenness and other shenanigans, and it is relatively easy to strike up conversations with the fairer sex after they've imbibed dangerous levels of overly priced low-quality champagne.              

Dion, a ladies' man of questionable repute, had the horn on for that year's cup meeting. His Sri Lankan good looks and easy lines of delivery failed him on the day, but he was determined to bust his nuts.

After the cup ended with no wins on the track or with the ladies, Dion dragged me to the Gentleman's Club in the city, where we enjoyed expensive drinks and lap dances from unbelievably attractive women.

Instead of going to the bathroom and jerking off, Dion decided a brothel was the only solution to his frustration. We took a taxi to a place he knew in South Melbourne, and I began having flashbacks to two years earlier.

In 2001, I shared a flat with a couple of friends in London. One of them had an almost pathological addiction to prostitutes. Wayne was socially awkward and had trouble talking to women in the real life. Every fortnight payday, he would indulge his fantasies and spend an hour with his favourite hooker down the road from our home.

Just after 911, I found myself in Hamburg, Germany with Wayne who was armed with razor-focussed intelligence about where the best brothels were located. Not long after checking into our hotel, he was on the prowl and zeroed in on a bar called the "Star Treffen" down by the docks. Within seconds of entering, he contracted with a girl and disappeared to an upstairs room faster than I could hand him a beer purchased from a prominent cross-dressing man.

Left to my own devices, I had my pick of the remaining women and chose a blonde bombshell from Turkey who, the barman assured me, would do anything I asked. After our contract was agreed, I was given an hour of the filthiest sex ever experienced. A clean-up crew was needed to fix the hotel room.

There was no ongoing connection from me. Wayne, however, decided he wanted to wine and dine his Serbian hooker and spent stupid amounts of money on her during the weekend. The only time I saw him again was at the airport departure gate. While this was going on, I spent the day culturally enriching myself and, by night, enjoying sexual debauchery in the red-light district.

Once back in London, I never gave those women a second thought. Wayne, though, not so much. Within days, Wayne's phone was receiving text messages from his Serbian whore, begging for money and wanting to come to the UK. We mocked him mercilessly for his prostitute addiction and for being a thirst trap.

For months, this charade stumbled on to the point that he financed a visit from Hamburg to London. I could not remember her name, but she was extremely attractive if a little underweight. For a week at least, Wayne was sexually satisfied, but at what cost?

Outwardly, both seemed content with each other. In an off-the-record talk with me, she wanted desperately to come to the UK and was using Wayne to an end. Wayne, on the other hand, did not have the income to support his Serbian hooker. She ultimately returned to the continent.

After Hamburg, Wayne and I visited the red-light districts of Copenhagen, Brussels and Amsterdam. My friend spent tons of money on exotic whores while I occasionally indulged on a transactional basis but mainly soaked up the continental culture. As a result, visiting a Melbourne brothel two years later was not an unusual experience for me.

Like Wayne, Dion was gone in under a minute after entering the whore house. I purchased a pricey beer, loitered in the reception area and waited for his return. Pretty girls came and went, tempting me with their wares, but my wallet stayed shut. That was until this tall, blonde, stacked beauty walked in. She was stunningly beautiful and dressed in a cheap nurse's costume. With a glass of champagne in her dainty hand, she sat next to me, and we engaged in non-sexual banter.

"I used to be a nurse," Bree confessed, "But this pays better."

"This?" I asked, roaming my beer bottle over the reception area.

"Yeah, sex work is more profitable."

"I bet it is..." I trailed off, feeling bad for this stunning woman who should be married and raising a family.

"It's a means to an end," Bree said, taking a swig of beer.

"And that end is?"

"I want to live in Europe," The former nurse said, "Maybe settle in Spain."

"And do what?" I asked, "More sex work?"

"No," Bree said, "But if so, I'm good at that."

"You're probably good, or better, at many other things."

"I like the money."

All sorts of moral and ethical objections entered and exited my brain. I decided not to raise them as I did not see the point. I looked frustratingly at my watch, waiting for Dion to emerge so we could leave.

"You seem like a nice guy," Bree said, rubbing the sleeve of my suit jacket, "How about a session upstairs."

Bree was undeniably stunning and looked to have the body of a porn star. While I had some moderate success on the horses earlier, I felt she would wipe out my winnings with a high-class fee.

"How much?" I bit.

"There's a standard fee that I cannot negotiate," Bree replied, "However, there are optional extras that I can give you for free."

"Such as?"

"I'll give you my juicy booty," Bree teased, "Or we can do something wet in the spa."

"Okay, you've tempted me," I said before paying the house charge for a standard thirty-minute session.

After texting Dion what I was up to, Bree led me to a suite upstairs, where she undressed me. She stepped out of the cheesy nurse's outfit, and we showered together. Conscious of the elapsing time and wanting to get down to business, I bathed economically.

Bree had, indeed, an astonishing body. She had no tattoos, and her skin was perfectly golden brown. Slim legs, shaven and with massive (augmented) breasts, adorned with a memorably beautiful face, Bree was built to fuck, but seemed to be doing that task in the wrong field. She was marriage material in any other reality.

We lay on a comically large four-poster bed and engaged in the nasty stuff. Following an excellent blow job, I (reluctantly) went down on Bree and used my tongue to bring her to orgasm before tickling her butthole. We pussy fucked in a variety of positions before taking a short break.

"You want to fuck my ass?"

"Yeah, baby," I replied lasciviously, "Let's do it."

I had only been with a handful of hookers, but one of the stand-out characteristics was the no-kissing rule. Wayne and Dion both confirmed this taboo, and the handful of prostitutes I have paid for adhered to this rule. Bree, on the other hand, was all over me, kissing me frantically and passionately. Her advancement was not rebuffed but welcomed for some reason.

Bree grabbed a bottle of lubricant from the bedside table. Applying a generous amount to her arsehole and my twitching cock, she ordered me to fuck her bung from behind. I only had around five minutes before the clock chimed, "TIME's UP!"

To her credit, Bree's arsehole had me blowing in the condom in no time. I yelled and cursed the sky fairies for both the pleasure and the abruptness.

"Mm, impressive load!" Bree crowed as she held up the sheath, "Be nice if that was inside me."

"Same," I agreed, "But safe sex and all."

"Agreed," Bree sighed after wiping her lubed arse, "A girl can dream."

"What do you mean?" I asked after starting to dress.

"It would be nice to go on a date," Bree lamented, "With a regular guy and enjoy a connection."

"Must be hard to do in this line of work,"

"Would you take me on a date?" Bree asked, almost pathetically.

It was at that moment that I realised the loneliness of sex work and the lure that Wayne felt when he met his Serbian hooker. He could not support that lifestyle, and my support of Bree would be even shorter given what I paid for thirty quick minutes.

"Where would you want to go?" I asked vaguely.

"Anywhere other than here," Bree replied, "I just want to be with a man."

I understood her lament. Sex work is transactional: payment for service. Bree needed money and used her physical assets to ease the cost of living. She sacrificed a shot at a high-value mate unless Bree lied about her background and career. Ultimately, her sex work history would come out together with all the consequences that would entail.

Bree's appeal tugged at my heartstrings for some reason, but not for any emotional or financially manipulative reason. I took Bree at her word and gave her my number, encouraging her to call me when she was off the job.

We saw each other for about four months until Bree departed for Europe with a sufficiently swelled bank account. The company was cathartic for both of us, and the sex was off the charts. I did not mind that she fucked guys during the day and spent time with me in the evenings. I received exclusive access to her backdoor and other fetishes reserved for the bathroom. All this for free. We both understood our modus vivendi, but to some extent, each party benefitted from some emotional satisfaction during our time together.