Sex For Cash: Selling Affection

SEX FOR CASH: Selling Affection

I left college because I could not afford to work, go to school, and have enough money to eat, pay for gas, bills, and have a place other than my car to sleep. When I left college, I looked for work for four weeks without any luck. Things were getting desperate when I ran into an old college roommate who left the semester before me.

She was driving a new, stylish sports car and wearing an outfit that looked like it came from a fashion runway or a Prada showroom. She gave me the "how you doing" look and I shrugged, trying not to look as desperate as I really was.

"Still at school?" she asked with a smugness I resented instantly. It was if she could see I was undernourished and dressed like a homeless person after going through a dumpster. "Couldn't live with the poverty that comes with study hall?" she quipped cleverly.

"I couldn't afford school and living," I said, trying for levity.

"So true," she said while sitting in the front seat of a $50,000 automobile and wearing a thousand dollar outfit.

"New car?" I asked.

"I couldn't be seen in an eighty-three Honda," she said. "A girl has to have nice wheels," she added.

"You must have found a good paying job," I said.

"A person has to do what she does best," she said with a smug smile. "I give pleasure," she said. "People will pay for that. I do that really well," she bragged. "You don't have a bad body," she said. "Use it."

"My body?" I said, incredulous.

"Your pussy, sweetheart. You have to use what you've got," she said. "Girl. You like to fuck. I know you do. I saw you at school parties. You were a popular dance partner. Don't deny it, love. Guys lined up to fuck you. Wake up and smell the roses, baby," she said.

"You sell sex?" I said.

"It sells itself," she said. "What do you think bought these wheels? Eighty thousand cash on the barrelhead," she said. "Cost me two months on my back."

"I am not a whore," I said.

"Sex worker! No? You're an out of work ex college student without a place to live, money for food, or to buy a nice dress," she said. "Want to ride somewhere in my elegant new sports car?"

"I have too much pride to sell sex to live," I said starting to walk away.

"If you change your mind, give me a call," she said, handing me a business card out the window. Controlling my pride, I took the card and walked on.

As she drove away she waved out the moonroof and shouted, "Call me."

Over the next two weeks I interviewed for a secretary job, a phone sales position, a clerk at a shoe store, a sales person at a department store, an ice cream salesperson, and a library assistant. I got so used to hearing "we have filled that position" that I could hear it before they spoke the words.

"I am sorry. We just hired someone, but thank you for thinking of us," each said some variation of the phrase. I kept seeing Cheryl in her eighty thousand dollar two seater with a moonroof and its 400 horse power engine. I kept hearing her say, "You use what you've got."

Three months of the same thing got me thinking more and more about Cheryl's advice. Did I condemn 'sex workers?' Not really. They are just trying to make a living.

I do like sex. I am popular and did date and go to bed with a lot of guys. I am fairly easy to look at, and I do spend a lot of my time making myself attractive to the opposite sex.

I was two months behind in my rent and my apartment manager had been understanding, but he said the owners were getting nervous and were talking eviction. My landline phone had been disconnected and my cell was out of date and slow. I had a thirty year old Honda but couldn't afford gas so I took the bus and let the car sit in front of my apartment.

My savings was down to the minimum and my checking account had been closed. I ate out of cans and what I could manage with peanut butter and white bread. I turned in empty bottles and cans and fought the urge to call my parents. They had offered me my room back, but that, I hoped, would be the last resort.

Then, totally--I think--by accident, I ran once again into Cheryl. "You find work?" she said as we passed in the Starbucks line. I had five dollars and figured I needed a Latte. She got her tall, foamy drink and sat at my table. "I know I was a little flippant last time we talked, but you look thin and I hope I didn't offend you with my talk of selling sex, but look, it is profitable, easy, and we both have what it takes," she said apologetically.

"I can give you names and references," she said. "You make your own hours, control your schedule and can even go to school. I am. Enrolled in two classes this semester at City College," she said proudly.

"Sex is not the worst thing in the world," she said. "You just lie back and pretend you are really liking what he is doing to you, or her, if you're so inclined. Really, let me help," she said, putting her hand over mine.

"You don't have guilty doubts?" I asked.

"Not a one," she said soberly. "I drive my new car, put on my silk robe, and eat my filet with a smile on my face," she said. "Claire, let me help."

"You don't worry about STD or pregnancy?" I asked.

"I get routine checks and they wear condoms," she said. "I have refusal rights. Marcos sits outside the room, and there is actually health insurance. It is a business. The pay is good. Really good," she said with a grin.

"Let me introduce you to Helen Carter," she said "She runs the service in this area. She can give you a phone and assign a guy like Marcos to protect you. You would be doing a community service," she said with a smile.

"You went back to college?" I said.

"An educated whore, right? I am majoring in psychology. I'd like to become a therapist. Sex therapy from an expert, right?" She laughed.

"There is health insurance?" I asked unbelievingly.

"Helen's service does. Not all of them do, but hers does," she said. "I wouldn't just take any service, but the good ones are fine. Let me introduce you to Helen," she said. "Try it a couple of times. See what you think," she suggested.

"The clients pay the service with a card. The service pays you each morning," she said. Seriously, the money is good. The hours are doable, and the good ones are really fun. You like fucking, then it's for you," she said.

My mind was almost literally spinning. I could pay my bills. I could find a bigger place and actually get a real car, buy gas, and food. I could get clothes that weren't worn out, meals that weren't heated in a microwave oven, and even get myself a cat.

"Maybe I could talk to Helen," I said.

'How old are you, Claire?" Helen asked as I sat across the desk from her.

"Twenty-six," I said.

"You were in college?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "I majored in philosophy."

"You'd be surprised to know how many of my girls majored in philosophy," she said. "It just makes sense, if you think about it. If you become one of my girls, could you give your customers a good time?"

"I would try," I said.

"If you join us, I'll give you a phone," she said. "You'll have an account at our bank in your name, and your income will be deposited each morning after your session. You will go see our doctor and get regular medical checkups, and customers must use condoms," Helen said. "You can signup for our medical insurance and we will deduct thirty dollars a month for coverage. We will pay the balance. Do you have any questions, my dear?"

"Cheryl mentioned Marcos," I said. "Would I have a protector assigned to me?"

"If you request it, yes," Helen said. "We have some you can pick from," she said. "He will cost ten percent of your earnings, deducted once a month, but it is worth it for the security," she said.

"I agree," I said.

"What do we charge a session?" I asked.

"All charges will be made by the service over the phone with the customer's credit card, but the basic rate is $500 per hour. You get sixty percent of that, or about $300 each hour. We recommend you work no more than four hours each night, which means you most likely will take home about $1200 every night. Probably more than you have usually earned, right?"

She smiled. "If you work four times a week, you will take home about $4,800 a week, or $19,200 a month. That's approximately $230,400 each year. We will open an account in your name at our bank. Oh, and that reminds me, Claire. We need a professional name. You are Claire only on your paystub and personal matters like with your friends and family. Cheryl can help with that. She is good with pro names," she said.

Cheryl suggested Randy, Petals, Ecstasy, and Jolene (After the song). I liked Ecstasy and Randy, the playfulness of them, but I chose Jolene, because my mother's name was Joy. I decided she would approve of my venture into the sex trade, since she was bawdy and adventuresome herself.

I moved in with Cheryl, since my apartment manager had evicted me. The service had a hotel where they rented rooms, and I chose a man named Jackson who would sit outside the room, making sure the client knew he was there.

My first night my phone rang at nine. I was told by the service that I had a customer who would be at the room at ten. I hurried to the hotel and up to the room. At nine forty-five there was a knock at the door, it was Jackson telling me the client was there.

The John was in his forties with brown hair turning gray at the temples. I am not sure who was more nervous, but I began to feel more in control because he was so uneasy and that helped me play the role.

He wanted fairly traditional sex and it was rather nice. I think I put his mind at ease by taking control as he didn't know what to do.

Over the next three months I made more than

I had ever made in a year. I bought a small house near the beach, paid the first six months of a car lease on a new Lexus, and purchased enough to keep me in style for a year.

I was employed and actually receiving income. My confidence soared and I began feeling better about myself. Even though I thought I knew how to have sex, but perhaps in my first week I learned how to give mind blowing head, how just my words could make a man come and bring me a hundred dollar tip, and how tightening my pussy muscles on a cock could make a man nearly pass out. I became a seasoned pro and learned to use my body to make large amounts of money.

I kept to the schedule fairly well, but because of customer requests a few times I did work five and six times a week and more hours a day occasionally. I totally changed my attitude about professional sex, believing it may just be society's salvation.

I did go back to college and did get my philosophy degree that June. I had been offered a teaching position at a local college and found I was not the only professional sex provider on campus.

I also learned I am bisexual when I began getting requests from other women, and I found I liked eating pussy perhaps more than I liked sucking cock. I even thought of going totally female, but the money was not quite the same so I probably wouldn't go that route. And I still did like the feeling of a hard cock in my pussy. Women really do know how to fuck and suck better than most guys, however.

I had started teaching two classes at the college when I went into the teachers' lounge after class. I was getting my coffee when I heard a throat cleared and I looked up to see Shelby, my most loyal female customer, otherwise known at the college as Professor Grant.

"Well as I live and breathe," she said. "I should have known you spoke more articulately than just a sex worker. So you are also a college professor?" she said with incredible surprise in her voice. "What are you doing after class?" she said.

"Whatever you'd like," I said.

"My next class ends at five," she said. "You want to catch a cup of coffee... or something?"

"Or something," I said. "My classes are over for the day," I said. "I am free for the night."

"Free? You mean you won't charge me?" she said.

"It'd be off the book, as they say," I said with what I hoped was a sexy smile.

"Sounds encouraging," she said.

"I'd encourage you to be as spontaneous and unorthodox as you can," I said with a lusty grin.

I waited in the lounge until her class was over, then we each drove to my new home and parked at the curb. We hardly had the door closed behind us when she put her arms around my neck and put her lips against mine. The kiss was long, hot, and filled with tongue.

As she kissed me she began removing my clothes without taking her mouth off of mine. She struggled with the snap on my skirt, then in frustration pulled it down my hips and let it drop on the floor at my feet. I felt both her hands at the waist of my panties and them sliding over my bottom and then it pooled on top of my skirt at my feet.

When I was nude, she began on her own clothes and ripped off her blouse with one hand, kicked off her skirt, and managed to get her panties off without breaking our kiss. When we were both nude she put her arms around me and grabbed a handful of my ass and pushed her mound against mine.

"You have a bed?" she asked breathlessly.

"This way," I said, pulling her towards my bedroom. We made it down the hall and into my room, then stumbled to the bed and she pushed me onto my back. I stretched out flat and she climbed over me and scooted up until her pussy was over my mouth.

"Use that talented mouth on my pussy, please," she begged urgently. She squatted above my face, rubbing her pussy back and forth over my lips. I ate her frantically for thirty minutes, although I lost all sense of time. However, she must have tired from kneeling above me and turned and dived between my legs and began eating me like a starving cat with a bowl of milk.

Her lips closed around my pussy and her thumb found my clit. My head began to spin and I felt the heat of a hot mouth on my cunt and a rotating thumb on my sensitive clitoris. A finger entered me and searched for my G-spot. I pulled my knees up and opened my legs as wide as I could.

She may have been a customer, but she knew her way around a pussy, and she had me screaming her name and calling for more. When we were both exhausted and spent, we sagged on the bed like two wet rags thrown on the shower floor.

"You awake?" she asked after two hours.

"Barely," I said.

"Me too," she sighed. "That was worth top dollar," she said.

"We'd have to pay each other," I said. "You want to live together?" I asked.

"More than I can say," she said.

"Your place or mine?" I said.

"Both," she said. "No sense in wasting any one of two very nice houses," she said. "A week in yours and the next week in mine. You can still work your night job and teach during the day," she said. "You can even have girlfriends, if you want, I do. You can have all the freedoms you need," she said, trying hard to convince me.

"You don't need to say more," I said.

I moved some of my things into her house and she did the same. I kept working two jobs, selling sex for Helen's service and teaching philosophy to pretty young girls and horny young men.

Professor Shelby Grant and I have been together now for ten years. She teaches at the college and fills in at the service occasionally, selling sex to unsatisfied married men and women maybe once or twice a month. She also has her friends and I have mine.

Our relationship may be unconventional, but it works for us and those we love and include in our lives. I resisted going into the sex trade as an out-of-work college student, but Cheryl's advice was good advice and led eventually to a life I am proud of and happy I made the decision to follow that path.

Having sex with others for money is not the evil act it is made out to be. Sex is a fact of life that can be enjoyed without guilt with a few precautions. I recommend it to anyone secure enough to know what they want and are willing to work for it. Take control. Your life is up to you. Be free!