On golden shower anxiety

[Emma]

When people learn that I whore for a living, most wonder about how my first 'date' was. The truth is, aside from some initial nervousness that necessarily comes with facing the unknown, there's not much to say about my first date. The guy was nice, we had as good as a time as can be had in those circumstances, he seemed pleased, I was happy to have more money in my pocket than I had had in my account for the last few months, end of story.

There are two moments in my relatively recent career as a hooker however when I had nerve-wracking performance anxiety, and neither involved contact with anybody's pink bits.

The first one was my photo-shoot. I had never done a photoshoot with a professional before. But from my experience with photoshoots done with amateur friends and from my own tentatives at self-portrait, I had come to the conclusion that cameras hate me.

I spent every spare time in the days preceding the shoot preparing for it, studying pictures of other escorts online, downloading episodes of America Next Top Model to learn tricks, posing in front of my mirror trying to learn to look sexy yet classy for the camera, freaking out about that stupid pimple that of course had to appear on my left ass cheek now, rediscovering every single flaw visible (or not) to the naked eye on my body, and trying on every possible combination of lingerie, stockings, and heels I own.

The morning of the shoot, in the cab that is driving me to the studio, I am freaking out. What if the photographer doesn't give me any directions and I don't know what to do? What if he gives me directions but I can't follow them properly? What if he decides that I am a lost cause? What if we take 150 shots and none are good? Will my career ends before even starting?

The shoot went as well as I could ever have wished. We got enough good shots for me to use. After a while, I even started to have fun posing and interacting with the photographer.

But I was also exhausted from the experience and came out of the shoot with a new found respect for women who work in the fashion industry. There is an art and talent required in modeling which, in spite of the few good pictures that this professional managed to get out of me, I obviously do not possess.

My second performance anxiety moment happened when a client asked me to cover him in my 'golden nectar' as they say in bad erotica. As my profile on TOsluts states, I am kink friendly, and while there's not enough money around to pay me to be the recipient of a golden shower, I am more than happy to sell my 'golden fluid' and pee on a willing client.

After half an hour of chatting while I drank two large bottles of water, the moment to move to the bathtub and raise my skirt came. John is laying naked in the bathtub, I'm standing over him with a full bladder ready to explode... but I can't let go a single drop of piss. I want to, he wants me to, my bladder wants to, but I just can't. Performance anxiety. After a few minutes, the situation gets a little bit uncomfortable, and we decide to move back to the living room to chill and regroup.

At that point, I have no idea what to do. This guy had me come over for me to pee on him, a simple and reasonable request to someone like me, but I can't fucking deliver. Karma was on my side however, and while he was preparing me another drink in the hope that my bladder will eventually let go, my phone rings. Calling is one of my good friend who worked for a couple years as a pro-domme. I take the call, and expose my problem to my friend, who I am sure will be able to help. Which she was.

I hang up, bring John back to the bathtub, and following my friend's suggestion, put an improvised blindfold over his eyes, while whispering in his ears that he didn't think he would get a peak at my pussy out of it, did he?

My golden nectar finally flowed over his body, and John gave me an ecstatic smile and an approving hard-on.

[RentGirl]

It seems that some of you are misinterpreting my words and making the assumption that I hate my job and men. So lets clarify things, shall we? I don't hate my job, nor do I hate men.

Would I be fucking those johns if it weren’t for the money? Of course not. I'm not a charity.

After reading this board for a little while now, I find it quite interesting how (some) men at once pay women to be sexually available to them, and resent those women for being there for the money. I cannot think of any other service business where the service providers are accused as often as escorts are of only caring about the money. As if everybody else would be happily working for free.

Of course I'm in this business for the cash. But also for the flexibility and independence. And because I like performing, I like dressing up, I like having my own private show, I like the attention. I'm also a sucker for the unexpected, I like weirdos, I like the thrill of what is waiting for me on the other side of the door. Sometimes it's boring, but it's rarely repetitive. And once in a while, life gives me a treat, or this other john who wants me to sit pretty, smoke cigarettes and sip wine while he pampers my feet and suck on my toes. Ahhhhh...

Yes, in my personal life, I choose cunts over (non-silicone) cocks. But my personal preference regarding pink bits is irrelevant to my job, since a) I am not there for my own orgasms, and b) what I am selling is the illusion of intimacy. That’s why they call it a GirlFriend Experience, and not a girlfriend.

And finally, being an escort, a dyke, and a feminist doesn’t mean that I hate men, nor that I have contempt for men. I am however both fascinated by and deeply annoyed at male sense of entitlement. The irony of course is that my job depends on male sense of entitlement. Writing about it and making fun of it is my way of keeping my sanity and keeping the crowds entertained. It would make for a great book project as well, if there weren’t already tons of such books out there and if I didn’t have a fucking dissertation to write.