going pro

“Kiss me. Or do you not do that?”

“Kiss? Sure. But it’ll cost you extra.”

“Seriously?”

“No.”

He leaned down then, sandy long bangs falling in his grey-blue eyes, and kissed me. It was pleasant and almost chaste at first before melting into wet, soft foreplay. This is what the British were doing when they came up with the word ‘snogging’, I found myself deliriously thinking – the drinks were definitely having their way with me. I almost never drank on the job, but this one was a little different. This guy was already a lot of fun.

Once upon a time I was a professional fucker. Men would book my time – and that’s what they were paying for, my time, a distinction made very clear on the simple website where we “met” – and I would go to them, night after night, and make their fantasies come to life. Guys would click through a gallery of photos of artfully posed, faceless women. They would read the descriptions posted underneath our images and make choices. Someone who chose me would have seen a pale redhead sitting, cross-legged, on a wingback chair, back arched just so as to set off my reasonably small waist and unreasonably large breasts – all real, as my description boasted. They would have clicked on the photo to see other photos of me, one of me lying on my back, crimson mane cascading down the side of a white-sheeted bed, breasts barely held by black lace and cupped by my manicured fingers, shapely legs again crossed but this time in the air. They would have read my short bio, which I tried to make as honest as a paragraph about a woman using a fake name could be, and would have found that I liked well-read, educated men with a playful, adventurous streak. My stats were listed, all the usual stuff like height, weight, bra size, and a list of sexual acts I would and would not do.

My list of “won’t-dos” was much shorter than my list of “will-dos.” Maybe that’s what caused me to have as much success as I had. And – since we’re being honest – I was very successful.

Nowhere on the list of “won’t-dos” was kissing, though, so this guy’s request was strange. Maybe he was just the kind of man who would ask permission before attempting anything, which I knew would bore me before the end of the evening. But maybe he was just being polite. It was hard for me to tell. We had just met, only an hour before.

It was March, specifically the week in March that South by Southwest begins in my fair city. SXSW brings with it a certain energy. Thousands of people travel to Austin to take in presentations, panels, shows, movies, and soirees, all under the pretense that they are partaking in some sort of professional development, when in fact half of it is just an excuse to party at a high-tech Mardi Gras. The weather has usually begun to swing toward beautiful and wildflowers are starting to push their way through the soil in abandoned lots and sidewalk cracks downtown. The alcohol is usually free and abundant, and every hole in the wall bar becomes a showcase for some serious musical talent – in short, the second week in March, in Austin, is the place to be if you make your living in the music industry. Obviously this means that the city is swimming in music professionals, all elbowing their way into showcases to find – or become – the next big thing.

For women like me, the influx of wealthy visitors meant there was a lot of money to be made, and I was booked solid that year. That particular evening I was meeting Peter, an A&R representative working with a smaller yet pretty well-known indie label based in the Northwest. We were to rendezvous at one of the hundreds of downtown venues set up for SXSW. The line of hopeful attendees wrapped around the corner as my driver dropped me off. I was nervous about being allowed into the club, having no badge or other credentials on me, but when I told the man at the door my name he unhooked a chain and nodded me in without a word. It occurred to me that I had no idea how I would find Peter, but he knew what I looked like – well, mostly – and I was right on time, 8:00 pm on the dot.

It turned out he was waiting for me near the entrance and it was easy to pick him out of the crowd. He was shifting back and forth, looking at his watch and then looking up at the entrance, obviously waiting for me. When he caught a glimpse of my hair, vibrant red under the occasional light – his face lit up like he was meeting an old and anticipated friend. “Sophie?” he half-yelled over the din of the room, and I nodded. “You… don’t look like I expected you to look, I guess.”

I glanced down at my outfit. Clutch, fitted jeans, heels, tee shirt. Simple makeup. My lacy bra was ever so slightly visible under the v-neck of my top. “What were you expecting?” I asked, my husky voice straining a little to be heard. “Thigh-high boots?”

His grin dropped a bit. I could tell he was afraid he had offended me. I laughed and touched his shoulder, leaned in and took a deep breath. His cologne was woody and musky and mixed with the smell of booze. “If I looked like a hooker, then everyone would know you hired a hooker, and that just wouldn’t be discreet,” I murmured into his ear. I could see the hairs on his neck stand up slightly as I pulled away. “And just so I’m sure I’m talking to the right guy – Peter?”

“That is me, yeah.” We started to weave our way through the crowd to the bar. The band playing stopped just as we went to order, and we had about fifteen minutes to talk without the crashing sound of cymbals or amplified vocals. In that fifteen minutes I learned that he was actually the assistant to an A&R rep, trying to move up the ladder on his own, and that he actually hadn’t hired me – his boss had. I cocked an eyebrow at that one. “What, your boss decided you needed a night off?” Peter suddenly looked like a much younger, much less confident man. “Well,” he gestured around at the crowd, “we travel a lot for work, and,”

“Not much time to date, huh?” I finished both his sentence and my first drink, signaling to the bartender for another. “Yeah, no,” he finished. “But I love music, so it’s a sacrifice I don’t mind making.”

“I know you’re gonna think this is some sort of cutesy ‘whore’ talk, but I love music too,” I replied. “I have some background.”

“And how did you end up doing…this?”

“Dating?”

“Yeah.”

“I enjoy the job. It’s easier to get into than music. I’m bad at writing lyrics. I don’t play an instrument that fits easily into a rock band. The list could go on.” I eyed him suspiciously. “Why, do you have an issue with my job?”

Again he looked sheepish. “No, no, I just don’t have any experience at all with… is hooker rude?”

“Some would say yes. I don’t really care.” My drink appeared, along with another for him. I hadn’t even noticed him ordering. His slight embarrassment was amusing me greatly. He decided to slip out of the awkwardness with the most obvious question in the world.

“So, what kind of music are you into?”

I could bore you with the details of our lengthy hour-long half-shouted conversation about a million different indie bands, but I won’t, because that’s not what this story is about. This story is about what happened after he interrupted my rattling of arcane musical knowledge to ask me if he could kiss me.

After he pulled away from the supremely satisfying kiss, he asked, “Do you want to leave? I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“Neither do I, really.” I fished through my purse to send a quick text – you can’t leave a location without letting someone know where you are, in this line of work. “Where are you staying?”

The answer to that question turned out to be a rental condo in one of the now-old-school-but-then-fancy buildings downtown. It was a long walk from the venue to the condo, one on which we continued talking about music and SXSW and traveling for work and all the small talk we both knew wouldn’t be important in the next fifteen minutes. He held the door for me when we arrived – such a gentleman! – and we pressed the button to call the elevator. 12th floor.

You can probably guess what happened as soon as the doors closed, but I’ll elaborate for color. Peter had been studying me on the entire walk, his face almost blank – I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Apparently he had been thinking about being finally alone with me. As the elevator started its rapid rise, he reached over and grasped the back of my head and brought me in for more perfect kisses. I found myself hoping that the sex was going to be as good as the making out – but his earlier demeanor gave me pause. He had been almost overly polite. In my experiences that usually led to no small amount of timidity.

I shouldn’t have worried. Before the elevator made it to its destination he already had his hands on my waist, under my shirt. I vaguely remember making it down the hall to the condo, expensively appointed in the best of early 2000’s modern furniture. We fell onto the uncomfortable couch, pawing at one another like teenagers. Once we were out of the venues and streets of the city, Peter was a completely different guy, supremely confident and skilled with his hands. He must have sensed my surprise – while he was pulling my shirt over my head he murmured that he was excited to get what he paid for. Despite the fact that every guy who hired me “got what he paid for,” this explicit mentioning of it made me want him even more. I expertly pulled his belt out of the loops and his designer jeans down over his ass, looking up at him before getting a glimpse of the goods.

And what goods they were. “Wow,” I breathed, “You must be popular with the ladies.” His cock was ample and heavy in my hand, stiffening even more than I thought possible. He looked down at me with his blonde hair in his eyes again, his eyes begging me to suck him before he had the chance to. Who was I to deny him? He tasted heavenly, clean sweat and skin in my mouth as I swirled my tongue over the head of his cock. Even with my eyes closed I could see the expression on his face – I’d seen it a hundred times on a hundred guys. I take pride in my blowjobs, and this one I was especially enjoying. His hands crumpled my hair as he took control, holding my head still as he thrust himself into my throat. I opened my eyes then and looked up at him, my eyes watering a bit with the force. He seemed not to care and even that excited me – my pussy was slick and starting to swell with desire for him.

Peter fucked my face for a few more minutes, me on my knees on the couch, his pants around his. Finally he had had enough and he reached down to pull me up by my underarms, pulling my shirt over my head, pulling the straps of my lace-covered bra over my shoulders. My bra started to buckle without the support of the straps, my nipples spilling over the lace and into view. Peter pinched them assertively and roughly told me to stand and I complied, but not before pushing my finger into his lips and telling him to wait a moment. I fished through my purse for a condom before we continued – I could tell we were heading into reckless territory, and mine was not a reckless occupation, if done right.

He led me to the backside of the couch and bent me over it, unzipping my jeans and pushing them and the scrap of lace that was my panties down over my thighs. I heard him rip the condom open, felt the slight pause in the air as he rolled it over his beautiful penis. And then I felt that penis press insistently against the entrance to my pussy as he held my shoulder. “You’re ready,” he said, and I felt myself get even wetter as he drove himself into me with one perfect thrust. God, I thought, This guy is a fucking beast.

With one hand on my hip and one hand on my shoulder, Peter began to fuck me – really there’s no other word for what we were doing, he was so thoroughly turning me inside out with his enthusiasm. “Sophie, fuck, your cunt is marvelous,” he exhaled as he slammed into me over and over again. My breasts bounced against the back of the couch and I squealed appreciatively as I opened my eyes to see the city through the open windows of the living room. I imagined someone in a neighboring building looking over and seeing us and it made me smile. Peter slid his thumb into his mouth and then circled it around my asshole, causing me to shiver with pleasure. He pressed it into me with no pause in his rapid thrusting, and my knees went weak as I grasped the back of the couch.

This went on for what felt like both a minute and an hour, both of us becoming damp with exertion. I pushed back onto him as he pressed into me, I reached back to grab his ass and he leaned over my back to whisper into my ear. “I want to do something to you,” he growled into my neck, “and you’re going to let me.” My head bobbed in assent as he pulled out abruptly, pushed me onto my knees onto the hardwood floor, my jeans still around my ankles and my breasts fully erupted from the cups of my bra. “Look at me,” he commanded, and I did, my blue eyes flickering to his face. He looked more satisfied than anyone I had yet fucked, like he had turned some corner or done something he was truly proud of. “Open your mouth,” he commanded. “Tell me how badly you want me to come.”

I smiled, nodded. “I’m not going to beg, but I am going to say please,” I purred, “Please come for me?”

Peter had slid the condom off of his pretty cock and was stroking its impossible length, and the minute my words slid across my lips he moaned powerfully. He began to come almost violently, bucking his hips and shooting across my lips, cheeks, breasts – everywhere. I could hear it hit the hardwood floor, even. It was warm and I had to close my eyes to protect them from the strength of his climax. After what seemed like another eternity he finally finished with a low moan and shook the last of his come onto my breasts. When I opened my eyes he was looking down at me with the expression of a man who wasn’t quite done. I cocked my head to the side as he lowered himself onto his knees and pushed me to the floor. “You haven’t come yet,” he almost commanded, pulling my heels and pants off with purpose. He lowered his head to my clit as he slid a finger into my puffy cunt. I immediately writhed against him on the floor, sighing with pleasure and trying to hold off my own orgasm before giving in to him. I came like I was on fire, bucking my hips into his face, his come drying on mine. I remember thinking I might black out from the feeling.

When I finally did come to and open my eyes, he was sitting back on his heels, his cock still hard. “Um, color me impressed,” I managed to rasp. Peter laughed and looked toward the still closed door to the bedroom.

“Ready for round number two?” he asked, nodding towards the bedroom.

I grinned. “Sure – you gotta get what you paid for.”