XLVIII. The Guy Who Paid Me For A BJ

“And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland, or sells love to another man”

– Ed Sheeran –

I’m no angel. I want to think that I am capable of analyzing a situation and logically weighing up the pros and cons of a decision. Yet often, there’s something about the thrill of living on the edge that transcends logic. I’m always drawn to follow my impulses that they become the driving force behind the excruciatingly painful self-contemplations at midnight. Why am I attracted to something, knowing that it will cause me pain? What is it about the immediate reward from doing something wicked that entices me to overlook the obvious aftermath of such action? Am I so emotionally damaged that I’m required to do things to the extreme to make myself feel alive? To quote a popular pop song by David Guetta, “why does it feel so good to be bad?”

Let me start this chapter by saying that I have nothing against sex workers or anyone who solicits money in exchange for sexual favors. If the adults involved have mutual consent, and everyone is responsible for one’s physical and mental health, I have no problem with whatever one does between the sheets. Nonetheless, do we need to have more discussions about the topic of monetary-sexual psychology? Absolutely! Especially during this #metoo movement, conversations about sex and money can be beneficial because often, the line between coercion and enjoyment can get blurry. However, I’m not an expert in this matter. I’m not going to write 15 pages essay on heavy topics like the power dynamics in a sexual relationship. With that said, I am going to write about my own experience about the time when money played a role in my sex life. And I’m going to do it how I do it best: with numerous self-deprecating humor and a sprinkle of exaggeration for that extra dramatic effect.

99.99% of my audience right now

One dull Tuesday afternoon, I decided to go online on the gay slot machine (read: Grindr) to test my luck. Five minutes into my whoring adventure, I received a message from this short Asian man in his late 30’s. I decided to ignore him, however, because he wasn’t my cup of tea. It wasn’t because of his age or height; I simply wasn’t interested in him physically.

P.S. Don’t you dare to come for me for being racist or agist! I’ve had sex with guys in various colors and sizes, ok? I’m not a fussy queen. That said, I go on these dating apps to find a product with specifications that suit my needs the best. That’s called having a great business mindset.

I continued my epic journey of finding Mr. Right Now, trying my best to maintain a laser-like focus in the hopes of yielding optimal results. My previously rejected candidate, however, had not given up on his dream of seeing my average-looking body in the flesh. So he decided to up his ante, and sent me a proposal that significantly rocked my moral compass:

“I’ll give you $140 to suck your dick.”

The desperate cocksucker

The gag of the century

I could not believe what I just witnessed with my own eyes. I wasn’t a delusional bitch who could afford a mirror, and the man I kept seeing in the mirror did not look like a slice of prime meat worth $140. After all, I was confident that there were thousands of prettier men who could satisfy his needs better. Come on… this is Los Angeles we’re talking about! There would always be more satisfying penises out there compared to mine. So it’s either he was super desperate to suck a lollipop, or I totally undervalued the price of my disco stick (I mean… I wasn’t sure what the market price for a blowjob was at the time). After all, I knew that $140 was worth a fortune. To give you some comparisons, below are some things you can buy with $140:

  • Omakase dinner for one in Nobu Malibu.
  • Seventeen months of Netflix membership.
  • Four dildos.
  • Ten Chipotle burritos (and yes bitch, they come with a side of guacamole).
  • 1150 condoms.
  • 675 packs of Indomie Goreng.
  • My penis.

I wasn’t financially struggling, and I didn’t desperately need the money. However, I just underwent a phase in my life where I began developing a mild addiction to gambling, and I had not made the smartest financial decisions. So the cash prize really tempted the fuck out of me. Besides, according to the job descriptions, I only had to sit back and maintain an erection. So that’s not the hardest job (pun very much intended) in the world, I guess? And yes… there’s always the risk of my client being a creepy crackhead or me being brutally murdered.

In conclusion, I was in a dilemma.

And I wasn’t entirely sure if I was ready for the emotional impact. Would I view myself differently if I accepted his offer? Did this technically count as prostitution? Would this make me ineligible to run for president?

I concluded that there’s only one way to find out, and that was to accept his offer. To quote the famous Roman poet Horace, YOLO.

A visual representation of my decision-making process

Inviting this guy to my apartment (and possibly turning my bed into a crime scene) was inherently dangerous in the first place. However, my client had been determined to put his tongue on this $140 penis, and I assumed discretion was automatically included in his offer. So I had no choice but to oblige because I was aware of the first rule of every service-oriented business: customers are always right.

I tried my best to clean my apartment to make it look presentable because I figured it might help to get me in the right headspace. Ten minutes into Netflix and clean, I heard a knock on my apartment door. I was afraid and petrified. Knowing that I couldn’t run away by jumping from the balcony, I hesitantly made my way to my apartment door. I opened the door, and there he was: my employer for the next thirty minutes standing nervously against the wall.

Holy Shit. Here we go.

The guy who showed up at my door wasn’t the worst-looking guy in the world. I was expecting this guy to be a 50 years old, utterly hideous man with a horrific smell and excessive sweating problem. Yes, he definitely wasn’t the type of guy I usually went for, but he ain’t Harvey Weinstein, and I was happy with that. I anxiously welcomed him to my sanctuary while displaying top-notch customer service prowess by making small chit-chats about the weather. You know… the typical LA bullshit. But I knew he didn’t come to my place for a lecture on the weather in Los Angeles, so I went straight to business. Channeling my inner Godfather, I bluntly asked my client,

“So, where’s the money?”

My client appeared to come prepared; he reached into his back pocket and handed me my promised financial reward. After making sure that the total amount of money in my hands matched his offer, I proceeded to get myself ready to keep my side of the bargain. Erect penis mode: activated!

In God of erection we trust

I lied on my back as my client was busy pulling my pants down to unwrap his $140 purchased item. In hindsight, I was amazed that I could get my missile ready for infiltration, considering how nervous I was about the situation. I had never been a fan of the anonymous blow-and-go arrangement as I took some time to get my engine started. So, it was quite a surprise to see my body’s autonomous response to money. I guess money could buy happiness, after all.

Bearing that in mind, I could not claim that the experience was a mind-blowing experience. It’s pretty clear that it wasn’t my client’s first time having an erect penis in his mouth; he had gotten the fundamental oral and hand techniques down with flying colors. He was voluntarily risking to get a dislocated jaw, mercilessly making my shaft of delight disappear in his mouth. However, I could not help but have a moment of deep thoughts during this supposedly time of pleasure. As he was showcasing his fellatio excellence, below are some of the quiet introspections that crossed my mind:

(P.S. read the excerpt below in SJP’s voice for a more animated experience)

I wonder if this is how sex should be. Shouldn’t sex be about intimacy? Isn’t it a way of developing a deeper connection with the other person? Whatever this guy is doing between my legs feels transactional, and I don’t find any enjoyment in this whatsoever. Would this be a completely different experience if I deem this guy attractive? Look at me… I’m so pathetic that I can’t be honest with him about how I loathe myself because I’m doing this. I even have to close my eyes and imagine someone else blowing me to enjoy this shit! Fuck, I’m such a trashy whore. 

When is this guy going to stop and leave? Would he leave if I climax? I rarely let go from a blowjob ever. How can I do this? Would he be mad if I don’t give him the money shot? Would he ask for a refund?! That would be a complete waste of my time! 

After twenty minutes of my client’s strenuous oral exercise, I felt pessimistic about his chance of successfully milking the cow. Did I feel horrible about my below-average performance? Yes, but at the same time, no one could really force an ejaculation. So I decided to speed up the process and asked for his permission to take my laptop and go on PornHub (this is not a sponsored post, by the way).

With one hand on my service giver’s head and another hand on my laptop, I quickly picked the most stimulating porn I could find. I have to say… shifting my focus from my employer’s head movement to the two hunky guys on my computer screen was not an easy task. I obviously had a guilty conscience about the whole situation. Nonetheless, I wanted him to leave so bad, and at this point, I was determined to get that money. So I closed my eyes and let the groans coming from the speakers permeated my brain.

And the next thing I knew…
I did it.
I succeeded in giving my client the injection he so desired.

Where’s my Oscar for my outstanding performance?!

My hypothesis was correct. My client downed his extra protein for the day like a champ and ensured there was no spillage (I’m gross AF, I know). Feeling like he already earned his coveted prize, the hardworking candy stick sucker politely exited the scene after saying his thank you and goodbye. I thanked the Man Above that it’s finally over, and I came out of it in one piece. To top it all off, I just became $140 richer in a matter of thirty minutes, and I didn’t have to break a sweat to earn that money.

Before this experience, I had always thought that prostitutes were these unmotivated people with no aspiration in life. They only get lucky in the look department, take advantage of their exquisite exterior, and choose this seemingly effortless career while dodging life responsibilities. For some, however, this lifestyle is not a choice; they simply need to survive or fend for their loved ones.

As I dip my toe into the world of sex tourism, it becomes clear that prostitution is a tremendously hard job. That experience alone took a toll on my emotional well-being. I had one of, arguably, the most painless task out there: to lay down and get my dick sucked by a respectful client. And it still sucked major balls. But I guess the hardest part of it is putting a monetary value on myself in my most vulnerable state. I let greed dictate the course of my actions, fully understanding how it makes me feel shitty on the inside. The saddest part of it all is that lingering feeling of shame that will stay with me forever. I will have to live with the knowledge of not having absolute authority over my own body. And that, my friends, is the price I paid for taking that $140.

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