All of the sex workers I know are very much about teaching men how to be better lovers because the work will make you sick and destroy you really quick if you simply allow men to have things their way. And I know a lot of sex workers because I used to be a madam back in the 1980's. If the men don't catch on pretty quick to the self improvement opportunity because they have a wink wink attitude and they are not taking the business of sexual self improvement seriously enough, most prostitutes will send on their way post haste one way or another. And there is more than on echelon to the business. What you are talking about are the women with pimps who stand on street corners in their lingerie. I am opposed to allowing that to go on, just as you are. People need to be more discrete. But there is something about sex that causes some people to act like a kid in a candy store.
What I can't figure out is why you keep treating your wife the way the hobbyists treat their favorite call girls. You are acting like one of those guys who sees call girls and then tells everybody about what a hot babe she is online to help her get more business. I am surprised someone who is monogamous would do something like that. Why are you telling people what a wonderful lover your wife is? I would be horrified if I had a husband who was going around doing something like that. I worked as a prostitute for many years before I became a sexologist and I am more conservative than you are. Does your wife know what you are doing???
If I didn't know that you believe in monogamy, I would suspect the two of you are into wife swapping and you were wanting to let other guys who are wife swappers at CZ know that your woman is some kind of hot swap, and gain access to their wives! Why doesn't the little lady ever come on CZ and talk about what a great lover you are?
"It was dark in the foyer behind the front door. Nobody could see him licking my face when he kissed me hello. I tried to turn my head and let him kiss my cheek instead. He put his hands on my ears and held my head in place while attempting to pry open my lips with his tongue. His breath stank something awful. When he finally let go of me I ran down the hall as fast as I could to bathroom yelling “Yuck!” On the way I bumped into my grandmother.
“Why are you running in this house?” Granny demanded to know.
“Uncle Ober put spit on my face and it stinks! I need to wash it off! Let me go!” I said, trying to squirm my way past her.
Granny placed an erect forefinger in front of her mouth.
“Shhhhhh!" Granny hushed me. "Keep your mouth shut and stop acting like this! You will hurt your Aunty Bella’s feelings if you don’t be nice to him!”
Aunty Bella was Granny’s sister and Uncle Ober was her husband. It seemed rather peculiar to me that Granny wanted me to let Uncle Ober lick my face for Aunty Bella’s sake, but I dared not ask any questions because it was perfectly clear that Granny was very serious about the matter. I guessed maybe it would embarrass Aunty Bella for people to know that her husband had stink breath or something. Adult logic was incomprehensible to me as a child. But I knew Granny had to be obeyed, because she would use the flat edge of a butcher knife to give us grandkids a whipping if we didn’t behave.
“Don’t you dance or I’ll cut your leg off!” She’d say, never really cutting anybody.
Granny was just kidding, but it wasn’t funny if you were the one getting a whipping.
“Stand still and take your punishment! Be still! You be still! Don’t you dance!”
I laughed when my mean practical-joking cousin got his just dues from Granny. But I didn’t want her blistering my legs with the butcher knife too. So I took a deep breath and held it to avoid smelling the stink, slowed my pace down to a calm deliberate walk, and marched stoically to the bathroom like an obedient little soldier. Once alone in private, I shuddered and quietly muttered “Yuck!” to myself while washing Uncle Ober’s saliva off my face with soap and water until all traces of the smell was gone.
Much to my surprise and disappointment Granny insisted, once again, that everybody give Aunty Bella and Uncle Ober a kiss goodbye when they left! I guessed maybe she was just in the habit of saying that, and it was a hard habit to break, as I softened and accepted my fate.
Miraculously, Uncle Ober let go of me more quickly when I stopped resisting the face licking ordeal. My subtle shift toward submission was financially rewarded as well, as he silently pressed a nickel into the palm of my hand the next time I gave him a kiss. Being nice to Uncle Ober was much easier to endure after he started paying me. Hoping to get a raise, I softened even more the next time I saw him.
One time when Aunty Bella and Uncle Ober came for a visit I accidentally let his tongue touch my tooth while he was kissing me. He gave me a dime instead of a nickel that trip. Eventually I had enough courage to let his tongue touch mine and he gave me quarter. By the time I was eleven I knew I could count on getting a fifty cent piece by swishing my tongue from side to side against his. Uncle Ober probably thought I was enjoying myself, but I was really just saving money to buy a horse. That was all.
With the exception of Uncle Ober’s stinky saliva he was an okay fellow. I especially liked his willingness to pay me for politely enduring the most unpleasant thing there was to not like about him. Although Granny said I needed to be nice and kiss Uncle Ober hello and good bye for Aunty Bella’s sake, my mother kept warning me to stay away from him. I wasn’t sure how to mind them both and it was very confusing. If I obeyed Mama and stayed away from Uncle Ober I didn’t get paid anything. If I obeyed Granny he gave me some money. I compromised by doing my best to stay away from Uncle Ober when Mama was around and obeying Granny when she was not. But that wasn’t always possible.
One time I had to pass by Aunty Bella and Uncle Ober’s bedroom on my way to the bathroom. The bedroom door was open and Uncle Ober was standing in front of the dresser looking at himself in the mirror wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. He saw me walking by and said, “Come here girly, I want to show you something!” as he reached down and scratched his crotch. I froze in my tracks because an elder was talking to me. But I knew better than to go in the bedroom because Mama was in the kitchen not too far away.
When Mama overheard Uncle Ober calling me she rushed down the hall, saw me standing outside the guest bedroom door, grabbed me by my arm, dragged me down the hall whipping me all the way saying, “Haven't I told you to stay away from him?” It was terribly embarrassing. When Mama let go of me I went in the kitchen pantry where it was dark and sat on the floor for a while pretending I was invisible. It wasn't long before Granny opened the pantry door, saw me sitting there, and demanded to know what I was doing.
“Just sitting on the floor where it's cool!” I said.
“Get out of this pantry! You are not allowed to play in here!” She scolded.
It must have been terribly embarrassing for Aunty Bella to see my mother whipping me for being near Uncle Ober. I always wondered why Granny didn’t have a talk with Mama too, and tell her that she needed to be polite to Uncle Ober for Aunty Bella’s sake. But that never happened. Nothing made much sense to me back then.
Aunty Bella and Uncle Ober had two daughters named Hilda and Dee Dee. Hilda was a little bit younger than Mama. Dee Dee was a little bit older than me. I adored Dee Dee and loved spending time with her. One time Mama left me at Aunty Bella and Uncle Ober’s house so I could play with my cousin Dee Dee while she and Hilda went shopping. After lunch Aunty Bella and Dee Dee took a nap, but I wasn’t sleepy. So I got up and went in the living room to watch TV.
Uncle Ober came in the living room and asked me if I would like to go out in the garden and help him pick some peas for supper. I couldn’t imagine him licking my face out in the broad daylight in front of God and nature. Besides, it would be rude to say no, and Aunty Bella could see the garden from her bedroom window. Helping Uncle Ober pick peas seemed like a perfectly safe thing to do. I was also hoping he would pay me for picking peas. To me that seemed like a realistic expectation, since he paid me for French kisses.
Picking peas was the most enjoyable time I ever spent with Uncle Ober. He was explaining to me which peas were ripe for picking, which peas were too big and should be left on the vine to be used for seed, and how to select a few of the best little ones for snapping. He was very patient, kind and sweet while teaching me how to garden. I was pleased to get to know that side of him and lingered for too long.
When Mama got back from shopping and discovered where I was, she stomped out into the garden, grabbed me by my arm, and dragged me back to the house whipping me all the way saying, “I have told you and told you and told you to stay away from him! When are you going to start minding me?” Needless to say, I did not get paid for picking peas that day. And for some strange reason I felt sorry for Uncle Ober even though I was the one who was getting the whipping. I also felt angry at Mama for over reacting. But I never dared question anything she said or did.
Another time Mama left me with Aunty Bella and Uncle Ober called me into his garage because he wanted to show me a case of Lava Soap. He claimed Lava Soap was the best soap that had ever been made. I already knew about his Lava Soap because Dee Dee warned me that I had to be very careful and watch my words around him. She said he washed her mouth out with Lava Soap one time and it tasted awful. It was very important to say as little as possible around Uncle Ober and never disagree with him.
After Uncle Ober showed me his Lava soap he unzipped his pants and showed me his penis too. I was shocked and could not imagine why he wanted me to look at his penis. But there it was. It was horrifying. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw how big it was! Then he pulled down my panties, lifted me up, sat me on his workshop counter top, and began to lick my pee hole! When he was done with that he told me to watch while he rubbed his penis until it squirted something that smelled awful and looked like mayonnaise. Some of it got on my dress. I was terrified that Mama would be able to smell it and give me a whipping.
I was wondering if Uncle Ober would help me clean up my dress when we heard footsteps coming toward the garage. A wave of nausea came over me. I probably turned white with fear. He quickly zipped up his pants, lifted me off the counter top, stood me on the floor, and pulled up my panties. Mama opened the garage door, grabbed me by my arm, dragged me out of the garage and whipped me all the way back to the house.
A therapist once encouraged me to ask Granny why she told me to keep my mouth shut and be nice to Uncle Ober. Granny said she knew Grandaddy would have killed Uncle Ober for doing something like that if he knew about it. She was afraid he would find out if she didn't make me keep quiet. If Uncle Ober was dead and Grandaddy went to prison for murder neither she nor Aunty Bella would have anybody to take care of them. Granny didn't know how they would survive without their husbands. As for me, I shall always wonder why Grandaddy never asked any questions about why Mama kept giving me all those whippings when Uncle Ober was around.
After Granny died, I asked Mama why she didn’t want me going anywhere near Uncle Ober when I was a child. Mama said she was afraid he would molest me like he did her when she was a child. I told Mama it always seemed to me like she was over-reacting, and I never really thought of it as such big of a deal since he was willing to pay me for the kisses. Mama was shocked.
“He PAID you?!” She exclaimed.
I nodded. “Yeah! I was saving the money to buy a horse. Didn’t he pay you?” I asked.
“No! He never paid ME anything!” She said angrily with a hand on her hip."
"I don’t know about anybody else, but I learned at a very early age that there were some things I could cannot talk to my parents about. I discovered it when I was six years old and learning how to read. My mother was driving the car. I was in the back seat trying to read the newspaper. When I came to the word “hour” I sounded out the letters in my head “Huh~Oh~Uh~eR, whore!”
“Mama, what’s a whore?” I asked.
She slammed on the breaks, screeched the car to a stop, turned around, threw her arm over the seat, and yelled at me, “Where do you see that word?! Where do you see it? Show it to me right now!”
I pointed my shaky little finger at the word “hour” in the newspaper and handed it to her.
“That says HOUR!” She snapped. “And don’t you ever say that other word again! Do you hear me? Never!”
“But Mama, what does it MEAN?” I asked.
“None of your business what it means!” She said. “Just don’t ever say it again! Do you understand me?”
“Uh huh!” I said, still confused and wondering what the word “whore” meant.
She is the hour of babble on, a universal woman, death warmed over, the unidentified cold body found in a ditch, a worthless slut who disappeared, the one who never belonged anywhere anyway. The remainder of her essence has been discovered thousands of times, thousands of ways, in thousands of places. Nobody mourns when she goes missing. Everybody is glad when she is gone. She is damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t. If she doesn’t enjoy having sex, her customers will write a bad review of her service and put her out of business. If she does enjoy having sex with a customer, he will slam the hotel room door and refuse to let her leave unless she pays him back the same amount of money he paid her. And he is serious about this. He threatens to kill her and throw her body in the lake if she doesn’t. There are many bodies like hers at the bottom of lakes and rivers and oceans all over this world. The skeletons are wrapped in blankets and garbage bags and weighed down with concrete blocks. And their souls never die because they are immortal.
She is a scapegoat and sacrificial lamb, the pressure valve of society, suicide prevention for frustrated husbands who hate the lives they have created for themselves. Handicapped men, retarded men, deformed men, disabled men, and men who have been rejected and abandoned by their wives and lovers get to feel like normal human beings because of her. She will sell her body and her wisdom, but never her soul. She is the consummate adult entertainment professional, an actress, healer, dancer, and masseuse. She is the confident, counselor, and best friend of her many lovers who pretend they don't know her when they see her in public. Despite her terrible reputation for being a home breaker she saves marriages, teaches men boundaries, and advocates on behalf of their wives. She tells men why their wives don't like what they are doing and teaches them a better way. She improves the sexual confidence and competence of mankind. She has even been known to perform charitable sex every once in a while if a man seems excessively needy and cannot afford her services. She does what she does because she knows how important it is to do what she does.
Single men tell all their buddies and friends how far she will go in bed with them. Married men are proud to get to know her behind closed doors. She is scorned, envied, hated and admired by other women. She lives in solitude and dies in poverty without ever being acknowledged for making a significant contribution to the well-being of mankind. She is nobody and nothing to everybody and everyone, meaningless and insignificant, the invisible glue that is holding a multitude of marriages together. Her existence is denied by those who use her. She cannot reveal the truth of who she is or tell anyone about the good she is doing without risk of getting arrested and thrown in jail. She is the mother of all mothers and the joy of men's lives. Her soul is the lost soul of many of their wives. She is forgotten and neglected by all of her lovers on holidays. She is their heroin. She sees men through break ups. She turns the lights back on in their eyes, so they can find new lovers.
Healing her customers of stress and blame, men come to her limping and leave without pain. She is the willing receptacle for sickness and shame in a society that would suffer without her brand of relief. Figuratively and literally her hope is supreme. The miracles reported have always been plenty full. Those who experience them shall never to claim that she's dangerous nor mean for she's helpful and clean. Her kindness by others can also be seen. Some call her a demon and say she's possessed. Some who have met her decided to die. Others left happy and lived on to thrive. She looks like an angel with wrinkles at best. Her crazy heart makes her the bast of the best. Sturdy and strong, how could it be wrong? Her parlor is always be a place of great rest.
She is denied. Never to be taken seriously and shown respect, nor admired and loved openly, she is alone and free. The repeatedly forsaken mistress in between men’s monogamous commitments is a libertine. Should she refuse to comply with a man’s wishes she will be punished severely. Should she get caught complying with the wrong man's wishes, she will be punished severely. Where the wrong man be a police officer, rapist, or both, there are consequences for her to pay. With little more than a few crumbs of a man's attention and a pittance of his mad money to lose, she is independently wealthy by right not might. With nothing to gain, nerves of steel, and courage born of shame she must accommodate the masculine sense of entitlement to have sex because it is less harmful to herself, her customers, and the world than the alternative."