CONFESSIONS OF A RURAL STATE WHORE
Author's note: Most of what follows in this and other segments of this work is true based on my memory and records. Some details Ð names, places, dates, etc. Ð have been changed to protect myself and former clients. Not all chapters will include sex, but all will be directly related to my experiences as a now-former prostitute.
Further Note: Special thanks for Gary and Terry for their suggestions and proof-reading. Any inconsistencies, spelling errors, typos, or grammatical mistakes are therefore their fault.
CHAPTER 1
THE FIRST GIG
I moved to Portland, Maine, in the summer of 1995 when I was 21. I had grown up in the deep South in a small town that did not show up on most printed maps, and then I attended college in the Midwest in a conscious attempt to escape the repressive culture where I was born. I was given the opportunity to relocate to New England, and I took it in a spirit of adventure that only the young and na•ve can truly possess.
Portland was not a large city, though it was the largest in the state with about 60,000 people at the time. Since it was as "urban" as you could find in Maine, though, people would drive there from other parts of the state for the weekend to try to have a good time. Most of the straight night life was centered in and around the "Old Port" section of downtown. The two gay bars in the city lay just outside of this area.
I frequented The Underground, which was the larger of the two gay clubs. It was on the basement level of a small building that had offices on the upper floors. The small adjacent parking lot was always crowded on Friday and Saturday nights and there was very little on-street parking available, so it was sometimes a chore just going to the bar. After parking, you would enter via a ramp going down from the lot, and your ID would be checked by a tall, thin, dark man who did not look like a typical bouncer.
The first time I went to The Underground, I had to argue a little with him to get inside when he first checked my ID. You could only enter if you were of legal age to drink -- 21 years old. While I met the age requirement, there was a small problem with my state-issued identification.
My home state would stamp "UNDER 21" in big red letters across the front of your driver's license when you were 18. Even though your license did not expire for 6 years, the only way to have the "UNDER 21" stamp was removed was to go to the local Department of Motor Vehicles office in order to have a new license printed. However, I had been at college in different state in a different part of the country when I had turned 21. It therefore was not possible for me to make such an otherwise-routine visit to that office at the appropriate time.
I had been in Maine only a few weeks and had not yet obtained a Maine driver's license. As a result, while I was 21 and old enough to enter the bar, my license had "Under 21" prominently displayed on it. It was only after I argued with the doorman to look at the actual birthdate and do the mental arithmetic that I was allowed inside.
The Underground was laid out into three sections. Upon entering the establishment, you were in the dimly-lit main bar area. While there were exceptions, the bartenders were generally homely, plain-looking, and uninterested, and they would mix poorly-made cocktails if they bothered to give you their attention long enough to take your order. There were stools around the bar and a couple of tables scattered along the edge of the room near the walls, with a jukebox with the volume turned up far too loud in one corner.
The second area had better lighting and included a pool table that was virtually unusable. One of the long edges was so close to the wall that there was no room to draw the cue stick back, and most of the bar's cue sticks were noticeably warped, anyway, so playing with them was difficult under the best of circumstances. It was a difficult challenge for a casual player who did not bring his own stick, but I enjoyed occasionally playing when the table wasn't too busy. It could also be fun watching others trying to play around the built-in problems.
Finally, the last area had the dance floor and a second bar. It was generally open only on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights and usually had separate cover charge. Once a month, there would be an amateurish drag show where men in dresses Ð- not "drag queens" by any stretch of the imagination Ð- would lip sync unbelievably to a few songs. Every so often, the club would also bring in a stripper who would dance around in his underwear a little but never show any of the flesh underneath.
I had been going to The Underground for a few weeks, and a lot of people had been coming up to me to say hello. I don't doubt that some of it was just because I was a fresh face that the regular clientele hadn't seen before, but I also was pretty attractive at the time. I was 6 feet tall and thin (bordering on skinny) with a 29-inch waist. Long dark wavy hair framed my boyish face that was still tanned from spending a lot of time outdoors in a warmer climate. My usually blue eyes would also seem to change color depending on what color of shirt I wore and could appear to be anything from a foggy-grey to a pale green.
That semi-busy evening, I was standing at the bar struggling to get any bartender's attention with little hope and less success. I was told "in a minute, honey" several times and was growing more and more frustrated. After about the fifth time of trying to place an order, I pursed my lips and shook my head.
An older man of about 40 sitting at a stool several places to my right noticed this and lifted a finger from his glass. One of the bartenders immediately appeared in front of him, leaning in to listen closely as the man spoke in a low voice. After a few words were exchanged, the barman moved in front of me and asked brusquely, "What'll ya have?"
I ordered a vodka and soda, not daring or order anything more complicated than that. My drink was made and placed in front of me. As I laid my cash on the bar, the bartender shook his head. "Already taken care of," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder as he moved away to give someone else his precious attention.
I looked in the direction he had pointed and saw the older man on the bar stool. He was looking at me steadily. After a moment, he lifted his tumbler in my direction and nodded slightly in my direction. Without moving his eyes, he slowly lifted his glass to his lips and took a long sip of the amber liquid before lowering it onto the cocktail napkin just as slowly and deliberately.
When I was young, I was always more attracted to men somewhat older than myself. Men in their early 20s might be pretty, but men in their 30s and early 40s could be handsome. Guys my age would often kiss by opening their lips, sticking their tongues into your mouth, and holding their heads perfectly still, but older men knew that a good kiss needed more of the body being involved. Even though I was still youthful, I would take a man old enough to have learned how to do things right over someone my own age ten times out of ten.
While most of my sexual experiences up to that the time had been with men near my own age, my one experience with a man in his mid-30s had been spectacularly memorable. For about an hour, he had taken my cock into himself as if his life would end without it. As I had approached orgasm, he had pulled off of me, tore off the condom, and swallowed my load with a desperate hunger. As he had tasted the first pulse, he had spilled his own cum across his leg. He then scooped his cum up with his hand, licked it clean, and then kissed me, mingling our essences in our mouths.
I smiled at the man who had arranged for and bought my drink. He had short, dark hair parted on the right with just a little grey poking through on the sides. His face was lightly lined and tanned as if he regularly spent time in the sun. His lips were thin, and his eyes were dark. A well-made blue striped button-down shirt covered his thin shoulders.
He returned my smile and gestured to me with his free hand, and I accepted the nonverbal invitation. Here was a good-looking guy who had just gotten me a drink. The least I could do was thank him and introduce myself. I took my drink in my hand and angled around the other customers Ð- who were in varying states sobriety -- to make my way over to my benefactor.
"Hi," I said, leaning in so he could hear me over the ambient noise. "I'm Nathan. Thanks for the drink."
"George," he replied. "What are you having?"
"Just a vodka soda, but it tastes like shit."
"That's because the well drinks here are about two steps removed from battery acid."
I chuckled briefly, though the small joke was not funny. Sometimes you do things because it is polite. Even though we had to half-shout at each other because of how loud it was in the bar area, the niceties still needed to be observed.
George picked up his drink and gestured to the middle section where the pool table was. "Let's go over there so we can hear ourselves better."
Nodding, I followed him into the next room. It was much less crowded, and some of the noise of the bar faded with the change in location. He put his drink on a table, sat on the worn yellow banquette in the corner, and patted the seat next to him. He obviously wanted Ð or expected Ð me to join him.
"What the hell," I thought. "He's good-looking and obviously wants to talk to me. What else am I doing right now?" I slid in next to him, though not too close, and placed my drink on the table next to his.
"That's better," said George. He looked into my face with a more serious expression. "You know you're beautiful, right?"
I blushed a little. "This guy cuts to the chase," I thought. While I knew that I found myself attractive when I looked in the mirror, I had never had many people actually say anything like that to my face. I was not used to that kind of compliment, especially since I had been called "ugly" by family members for most of my life growing up.
I lowered my head and grinned, my dimpled cheeks flushing. "If you say so."
George slid closer until our knees just touched. He put his fingers lightly underneath my chin and lifted my head. As I looked up, he brought his face into mine and gently kissed my lips. Leaning back, he reiterated, "I mean it," and he put his hand lightly on my knee.
I might have been young and reasonably inexperienced, but I could see where this was leading. I was going to have to make a choice and quickly. If I stayed at the table, it would more or less be tacit permission for him to continue further, and he would probably expect me to go home with him. If I removed his hand, I would be clearly closing that door. Reaching for my drink and taking a sip, I looked George in the eyes specifically decided to leave the door open.
We stayed at The Underground a little while longer. He went back to the bar and brought us another round of drinks. As we nursed them, George would lean in for additional brief kisses, and he explored my legs and thin chest with his hands. It was clear that he wanted me, and I was open to that. His eyes only rarely left my face or my body.
George leaned over and gave my left earlobe a nibble. My ears have always been particularly sensitive, and it made me shiver. "Let's get out of here," he murmured. "Are you parked in the lot?"
"Uh huh," I breathed.
"Follow me, then."
We stood up from the table, leaving our glasses behind, and pushed our way through the bar area to leave. I assumed he had taken care of the bar tab when he brought our last round of drinks. George grasped my wrist and pulled me through the crowd, making sure that we were not separated.
We exited the bar, passing by the doorman. We were greeted by the cool, relatively quieter night air. My ears rang slightly from the volume of the din we had left behind. George released my hand and gestured to the parking lot. "Which car is yours?"
"The red Escort," I said, pointing at a Ford hatchback that was clearly visible in the illuminated lot.
George paused and seemed to be considering. "The blue pickup," he said after a moment. "Can you follow me?"
"As long as you don't go so fast that you lose me," I said.
George smirked and pulled me in for another kiss. This one was deeper, and his tongue met mine for the first time. We both moaned a little as the doorman rolled his eyes. "Take it somewhere else, guys," he said.
We broke our kiss and moved on to our respective cars. We got into them, started the engines, and turned on our headlamps. We backed out of the spaces, and I waited for him to take the lead before we exited the lot to the street.
We drove into the Western Promenade part of the city, which I was not familiar with. After turning down several side streets, he pulled into a driveway. I parked on the street in front of the house. We turned off our vehicles and the headlights and exited. George stood still and reached out a hand for me.
I walked into the driveway and took it. He grasped me and pulled me into a deep, passionate kiss. His hands worked up and down my back before settling across my slight ass. He squeezed me through my jeans and leaned backward until my feet left the ground. He held me there, grinding his obviously stiffening crotch into mine for a moment, before he set me back down.
"I am so going to fuck you tonight," he growled into my ear.
"Yes," I agreed, kissing his neck. "You are."
He disengaged our embrace, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me roughly up the stairs to his front door. There was no light turned on, and he fumbled a little putting his key into the lock. From behind, I wrapped my arms around him and slid them into his front pockets. "Hurry," I whispered. "I want this."
The key was inserted into its receptacle. He gave a twist, and the door was open. He stepped forward into the entryway, which pulled my hands from his pockets. I stumbled briefly as he turned around, grabbed my left wrist, and pulled me in. His hands were unbuttoning my jeans before we could even get the door closed.
I pushed the door with my right foot, kicking it shut. It slammed noisily as George yanked at the zipper on my Levi's. My own hands pulled the shirt out of his trousers and began working the buttons as furiously as I could. I wanted to rip it open to send the buttons flying across the entryway, but I refrained.
George put his hand on my shoulders and pushed me back against the wall. He undid the last two buttons on his shirt, revealing a narrow, hairy chest. His abdominal muscles were ever-so-slightly defined and enhanced by the lay of the hair. He roughly pulled his arms out of the shirt and threw it onto the floor.
He stepped into me, taking my wrists in his hands. He raised them forcefully above my head and pinned me against the wall. George pushed his half-naked body against mine, brutishly rubbing his swollen crotch against the open fly of my jeans. He looked emphatically into my face.
"You. Bedroom. Naked. NOW," he barked. Then he stepped back, twisted my shoulders so that I was facing down the hall, and pushed me to the open door at the end as I tried in vain to pull my shirt over my head. As I disentangled my head from the garment and, another push between my shoulders forced it from my fingers and sent me sprawling onto the bed.
I lay there, face down on the quilted bedspread, and I felt George roughly removing my shoes and throwing them to the floor. His hands gripped the back of my jeans and pulled down, taking my underwear with them down to my knees. I winced audibly as my swollen cock was violently freed from them while being pinned against the bed.
"Oh, yes," I heard him say slowly to himself. "This will do." His hands then gripped my jeans at the ankles and yanked, pulling them off of me. They joined my shoes somewhere on the floor. Then he grabbed my calves, and yanked me so that I was bent over the edge of the bed.
Before I could say or do anything, his fingers gripped my ass and spread the cheeks, exposing my hole. A warm, wet tongue began to explore. I groaned, reaching my hand back to feel his head as he buried his face into me from behind, licking furiously. George grunted in hunger. I spread my legs as wide as I could in my current position to give him as much access as possible. This man knew how to eat ass, and he obviously enjoyed doing it. I was determined to give him every opportunity to please me with his tongue.
George stood suddenly. "All the way onto the bed," he ordered, his voice cracking slightly. "Flip over."
I scrambled clumsily to comply. Soon I was laying on my back with my head against his pillows. George removed the rest of his clothes, revealing a lithe, hairy body. He took my ankles in his hands, spread my legs, and folded me over until my ass was pointed at his face. George looked me in the eyes and stared into my face as he lowered himself down to continue his feast.
This time, instead of just licking at my hole, he started opening me up with his tongue. There was light pressure at first, then more insistent. George closed his eyes and began grunting with each panting exhale as he rimmed me out. These sounds were matched by my whimpering in delight. "Where did he learn to do this?" I wondered ecstatically. "He's incredible!"
George continued for a full fifteen minutes. From time to time, he would raise his head to gently nibble at my inner thighs until I reached down to pull his head back into the promised land. I ground against his face, pulling him into me so that his tongue could fuck me as deeply as it could. This man used his tongue better than some guys could use their cocks.
Eventually, George raised his head and looked into my face again. "Are you ready?" he asked.
"Yes," I moaned. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please. I need you inside of me."
George released my legs. I was once again flat on my back as he shifted off of the bed and walked to his dresser. "Beg for it." He took a square foil packet out of a bowl placed on the top corner and began unwrapping a condom. He looked at me as he rolled it slowly down his engorged cock.
"Oh, Jesus," I whined. "You've worked me up so hard I could almost cum thinking about what you're going to do to me. If you don't put your tongue or finger or cock or something inside me soon, I don't know what I'm going to do."
George took a bottle of lube off of the dresser and came back onto the bed. "You want it? Tell me how much you want it, you dirty whore."
"More than anything else right now. I need to get fucked. If you don't do it, I'm going to have to go out right now and just grind my ass on the first guy I see until he agrees to fuck me senseless."
George smiled at that. "You're a cheap little whore, aren't you?" He flicked open the bottle of lube. Taking one of my legs in hand, he raised it until my asshole was pointing up again. A generous blob of cold gel hit my crevice, and I gasped.
"Yes," I moaned. "I'm just a cheap whore that you picked up at a bar so you could fuck me. I don't deserve anything more than for my ass to be a sleeve for your cock."
He lowered my legs until the head of his latex-wrapped dick laid against my slippery hole. He tossed the lube to the floor next to the bed and used his hand to start massaging the lube across my hole. Then a slick finger slid into me, searching for my prostate.
My hips bucked, driving his finger deeper into me. A second finger joined the first, stretching me uncomfortably. "Easy!" I gasped. "Please."
George grinned slyly. "To start with, maybe," he muttered to me. "But there's not going to be anything easy about this when I get my cock in your tight little whore ass."
My mind registered that he had been calling me a whore, but I dismissed it as some light role playing or simple dirty talk. "Just let me get used to it," I pleaded. "Then you can fuck me as hard as you want. I promise."
George pulled his fingers out to the last knuckle and then pushed them in again slowly, rotating his hand back and forth as they slid back inside deeper, stretching me out. "Oh, I'm going to do that anyway," he intoned. "But we'll make sure that you can take it. I don't want to be disappointed because your little whore ass can't take my giant cock."
His cock, while beautiful, was definitely not "giant." It was average sized, but it stood proudly from his untrimmed pubes. His balls hung low beneath them, and I imagined what it was going to feel like when they were smacking against me once he started his thrusts. The thought made me writhe, grinding against his knuckles as he slid in and out of me with his two fingers.
Abruptly, he pulled his fingers out of me. "Get up," he said, stroking his cock in its sheath. "You're going to be on top. I'm going to pound your ass from underneath, and you're going to like it, you filthy whore."
While a little unnerved by his continuing to call me a whore, I was ready for his cock. "Yes, please," I whispered as we traded places.
He laid back, head on his pillows, eyes tracing my slender body up and down. My sweat made my body seem to glow as it reflected what little ambient light was in the room. George stretched his legs, and then put his fingers at the base of his cock to point it upwards. "Get on and ride me" he ordered.
Wordlessly, I flung my leg over his body to straddle him. I maneuvered myself until I could feel his shaft against my ass. "Is this what you want?" I breathed.
George thrust upward to answer me, though he slid against my ass and not into it. Oh, yes, he was ready to fuck me, and he wanted it.
I reached down to take his lubricated dick in my hand. The rubber made it feel extra slick. I slid upwards until I could feel his firmness just barely against my opening. Carefully, I backed against him, and he slid easily into my pre-stretched insides.
I leaned back against him, taking in as much as he could give me while he pushed up with his hips, trying to go as deeply inside me as he could. His eyes rolled and then closed as he leaned his head back against the pillow. George took a deep breath as I ground down on him, using his cock to massage my prostate.
The feeling of fulfillment flooded my brain as his cock hit just the right spot as I flexed my thighs and glutes. I wanted to massage his cock with my guts until he filled the head of that rubber with his seed. His dick was now my ass's plaything, and I was going to make it shoot. I leaned back, bracing myself with my left arm, and began to ride him while my right hand Ð covered in second-hand lube from guiding him into me Ð began to stroke my own dick.
George's face told me that he was enjoying my ass. His face contorted as my body and his hips worked together to slide in and out of my hole. He reached up with both of his hands to grasp my hips so he could guide me to bounce on him harder and faster. The muscles on his chest and arms flexed noticeably as he began building to his inevitable conclusion.
He shifted his weight to roll me over, trying and failing to keep his dick in me as he put me on my back. He spread my legs with his arms as he shoved his cock back into me, then leaned over to look into my face with my knees framing his face. One of my hands reached around to grab his ass while the other gave my own cock some more desperately-needed attention.
"Oh, you little whore," he groaned at me, "you're trying to make me cum, aren't you? How do you like that dick, bitch? You think your ass is good enough for me?" His thrusts became more forceful, almost violent, as he brought himself near his climax.
I could not speak. All I could do is make loud inarticulate sounds has he thrust his weight into me again and again. Over and over he pounded me, hitting that sweet spot on my insides every time. "His dick is just perfect for my ass," I thought as I pumped my own cock with my free hand. The other continued to grasp at his ass, pulling him into me as far as he could reach.
George began a low growl, increasing in both volume and pitch. I knew what was coming, and I wanted to get there, too. I wasn't far away when he straightened up, grabbed my ankles, and spread my legs as wide as he could. George howled like a madman as he pushed into me as far as he could one final time. He crawled forward with his knees, pushing my head painfully into the headboard of his bed as he tried to force his way further into me.
I was maybe five seconds away from releasing my own orgasm when he collapsed his body on top of me, pinning my arm with his weight. He let go of my legs and splayed his arms on the bed as the fullness of his weight fell on top of me. His latex-encased dick pulled out of me, still hard, with the reservoir tip heavy with his recently released fluid.
My arm now was mostly immobilized between us, and I was unable to continue the rhythm of my jerking. George lay on top of me, panting, as I could feel the nearness of my orgasm retreating from lack of attention. I tried grinding against George's hairy stomach to bring myself back to the brink, but with no success.
Once he had caught his breath, George rolled over onto his back. He reached down and removed the semen-filled condom from his now-softening prick and threw it to the floor without looking. He took a deep breath, his hairy chest expanding. He held it, and then let it out.
"My turn," I said, as I flung a leg over him to straddle him again. I reached for my own still stiff dick and began jerking again. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, imagining what George's beautiful torso would look like when streaked with my jizz.
The mood was immediately spoiled. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but we're done," said George, in a firm voice. "It's on the dresser. Get dressed and get out."
I looked down at him and paused mid-stroke. "Really?" I thought. He wasn't even going to let me get off? "And what the fuck does `on the dresser' mean?"
I leaned forward, slowly resuming my stroke. "Are you sure?" I teased softly. "I can still--"
"No," insisted George firmly. "You can't. The lightswitch is by the door. Turn it on, find your clothes, take your stuff, and get out. I'm finished with you."
"What?" I asked, not believing that I had heard him correctly."Are you a moron?" George spat. "Get the fuck out of here!""Fine," I grunted. I got off him and the bed. Moving to the door, I closed my eyes and then turned on the light.
"Jesus," George cried as the bright lights attacked his eyes.
"Serves you right," I thought, as I opened my own eyes slowly, blinking. My shoes were on opposite sides of the room. My shirt was laying on the floor through the doorway. My blue jeans were near the bed. They were also wet with George's cum, since that's where his rubber had landed. His seed leaked out onto the lower leg.
I picked up the spent rubber and flicked it across the room as George's eyes continued to adjust to the light. I hoped that he wouldn't find it soon. I quickly dressed with what clothes were in the room, feeling the wet spot on my jeans against the back of my right calf. In other situations, that would have been stimulating, but not now. I stood up to retrieve my shirt and heard George bark, "Dresser. Take it and get out."
I hadn't been anywhere near George's dresser before this. He had pushed me into the room and onto the bed without me having a chance to stop anywhere else. What did he think I had left on his fucking dresser? Still, I stepped over to it, and saw two one hundred dollar bills laying next to the bowl where George had gotten is condom. I blinked uncomprehendingly. Nothing of mine was there.
"What kind of stupid fuck are you?" George yelled. "Take the fucking money and get the fuck out of here."
"Whatever," I replied testily. With my left hand, I swiped the bills off of the dresser and stuffed them into the front pocket of my jeans. Stepping through the bedroom door, I bent to pick up my shirt, which had been turned inside out in my haste to get it off.
"Fuck it" I said, slipping the garment over my head. I was only going to be wearing it until I got back to my apartment, anyway. Then all of this was going in the dirty clothes hamper, and I was getting in the shower. Well, first I was going to bust off my pent up load, and then I'd get in the shower. The clothes, though, were coming off as soon as I got home.
I exited the house, slamming the front door behind me in anger and frustration. George had been a pretty good fuck, but where did he get off treating me like that? Why had he turned so nasty to me?
I got into my car, stepped on the clutch, turned on the headlights, and started the engine. "What was up with the money?" I wondered to myself. "Why did he tell me to take the money off of his dresser? And why did that prick keep calling me aÐ-"
My foot slipped nervelessly off of the clutch. The car jerked forward and halted after a single lurch. The engine switched off, and dashboard lights flashed on. I sat in my red Ford Escort hatchback in dumb realization.
"Whore" he had called me, several times.
"Dirty whore."
"Cheap little whore."
"Filthy whore."
"Whore. "
"WHORE."
I re-engaged the clutch, my face blank. I restarted the engine, gave it a little gas, and released the clutch, driving home. The first tear fell down my cheek about three blocks away. I was able to keep the sobs at bay until I pulled into the lot at my apartment. I turned off the car's lights first, and then the engine.
He had told me to take the money. He had laid out money at some point specifically for me to take.
He kept calling me a "whore" because he thought I was a prostitute. "When I said I drove a Ford Escort, he must have thought that I means that I was an escort," I thought, trying to connect the events of the bar to what happened on his house.
He had paid me after I had sex with him. I had taken his money. I had prostituted my body for money, and I hadn't even realized that I was doing it.
I was devastated. This was a line I never thought I would ever approach, much less cross. Tears ran down my face and wet the front of my shirt. My nose ran, and I wiped it on my sleeve many times that night. I cried in my car until I felt that I could not cry any longer. My throat was sore and raw from sobbing before I was done.
It was about 3:30 A.M. when I got out of my car. I unlocked the sliding door that lead from the parking area into my kitchen. After closing the door behind me, I emptied my pockets on the counter like I always did. Then stripped off my clothes and put them in the garbage.
I did not jerk off before getting into the shower. Without even turning the water on, I stayed there sitting on the floor until the sun was bright in the sky hours later.
George had been right. Whether I had meant to be or not, I had been a literal whore, and it had destroyed how I saw myself.