prostitute Chris Aren't we all hoing for something? 010524 ... Dafremen Does hoing rhyme with BOING? Or did you mean hoeing which rhymes with Boeing? 010524 ... DannyH Or whoring to rhyme with boring 010524 ... james Or prostitute to rhyme with suck-my-flute? 010525 ... j_blue sometimes i wish i had crossed that line to get paid to get laid, what a life 010525 ... nocturnal I have reasons to believe that the prostitution business is my calling. I'm a natural. By that I don't mean that I'm easy or anything. Make of that what you will. 010525 ... Lara Chant The first boy I ever bonked gave me a watch at the end of it and I felt all weird about it. The watch, not the bonk. That just hurt. 011220 ... sifl and olly ...laundry! 011220 ... I dont know. . . . My First Time My first sexual experience was at age 13 as a prostitute. No; no money changed hands; no cash quid pro quo. But I was exchanging sexual favors for gain as surely as if he had laid the gelt in my hands. I didn't go out seeking a john, didn't go to ask a favor and get told what I would have to do to earn it, didn't try and blackmail him later. But I knew what I was doing, and I hated it, and I did it anyway. My mom was working as a psych aide at the state hospital; a single mom supporting five kids on a subsistence wage job. I was sick a lot with really bad (soon to be life-threatening) ear infections. I rarely could muster the concentration to spend more than 30 minutes at a time on homework before the headaches would start to pound and the smell of the infection made me nauseous. I spent most of my time memorizing text books page by page (I had a pretty good memory and was a very fast reader) and aceing the tests. This pulled me through with a "C" average, which I thought I could bring up by the time I applied to college. I was determined to get out of poverty and into college. I thought with a wicked SAT score and some CLEP coursework I could make it into a state college. A couple of years hard work and scrimping after high school graduation, I figured, and I would be able to afford to go. I sure as hell wasn't going to any "A" level schools with my grades, but I could get admitted at a cow college. (This may seem kind of obsessive for a 13 year old, but I was sleeping in the coal bin of a house without working central heating. I was damned determined to get out of that place and never ever be poor again.) As these thoughts of life of high school and beyond began to weigh heavily on my mind, our church acquired a new member who was willing to lead a church choir. I already sang in the school choir, and the church had done a lot for my family. I was encouraged to join, and it didn't take too much encouragement to get me involved. The choirmaster was a really fun, interesting guy to work with. Lots of basics to tune up the more-enthusiastic-than-talented members, and simple harmonies to give us a chance to gel as a unit before moving on to the more difficult pieces. He related a lot of stories of working in the theatre, and I was really impressed. One afternoon, after choir practice, he offered me a ride home rather than have me walk home through the cold in my open-at-the-toe shoes. I accepted the offer enthusiastically; I walked everywhere when Mom was at work and I was tired after another round of infections. In the car he said that he had a few errands to do before dropping me off. He drove around, asking me where the other kids in my family was when my mom was at work (at the sitters), how long I had been wrestling, what my plans were when I got out of school. I told him that it was going to be a couple of years before I really had to worry about it, and then related my long range plans. He listened carefully; the first adult to do so in a long time. Suddenly he said, "Did you know I graduated from Whitman?" Whitman College, in the nearby town of Walla Walla, was a very pricey high-class private school that I had long ago ruled out for budgetary and scholastic reasons. I was impressed; Whitman was the kind of school I dreamed of attending and told him so. He put his hand on my knee. He told me that he still knew a lot of folks over at Whitman and that he could help me get to know people at the college that could get me admitted and help me get through the rigorous academics. He patted my thigh and asked if I was interested. Of course I was interested! It was then that he let me know how these introductions were to be made. As he rubbed my thigh, he let me know that I would need to be "nice" to the people he introduced me to. Men like him. Men who liked young, atheletic men. Did I understand what he meant? And I can honestly say that I still didn't understand what he meant until he put his hand in my crotch. I was 12 or 13 and fairly naive. I was terrified. My heart was racing, I was pouring sweat down from my armpits to my fingertips, and my jaw was clenched as I groped for the door handle. Then he stroked my penis, and it felt good, and I shut my eyes and froze in place as he drove me to my house. I'm not going to go into a lot of lurid detail. I gave him a blow job, let him do the same to me, then got quickly dressed. He made me promise not to tell; that doing so would make it extremely hard to convince his friends that I was worthy of the trust they were going to show me by getting me into Whitman. Assured of my silence, he gave me a hug and left, telling me he would see me Sunday at church. I went upstairs and took down a fresh towel. I turned on the water as hot as I could stand it, and scrubbed until the hot water ran out. I kept scrubbing and scrubbing as the icey water poured over me, until I shivered, until my fingertips were blue, until I started to get sleepy. I got out of the tube and stood naked in front of the sink. Our house didn't have central heat, and the bathroom was dank and frigid as I opened the toothpaste and squirted it out onto my toothbrush. I brushed until the toothpaste turned from white to red, until it hurt, because it felt so much better to hurt than to feel nothing at all. Then I put my clothes back on and opened the door to the bathroom. The door to the bathroom had a 3/4 length mirror on it's outward face. I closed the bathroom door and stood in front of it. Did I look any different? Could people tell? Was I now homosexual, doomed to hell and a shadow lifestyle for the rest of my life? Remember, this was a small town Eastern Oregon. It was long before I was aware of anything about homosexuality other than what the church taught in pretty blurry detail; it just wasn't covered in the Health class. Sex hadn't been covered in school, hetero or homo. I was confused and dazed and numb. But I figured out soon enough what I had done. I had sex with a man. I did it to get something. I traded sexual favors for personal gain. And I never felt dirtier or more filled with self-contempt, self-disgust, and self-hatred than I did on that day. Because even at 13, I knew what my actions had made me. I was a whore. 021211 ... minnesota_chris why are you writing about the sexual lives of others? Isn't there anything in your own life to talk about? 021211 ... I dont know . . . I'm just glad I don't have a story like that to tell. . 021212 ... once again You could say in a sense we all are prostitutes. We trade ourselves for something. Give up something of ourselves to have something of someone elses. 030810 ... Ginger It makes me angry when people talk about it (me) like a product. Its a service you motherfuckers. You don't get to buy me, you don't even rent the space. I do something to you and you pay me for it. To deal psychologically you have to be in control of the transaction. A passive whore is a dead whore. (And I'm neither) 030811 ... Ginger Hmmm... got my pronouns a bit fucked up there but I think you get the point. 030811 ... whatever veryone has their price, mine just happens to be 200$ and hour 050816 ... perv ball can we get a blatherskite discount? 050816 ... fuk i saw 051008 what's it to you? who go blather from