I arrived at the church and I have to say that I was in for a shock. Father John was waiting for me. The church was very cold. He apologized saying that the heating had failed. I didn’t think so. You see, Father John had an arctic air about him, an inner silence that I can only imagine stemming from the most desolate freezing place on earth. His thin face had the chiseled look of an ice statue, very beautiful but frozen to the core. I guess this is the great paradox of the fire and brimstone believer – they have ice souls.
My reputation had gone before me, Father John announced, I wanted the church clear for you as I have some questions, his words thrown out in an icy whisper, his mouth bellowing out its cold smoke like a choking church sensor - except he smelled of garlic not myrrh. And sure enough the church had the air of a desolate tomb. It was lit by and an array of candles, which seemed to whip the darkness provocatively every time Father John spoke.
Now, had the church been warm then it would have been obvious to me that I was to perform a very particular catechism on this middle age Padre and, indeed, he on me but the sheer lack of personable temperature was indicating that I was not to be put upon his rod but have a rather more puritanical one put upon me. It was clear that I would have to call upon the spirit in order to raise his.
Father John bade me sit beside him, keeping a distance between us and began by asking me why I became a prostitute - he wasn't warming me up with small talk. He looked on me with a stony stare as he pronounced the words and I could see the landscape of some biblical drama playing out just behind him as he imagined that he stood aloof on his mount – not quite the mount I would have preferred but a mount nevertheless.
I answered him by saying that I preferred the term sex worker. People of my sort prefer the term as it implies that we are engaged in labor, that we are professional and go about our business with the necessary decorum and with the requisite knowledge and understanding of practice.
You engage in sexual acts with multiple partners - Lets not mince our words, he said. You fornicate. You are adulterous.
I noticed the cross hanging above the altar on which hung a murdered Christ wearing, what I can only presume was, a solid gold crown of thorns. He was looking at me with a sense of loss, that this was beyond his power. Had he been able to talk I am sure that he would have rebuked the austerity of this his messenger, the quality and validity of his message watered down by centuries of Chinese whispers, the peace of his words tainted by anger and prejudice.
No, I said, I do not engage in sexual acts, I facilitate the physical and therefore spiritual ecstasy in my clients. I am able to reach deep inside an individual and coax out this creative and incorporeal God given need in them. It is this element of an individual that is so often hidden. Perhaps you, Father, can survive without exploring and making explicit this implicit need but I can assure you that there are many that are bereft without it.
There was a long, I suspect, practiced silence before he said, I understand you do things with men.
Ah, the million dollar statement. I decided to tease it out him as he was making me a little angry and it is such fun exacting precisely what the bigots mean. The detail makes them squirm. Do things with men, I asked innocently?
Yes.
You will need to be a little more specific, since you are calling into question the longevity of my soul.
You touch them.
Where?
This is rediculous.
The spirit is always willing.
We are in the house of God.
And the flesh never weak.
How can you speak such obscenities?
There is nothing obscene about being made love to.
Please.
What can be wrong with someone tracing shapes on your skin with their tongue?
How dare you-
I often spell out prayers as I caress a neck, the creed always bring out the best in a client.
I will have to ask you-
The Sermon on the Mount is a favourite of mine.
He was beginning to get a little hot under the collar; I want to call an end to this meeting-
Of course he did but it was too late for that now. In my line of work I have discovered that it is desired of one to get to the point without any delay. I have learned this over many years of practice - a client is there one thing and one thing only and they expect you to get right down to it. This priest was no different. On the face of it he wanted to address what he saw as my existential contradictions but deep down he desired that I take him on a guided tour of my being. I put my hand on his.
You are lost my child.
And then I noticed that the candlelight was illuminating each and every statue or representation of a saint’s face. It was as if they were peering in out of the darkness to get a closer view.
No Father, I was found. I was found.
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Monday, 18 February 2008
1. My God Given Talent
Before seeing my new priest today I met a client. Yes, I am a Christian and a prostitute. I see to both men and women. I am not bothered by this as everybody needs an outlet for those earthly desires and I believe that it is immoral to deny them – clear out the un-spiritual imagination, don’t let it fester and then you can more fully engage with the creator. And anyway no sex makes people extremely bad tempered - I would go as far as to say that many of the worlds problems stem from a lack of sexual contact. We should all be more honest about what we need and stop hiding it! God knows, he can see through us and I don’t believe he really, deep deep down has a problem with his brethren indulging their natural desires. If it wasn’t natural then we would not crave it.
I have a God given talent, many of my clients tell me so.
Cheryl has been a regular for many years. Cheryl's husband is a well-established gangster. They don’t live together anymore, although he pops over every now and then to ‘abuse her body’. She rang earlier this morning, our appointment was meant for Friday, but her husband needed her for some last minute work 'bash'. I only have an hour to spare and ordinarily I would have turned a woman down on a day like this as, on the whole, and this is a broad generalisation, women are not as easy as men when it comes to being clients. They take longer, run over time more frequently. I'm not complaining, just letting you know it’s a busy day - I have to check my emails, go to Tesco, wrap a present for one of my many and growing group of godchildren, get my room ready, see Cheryl, go to confession, answer 5 texts from Dan (he just won’t leave me alone) have a panic attack and get home in time for the next client Carlo the Castrato. But Cheryl is busy too – she slots me in between shops and pedicures - so there is never that 'time’s up' awkwardness. We men are very different; we fire off and then shoot off, a full hour’s fee for a twelve-minute dash. It’s easier going Gay – and yes God is there for them too. Men are like gas ovens with on /off heat, women are like electric ovens - they take time to warm up and warm down.
Cheryl is in her late fifties and on heat. She has a good, full body, not voluptuous but sumptuous, fantastic breasts with big silky nipples, really soft on the tongue, like a Eucharist host and great lips, which she likes to work right the way over my body. When she takes me in her mouth I almost forget that I am the one working for a living.
She arrives in my flat a little out of breath and glistening with perspiration. I live on the top floor of a stylish 1740's apartment block in Soho. She tells me she has “sat in the cab in her own little wet patch all the way from Oxford Street”. Cheryl is the sort of person who calls a spade a spade, and she’s “just gagging for it”. Expensively groomed with peroxide blonde hair and long pearl fingernails she doesn't exaggerate about being 'wet'.
Never one to hang back she slaps her money on the microwave and puts her hand on my crotch. We don't kiss much. Cheryl I think prefers it this way, it makes the whole encounter sexually feculent, after all, she's paying me to fuck her not love her – I do have love in my heart for her – love a plenty as I have for all living things. Cheryl’s, vagina, however, is the most embracing part of her being, and it's positively vice like.
“I've been saving myself up for a month,” she says, as if she has ever had to save. “Darling, you got your money, now let’s see what you can do with that lovely cock.” I feel suitably objectified – hang me above the altar I am ready t be sacrificed.
The road to ruin for an escort is paved with endless conversations with people who want to save you but not pay you. Thank God for the likes of Cheryl. I rest my tongue like a serpent on my lips, and that’s it, she’s off, dragging me up the stairs telling me that her pussy is too wet to wait, her black laced bra straining to hold its load, her nipples taut to the bit of her desire, she kicks down the door to the bedroom, pulls down my trousers and sticks me so far down her throat I believe I’m going to push out the other side. She goes on me like a devil in need of redemption before throwing me onto the bed, somehow undressing in mid air to mount me to pump up and down, rubbing her clit as fast as her fifty something lungs will take her. Cheryl is amazing, she can come and come. I don't mean to be crude or gratuitous with sexual description – I am always dropping myself in it in church, my prayers are just full of it but Cheryl gets into a lovely frenzy, her shaved pussy spasms so much it quakes the whole of her body, sending her into orgasm after orgasm, and soaking my bed and sheets with her cloudy sex milk – the first time she sprayed me I felt baptised. She builds up from orgasm to orgasm until after about forty minutes or so she can sometimes be in such a state of heightened multiple orgasm, she begins talking in tongues and wailing the name of our Lord. By the end of our hour she hardly needs to be touched, just stroking her inner thigh again can set her off in a further cacophony of 'Lords', 'Gods' and of course the occasional 'fuck'. The trick to get her there is to stay hard and not come and that is where prayer comes in – it’s a meditative act.
It's amazing - her body vibrations as she comes to orgasm are inexplicably electrifying and tangible. She thinks I'm a miracle worker, but it's not me it's in her head. It's the sex she thinks she's having that makes it happen with me and not her husband (shit. he's going to kill me if he ever reads this). In the same way, it’s usually true that not being able to orgasm is in your head. If that's you then don't despair; no matter how long it's been or how old you are - you can do it – praise be.
So today, I have a new Priest to confess to. To say that I'm nervous is an understatement. Sometimes they come down hard on me and make me feel raw. Skinless. My last priest was very understanding and I was able to help him with his own quite particular needs.
I am well turned out for the meeting, in a nicely cut suit, stylish, classic and sleek, dark grey, not too flamboyant. I elect to wear glasses so my look will support my sober mood. Thanks to Cheryl I look flush, touched by the Lord. I always come for Cheryl. She insists that I ejaculate all over her breasts. She then likes to rub my semen all over herself before getting dressed. She never showers; she likes to take the smell of me with her. She's a dirty one that Cheryl.
Now do I start by telling Father William about Cheryl – or should I warm him up a little more gently? Ummmm, I wonder.
I have a God given talent, many of my clients tell me so.
Cheryl has been a regular for many years. Cheryl's husband is a well-established gangster. They don’t live together anymore, although he pops over every now and then to ‘abuse her body’. She rang earlier this morning, our appointment was meant for Friday, but her husband needed her for some last minute work 'bash'. I only have an hour to spare and ordinarily I would have turned a woman down on a day like this as, on the whole, and this is a broad generalisation, women are not as easy as men when it comes to being clients. They take longer, run over time more frequently. I'm not complaining, just letting you know it’s a busy day - I have to check my emails, go to Tesco, wrap a present for one of my many and growing group of godchildren, get my room ready, see Cheryl, go to confession, answer 5 texts from Dan (he just won’t leave me alone) have a panic attack and get home in time for the next client Carlo the Castrato. But Cheryl is busy too – she slots me in between shops and pedicures - so there is never that 'time’s up' awkwardness. We men are very different; we fire off and then shoot off, a full hour’s fee for a twelve-minute dash. It’s easier going Gay – and yes God is there for them too. Men are like gas ovens with on /off heat, women are like electric ovens - they take time to warm up and warm down.
Cheryl is in her late fifties and on heat. She has a good, full body, not voluptuous but sumptuous, fantastic breasts with big silky nipples, really soft on the tongue, like a Eucharist host and great lips, which she likes to work right the way over my body. When she takes me in her mouth I almost forget that I am the one working for a living.
She arrives in my flat a little out of breath and glistening with perspiration. I live on the top floor of a stylish 1740's apartment block in Soho. She tells me she has “sat in the cab in her own little wet patch all the way from Oxford Street”. Cheryl is the sort of person who calls a spade a spade, and she’s “just gagging for it”. Expensively groomed with peroxide blonde hair and long pearl fingernails she doesn't exaggerate about being 'wet'.
Never one to hang back she slaps her money on the microwave and puts her hand on my crotch. We don't kiss much. Cheryl I think prefers it this way, it makes the whole encounter sexually feculent, after all, she's paying me to fuck her not love her – I do have love in my heart for her – love a plenty as I have for all living things. Cheryl’s, vagina, however, is the most embracing part of her being, and it's positively vice like.
“I've been saving myself up for a month,” she says, as if she has ever had to save. “Darling, you got your money, now let’s see what you can do with that lovely cock.” I feel suitably objectified – hang me above the altar I am ready t be sacrificed.
The road to ruin for an escort is paved with endless conversations with people who want to save you but not pay you. Thank God for the likes of Cheryl. I rest my tongue like a serpent on my lips, and that’s it, she’s off, dragging me up the stairs telling me that her pussy is too wet to wait, her black laced bra straining to hold its load, her nipples taut to the bit of her desire, she kicks down the door to the bedroom, pulls down my trousers and sticks me so far down her throat I believe I’m going to push out the other side. She goes on me like a devil in need of redemption before throwing me onto the bed, somehow undressing in mid air to mount me to pump up and down, rubbing her clit as fast as her fifty something lungs will take her. Cheryl is amazing, she can come and come. I don't mean to be crude or gratuitous with sexual description – I am always dropping myself in it in church, my prayers are just full of it but Cheryl gets into a lovely frenzy, her shaved pussy spasms so much it quakes the whole of her body, sending her into orgasm after orgasm, and soaking my bed and sheets with her cloudy sex milk – the first time she sprayed me I felt baptised. She builds up from orgasm to orgasm until after about forty minutes or so she can sometimes be in such a state of heightened multiple orgasm, she begins talking in tongues and wailing the name of our Lord. By the end of our hour she hardly needs to be touched, just stroking her inner thigh again can set her off in a further cacophony of 'Lords', 'Gods' and of course the occasional 'fuck'. The trick to get her there is to stay hard and not come and that is where prayer comes in – it’s a meditative act.
It's amazing - her body vibrations as she comes to orgasm are inexplicably electrifying and tangible. She thinks I'm a miracle worker, but it's not me it's in her head. It's the sex she thinks she's having that makes it happen with me and not her husband (shit. he's going to kill me if he ever reads this). In the same way, it’s usually true that not being able to orgasm is in your head. If that's you then don't despair; no matter how long it's been or how old you are - you can do it – praise be.
So today, I have a new Priest to confess to. To say that I'm nervous is an understatement. Sometimes they come down hard on me and make me feel raw. Skinless. My last priest was very understanding and I was able to help him with his own quite particular needs.
I am well turned out for the meeting, in a nicely cut suit, stylish, classic and sleek, dark grey, not too flamboyant. I elect to wear glasses so my look will support my sober mood. Thanks to Cheryl I look flush, touched by the Lord. I always come for Cheryl. She insists that I ejaculate all over her breasts. She then likes to rub my semen all over herself before getting dressed. She never showers; she likes to take the smell of me with her. She's a dirty one that Cheryl.
Now do I start by telling Father William about Cheryl – or should I warm him up a little more gently? Ummmm, I wonder.
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