Tara Burns - Whore Diaries: My First Two Weeks as an Escort

Whore Diaries II: Adventures In Independent Escorting

Whore Diaries II: Adventures In Independent Escorting

E-book 1st Edition 2012

Text and cover page Copyright Tara Burns. All rights reserved.

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There are many people without whom this book wouldn't exist:

Dream, who saved my life and sanity so long ago.

Carrot, the best writing friend ever.

Mac and Jane, the best whoring friends ever.

Kaz, who feeds me.

My secret blog readers who have cheering me on all these years.

The amazing editor who has taught me so much about commas and must go unnamed because stigma sucks.

Table of Contents

My friend died. He was a beautiful poet who built rock walls and lived in the woods in a cabin he handcrafted full of care and light. The last time I saw him he read me a few pages of his memoir, 600 pages of poetry. Every sentence held the most perfect arrangement of words.

I told him I was afraid, sometimes, that life was so beautiful that if I didn't write it all down I might lose it. Life is not always so beautiful, and I could fall into the rapids, be tossed about, and sink to irreversible depths where beauty becomes the most impossible distant memory. Really though, should I spend my life rushing to write down every beautiful thing?

Yes, he said. The answer is to write down every beautiful thing, and the rest, too.

I started writing. After every walk, every dream, and every client I saw. Just to save the beauty of it, because I see some sexy, complicated, beautiful people.

And the rest. One of the smartest ladies I know once said that being a hooker is sometimes like being a plumber: it's gross, and you just hold your nose and get it done. That doesn't make the profession less valuable or necessary.

My friend didn't know that I'm a whore. No one does. Most of the time I'm just a small, isolated creature in the big eternal wilderness, living far from roads and cities. My days are filled with the simple, hard basics of securing heat, water, and food with my body.

Then every couple months I travel hundreds of miles to a big city and turn tricks. My city days are filled with the simple, hard basics of securing security itself, in the form of green paper, with my body.

These are my work journals.

The alarm on my cell phone starts dinging at 10 in the morning. It's a very zen gong sound for a very cold morning waking up in the van. I don't have all my warm blankets in the van now because I don't live in the van anymore. The warm blankets are all home in the cabin piled on the bunk bed or folded under it. Luckily, I slept in all my clothes and parka. I crawl up to the front seat and sit, trying to wake up. Things are not as convenient in the van as they used to be.

There's a text from my one o'clock client asking what hotel I'm in. I don't know yet. But I parked in a parking lot with Wi-Fi last night after I dropped Dream off at her friend's house. I love the hotel from last time, and I want to go back. Maybe that's dumb though, maybe they will notice that I come to town once a month and am always coming downstairs to sneakily let men in the back door and always have bunches of condoms in the trash. I mean, I flush most of them and I always take the trash with me when I leave, so they probably don't even notice. Still, the best thing to do is go to different places and not be recognized.

So I look up the other hotels clients have recommended and call them all. One is downtown and has no parking, another isn't in the best area, and they're all the same price as my favorite. So I go back again. I text my client back that I'm at the same place as last time. He'll think I got in last night and am relaxing in luxury, like the upscale princess ho I am. I wonder how many of those really expensive two grand a day real princess hos are actually sleeping in vans and cheap rooms when they aren't cultivating their princess images.

I stop for essentials on the way. Razors for shaving my cooch, nail polish, eyeliner, a travel toothbrush, clothespins, and rubber bands for the BDSM guy. Town things.

At the hotel, I have to wait for two princesses who want the front desk lady to print out directions for them. They look like whores or dancers to me, though I guess in the lower 48 all the big city women dress the way they do. Heels, skinny jeans, bejeweled asses, and tight tops with trendy little coats. Down there it's normal, but around here people are like, What the fuck? Does she think she's in a fashion show or something? My modus operandi is to check in in my grungy woods clothes, be all sexied up in my room for clients, and then come and go in my grungy woods clothes so I don't attract any whore suspicion. The front desk lady asks the princesses where they're from, and they say Los Angeles. She nods as if that explains it. Note to self: If ever questioned about whoreishness, claim Californication.

By the time I get to the room, I only have an hour before my client's arrival. That sounds like a lot, but it's not when you're going from not having seen soap in a month to well-groomed professional companion. The first thing is to put on nail polish, sitting on the toilet and calling a friend back about a dog throwing up blood. I slap the polish on all messily because you can scrape off the parts on your skin once you've been tub-soaked. I jump in the bathtub and shave. I can't find my volcano rock, so I use my fingernails to scrape huge rolls of dead skin from my legs and arms. Don't want to leave marks, though. Much shaving. Soap on the pits and cunt and ass. Running out of time. I jump out wet and let the tub drain. I have dandruff. I want to put my hair up wet and sexy-messy to disguise it, but I don't have a hair clip. I need to get a whore bag with lots of organizational pockets.

I find the corset and restrain my titties; I can't find the little black skirt. Oh well, a cute black thong with a bow works. Throw everything in the closet to hide it. Condoms and candles by the bed. Dildos lined up for ass play. Rubber bands and clothespins discreetly pinned to the bed for a nice touch. Stockings for my dry sandpaper legs. Fuck, where's the makeup?

The phone rings. He's here. I haven't even had time to reread his emails and meditate on my holy whorishness. I give him the room number and tell him to come on up, and then I hide the phone. It doesn't match my woodsy image, even though it's actually practical to have a phone that functions a little like a laptop without needing as much electricity. One more run through the room and I notice the bathtub is coated in hair shavings and big chunks of dead skin. Oh no! Very unprincessy! I grab the ice bucket and try to wash most of it down the drain before he knocks.

He's a lawyer who goes around suing corporations and paying women to hurt him. He wears polar fleece. I imagine he has a bicycle that he doesn't ride as much as he wished. He has a shaved head and polar fleece jacket and he always books two hours. He asks where to put the money, even though he himself has lectured me to never talk about the gift. I shrug. Wherever. He puts it by the sink.

He's one of those good communicater BDSM guys. Successful lawyers are always good with words. I let him ramble on about how he wants to be controlled and used for my pleasure, teased, denied, and kicked and kneed in the balls. The questions I ask are more to show off my good communication skills and BDSM terminology and expertise than to get information. I already know everything I need to know about this guy.