I thought it only appropriate that after a few months off from the blog, I perform a Christmas miracle, and write an update. Happiest of whatever holiday you choose, from the Strumpet and her brood.A dear friend called me to tell me I had slacked off on Strumpet updates. We’ll call her A, since she’s a preacher’s daughter. As a fallen former Catholic school girl, I feel the need for discretion here.
Things have been fairly status quo as of late. Same ol’ same ol’, though the Mommy Fuckers have finally upped their game, and have come out of the wood work.
Today, for example, my first and last call were complete polar opposites. First we had a 21-year old, who barely wanted to give me his name, he was so ready for his cock in my mouth. As I quietly giggled at Yon Casanova’s romancing skills (“Yeah, Mommy, bend over for me. Take this dick.”), I remembered why women tend to go for older men.
Then we had the 90-year old. Now, personally, if you’re still cranking it up at 90 years old, more power to you. Whether single through widowhood, divorce, or general skeeviness, if you’re still getting it up enough to call multiple phone strumpets a day, you deserve some respect. It’s very rad. I do wish you would buy a new hearing aid. Or at least replace the battery in the one you have.
I think my neighbors would appreciate it if you would, as well. I live in a heavily rented area, and I do warn new neighbors they may hear interesting sounds on occasion, but I don’t think anyone expects to hear screams of, “Yes. Please. Just squeeze it. Okay. OKAY. YES, THAT FEELS VERY NICE. VERY. NICE. YES.”
But said elderly gentleman leads me to a discussion of another type of client. Because he is an extremely respectful guy. Asked me up front what terminology I was most comfortable with, including asking for permission to use the word (gasp) “cunt”. He told the dispatcher straight up he wanted someone who likes to “make love”.
Yes, we have clients who want to make lurve.
I like to refer to this group as the Suitors. They call strumpets not just to get off, but to court us. Some guys call pitching tent, these guys call pitching woo.
Now, I love these guys. They tend not to be cheap fucks. They sign up for a good sized block of time up front, which means I can finesse them a shade. These guys genuinely want to get to know their strumpet, learn what makes us tick. Sexually, of course. Rarely do I get to discuss anything else.
Though early on, I did have a fantastic conversation with a client about late 80’s/early 90’s punk. It set me up for three years of disappointment in conversation skills with the gents.
Suitors are also great because they do the majority of the talking. They know exactly what they want to do to a woman, from the tips of her pedicured toes to the soft caresses of her hair. They just want soft moans of encouragement from their paramours, the soft, sweet gentle sounds of lurve making.
One disadvantage to the strumpet game is, we are not allowed to receive gifts. I know self-made strumpets who have received gifts, and some companies had it set it up to where ladies could be sent items from Amazon wishlists and the like. I don’t know if this still happens, and I can understand why my particular company frowns on it. Would you want one of these people gaining access to your home address?
Yes, sit with that a moment. I’ll wait.
However, I had one submissive suitor desperately begging me to let him buy me things. His loophole around the company rule was that he would give me his credit card number, and I could buy myself anything I wanted, as long as it made me happy.
I did poke around at my dispatcher and my boss, both of whom were decidedly clear on the NO front. Still. A diamond tiara would sure come in handy on some of these calls.
If ever I am feeling down about myself for even a moment, I need only to speak to a suitor. I am told how loved I am ad naseum. I have the most beautiful voice they’ve ever heard, which obviously means I am a beautiful person, with a beautiful soul.
A caller who requested a 30-year old spent the entire call throwing endearments at me. I was his “little sweetie”. His “baby girl”. His “sweet girl”. He “threw” me a kiss, complete with “mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah”s. And referred to my nethers as my “sweet little vagina.”
Okay, so he was more creeper than suitor, but you see the pattern here.
Others spend inordinate amounts of time describing how they would kiss me. In front of a fire. On a rug. In a cabin. While softly caressing my face. And dancing with me.
By the time he wanted to touch me anywhere below the waist, we had to run the credit card again.
Woo me, gents. Woo away.
