BALL BUSTING
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.
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.
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