Everyone does stupid shit for money, don’t they? I used to think that was true until I started writing about all the stupid shit I have done and realized that no one else who I told these stories to had done any shit nearly as stupid as I. For example, working as a non-full-service escort. “Full service,” as in, full-on boning. In other words, prostitution. What I did was called, by the sketchy service I worked for, “erotic massage.” Since it was illegal to solicit prostitution in Colorado, where I lived at the time, and illegal to offer sexual services, the men who called the service I worked for had to be very careful about what they said and asked for over the phone lest the number they were calling in search of a hooker was a sting operation that could land them in jail.
Some girls who worked at the service with me did do full service - most of them, probably, but it was never spoken of. I mean, how do you make five grand in one night if you’re not sleeping with your clients? But a few select girls and I only did what was legal, for the most part, which was erotic massage - giving a massage while naked to the client, who was also naked.
Being an escort was a precarious business in a state where prostitution was illegal, and unbeknownst to me, prostitution didn’t just mean intercourse. We, the “models” as they called us, could get busted for offering hand jobs, blow jobs, toy shows, any kind of penetration to ourselves or others, all of which was considered prostitution under state law. The only sure-fire way to know that a client wasn’t a cop was to wait until he whipped his dick out. Police officers running an undercover sting operation tend not to do that. After the client’s penis willingly made its debut, all bets were on, and that’s when some illegal shit went down. But until that moment, it was a battle of wits and semantics for both parties trying to decipher if the other was a cop.
Client: "What do you do?"
Escort: "What would you like?"
Client: "Well, first I'd like to know what you do."
Escort: "I can make you feel good."
Escort: "I can give you a nice, relaxing massage."
Client: "What else?"
Escort: "What else do you want?"
Ad nauseam until the client became so tired or frustrated with this back-and-forth nonsense, that he figured it was worth asking for, and maybe getting sex, even if that meant he might go to jail.
Basically what I and the other non-prostituting girls did was partial service, self-service as it were for the guy, because most of them, after finding out that we were indeed not going to fuck them, nor were we vice cops, ended up jacking themselves off, which undercover cops definitely do not do, unless they’re bored, sitting in a car while on a stakeout. I could see that happening.
I spent a year and a half as a partial-service escort (I made that name up. That’s not how we were advertised) and I met a lot of men, saw a lot of dicks, and got berated plenty of times for “false advertising” when they thought they were going to get more than was offered.
Most of my clients had the same, boring, clichéd story for why they hired an escort - stuck in an unhappy, sexless marriage to a woman who had gained weight and didn’t feel good about her body anymore, or she was too busy with the kids, or too tired, blah blah blah. I loved how the men never took any responsibility for the lack of sex. Never once did I hear, “It’s my fault. I don’t give her enough emotional support,” or “I am not good enough in bed and have erectile dysfunction,” or “I’m an idiot.” Nope. It was always, “she doesn’t want to have sex with me anymore,” never admitting or even contemplating why that was the case.
These sexless marriage guys were the majority. However, I did have a handful of clients who were super old and widowers and just wanted to see a tight young body again, or ex-convicts who were recently sprung from the pen, or young, stupid twenty-somethings who didn’t have enough game to go find a girl for free. But on a few rare occasions, I had clients who defied all the clichés and entered a realm of creepiness that I could never have imagined.
One client I will never forget was of this breed. He was special. Special meaning he was definitely on the spectrum. I’m thinking light autism or Asperger’s, or maybe he got dropped on his head as a child. These disorders notwithstanding, he still had a libido, and a very specific hobby, which I had never seen before, nor did I ever witness again. Thank God.
I got a call from the agency at around nine or ten p.m. during one of my shifts, not too late, which was good. Late calls usually meant the client was on coke or meth or something keeping him awake after two a.m. and that usually meant trouble, so the fact that this call was at a reasonable hour gave me a bit of solace.
When I arrived at the client’s apartment and rang the bell, an overweight, bald, middle-aged man with glasses opened the door. He looked innocent enough, but that didn’t mean shit because many times, it was the innocent ones who were the most perverted or aggressive. He invited me in and paid me - always get payment before anything in case the client finds out that you are not going to bone him and you can still get away with some cash.
Being a partial service escort for clients who assumed the word escort implied full service (which it usually does) meant that I, and the other girls in the business, had to find ways to entertain our clients for as long as possible before disrobing and only offering a “nice, relaxing massage.” We couldn’t even say, “nude massage” or “erotic massage” in case the guy was a cop and inferred that to mean sex. Usually when a client found out that he was indeed not going to get laid or get his dick sucked, he became very disappointed, and sometimes even aggressive. It was not cheap hiring an escort to come to your house or hotel. At the service I worked for, it cost two-hundred dollars per hour (The escort got sixty percent of that) plus a driving fee, which could add up if the client lived anywhere outside of the Denver metro area. Sometimes the driving fee cost more than the actual escort fee. After paying over two-hundred bucks and then realizing that they weren’t going to get to penetrate anything except for their own hands, the clients oftentimes wanted their money back, which I gladly gave them if they were adamant about it. It wasn’t worth pissing off a coked-out freak who may attack me. Most guys were cool when they would not get full service and were thankful to have a beautiful woman, or just a woman, hanging out at their house.
There were, however, clients who had no interest in full service or the escort getting naked and giving them a massage. They merely wanted someone to talk to, which I found incredibly sad, but also these were my favorite clients. A hundred twenty dollars to just sit and talk? Yes, please. That was the trick, sitting and talking to the guy for at least the first thirty minutes and trying to engage him in conversation about his sad, pathetic life for as long as possible. Then when he got antsy, that was when I had to bear the bad news that I would not perform any sexual acts with him. But by that time, he had already paid, was usually drunk from all the alcohol I had plied him with from his liquor cabinet, and therefore ok with just having me get naked and rub my tits all over his back and chest. It was more than he was getting from his wife or anyone else for that matter. Men who get laid regularly don’t need to hire escorts, especially partial service escorts. Duh.
This squat, fat, bald man invited me into his small garden-level apartment. He paid me, and then we sat on his dingy couch where I commenced conjuring up as many questions as I could to prolong the inevitable naked massage part of the evening. The conversation started status quo, “where are you from, what’s your job, do you have any kids, family, etc.” Then I asked what he did in his spare time, and this is when the evening went from somewhat strange to the most bizarre call I ever did.
He told me that in his spare time from working at the city mint as a janitor, he was a professional Auguste clown. I didn’t know different types of clowns existed. A clown is a clown, right? No. different clowns have different personalities and schticks, and the Auguste clown is the clumsy clown that wears baggy, mismatched clothing, tiny hats, huge neckties, and a red ball-shaped nose, like Bozo. So basically, the Auguste clown is the type of clown that I had associated with all clowns.
This man, let’s call him Barney since I don’t remember his name, then invited me to look through his clown photo album. This is perfect. This will take up a good portion of the hour. It was always good to get the client talking about something he was passionate about or well versed in, so I always tried to ask questions about sports, or their jobs or hobbies. I would look around their house (if I were in their house as sometimes I was in hotels) and try to find out from their decor and things strewn about what their interests might be. Usually, that worked pretty well. Barney flipped open a thick photo album and showed me pictures from his latest pilgrimage to one of the many annual clown conventions that take place all over the world. He showed me photos of himself amongst a group of his Auguste clown friends, photos of the clown performance he was a part of, photos of him and his clown friends donning their makeup. It was odd, but at least Barney had a passion. Well, this was one of his passions. He then asked me if I wanted to see his array of Auguste clown outfits, to which I said yes. Anything to keep from having to touch this guy. He led me into his bedroom and opened the small closet. A burst of color and billowing silky material sprang from the shutter doors. “See, I have a lot of outfits and shoes,” he said. “The shoes are probably my favorite part of the clown outfit. But they are really expensive.” Clown shoes are expensive? Turns out, a pair of professional Auguste clown shoes can cost upward of two hundred dollars. He had a few pairs in different colors all lined up on the bottom of his closet. It was a bit off-putting looking at a closet full of clown attire, but he was a paying customer and I was hoping for a good tip, so if he wanted to spend the hour showing me his clown suits and floppy shoes, then I was going to Goddamn well let him.
“Do you want to see me in one of these?” he asked. This is going in a direction I never thought.
“Uh, sure,” I said.
“This one is my favorite,” and he pulled out a red and white striped jumpsuit with a frilly white collar and cuffs. I resigned myself to the bed and sat on the edge as he undressed down to his saggy tightie whities and donned the jumpsuit. This situation was so fantastical, I was having a hard time believing it. I am in the apartment of a special needs man who ordered me as an escort, watching him put on a clown suit.
When he had zipped up his costume, he danced a little jig and then said, “It looks a lot better when I’m in full makeup.” I was hoping to God he would not put on his clown makeup and wig. Toy clowns are scary enough, but a real-live clown dancing around in his creepy apartment in front of a strange woman he paid to be there was way creepier. I kept thinking about Steven King’s “It,” hands down the scariest clown around, and I am fairly certain Pennywise never hired an escort. Please don’t kill me.
“I bet,” I said. “But that is a nice clown suit,” a sentence I had never said before nor ever said again. He did not put on the accompanying floppy shoes, which disappointed me a bit. I mean, if you’re going to dress up like a clown, go whole hog! Time was ticking so I told him, “Well, we have about half an hour left. What would you like to do?” I was waiting for him to pull balloons from his sleeve and start making balloon animals for me, which I kind of wish he would have instead of what happened next.
“Can I lick your pussy?” He said. Wait, wait, wait. Did I hear that correctly? Did a man in a candy-striped clown suit just ask if he could lick my pussy?
“I’m sorry. I don’t do that,” I said as my instincts told me to run straight out of that circus of a night. “But I can give you a nice massage.”
“Well, I thought I would ask. I love licking pussy,” he said. Whose pussy did he lick? Another clown at clown camp? The only image in my head now was Barney the clown attempting cunnilingus on one of his female clown cohorts without dislodging his red rubber nose.
“Lie down on the bed and I’ll make you feel good,” I said, and with that, he pulled down his ensemble to his waist and lay face down on the bed. This is where I always got uncomfortable with every client. Although it was illegal to touch my genitals or anyone else’s genitals, it was not illegal to just get naked and rub my tits on his back, which I did, as he gently moaned. He then turned over and what I expected to see was right there, popping up, forming a tiny circus tent of its own. At this point I was just thankful he didn’t pull out a horn and start honking it. Please don’t ask me to give you a hand job. Please don’t ask me to give you a hand job. I was fervently watching the clock. A few more minutes and then I was free to leave this disturbing carnival.
The clock struck the hour, and I got up and said, “Ok, that’s all the time we have,” as I rushed to put on my clothes. He got off the bed, still erect, and pulled up his costume. We walked to the living room and, while dressed in a billowy, bright red clown suit, he handed me a fifty-dollar bill as a tip. But before I could make a clean getaway, he said one last thing to me.
“Well, if you have any friends who like their pussies licked, you can always bring them over.” He said it so matter-of-factly like he was talking about inviting them over for a game of Monopoly or something.
“Ok,” I said, and with that, I exited the apartment.
“Bye-bye,” he shouted as I walked up the steps to the parking lot. When I got to my car, I turned around, and he was still standing in his doorway, drenched in a halo of light emanating from the muted hue of his dingy living room - a sad Auguste clown, waving goodbye, until the next circus came to town.