Amy

Amy is young, pretty, and blonde. She posted an ad very late at night on Backpage. I followed the postings there like a hawk and could tell who was partying and who might be trustworthy and fun. The late posters were usually partiers. She came over on an out call very late, maybe 11:30 on a Friday night.

Her body was a splendid blonde trainwreck. She’d lost a lot of weight quickly, and some of her belly felt like cottage cheese. She believed she was selling only her company and oral sex, and only at her constantly evolving discretion. I allowed her to do that: pull me to her, then push me away. I don’t think she’ll find a lot of other Johns who will treat the successful completion of agreed sexual services as optional.

She was charming and articulate, and gave a competent if distracted blowjob. I felt her rate, $180/hr was fair and entitled me to GFE, but I think she was perhaps mis-informed. When I went down on her, she started to enjoy herself, but then just let out an escalating series of cries and yelps, and finally two shrieks the neighbors surely heard. (Once, soon after my night with Amy, the nosy neighbor chicky mentioned something like, “Let me tell you one thing—fake orgasms,” with no other explanation.) It’s important to keep in mind, I was doing nothing rough, strange, or unannounced, but persuaded by her loud screeches, I ended my quest to French kiss her tasty tunnel. I remember almost nothing about her physically besides her pinkness. Her chest was essentially flat, just the suggestion of A-sized curve with precise small dark nipples. I believe she was trimmed but not shaved, and frankly gave every indication she wasn’t expecting visitors to her love dungeon. I believe she was about 25.

She would never make a living being a provider. No chance.

I found her friendly, and full of odd surprises. She had no top teeth and instead wore a good-looking set of dentures. I would never have known if she hadn’t pointed them out—I may have complimented her teeth. When I offered to share my cocaine with her, she took timid puffs, as if she didn’t want to get high. I was new at this whole crack ho thing; it never occurred to me this was something to be concerned about, a red flag. I was perhaps the worst possible influence on dear Amy, though I never acted in any way but polite and generous.

Amy had a special needs daughter (Aspberger’s spectrum, I believe), wide eyed with ADHD, maybe PTSD, and who knows what other ominous acronyms applied, and her Mom was fighting the doctor’s recommendation to medicate her.

Amy may have been the only ho I engaged who was being formally exploited. She was in a constant state of high alertness, jumpiness, and her driver needed to know where she was every fifteen minutes. I expect the guy was probably a real shitbag, as most of the guys living off crack hos are. A couple of times over the short few days I knew her, she seemed to be pressing me to learn or remember the name, “Amy” from Falmouth or Cumberland, she told me nicknames using that sound, like Amielie, and Ami.

She stopped at my house the day after our first encounter, at my urging, with her daughter in tow—talkative and inquisitive and out of control, who found and pressed the lever on my refrigerator door to grind out ice cubes onto the floor and would sit entertained in front of the TV if someone was in the room with her. I had simultaneous but conflicting designs which involved getting my hands all over her Mom’s tits and ass. The little girl won, of course. This lovely, talkative, damaged, and precocious girl would be a difficult addition to any family, but a disaster really, for my poor Amy from Falmouth or Yarmouth or Cumberland, with no money, no job, no place to live, and no teeth. She would never make a living being a provider. No chance. And I wish her nothing but good luck and blessings.