Joanna Tenenouser, a retired librarian from Petaluma, California, passed peacefully in her sleep the day before her ninety-eighth birthday from an unexpected heart attack. Even though a failing heart took her away from this world, her loving heart left a beacon of light for all in the community.
Joanna loved spending time in the kitchen, creating delicious meals for the neighborhood children, who would gather around the kitchen table for after-school cookies and loved listening to Joanna’s stories about her travels. She was a skilled piano player and filled her home with classical music. Most weekends were spent as a volunteer at the local soup kitchen.
Joanna will be honored in a beach-side celebration of life next Friday. Visiting hours are from 6 – 9 pm, with a short ash scattering ceremony at sunset.
Joanna’s only living relative, Joel Arnott, knew his great grandmother to be a saintly woman who led a quiet life, or so he thought. In going through her possessions, deciding what to donate and what to keep, he came across a padlocked steamer trunk.
When he clipped the lock and opened it, he was hit with the scent of old tobacco mixed with saddle soap, and inside were several beautiful vintage circus posters of the bearded lady, the sword swallower, and one featuring his grandmother, who was not only a big top hoochie-coochie girl that went by the stage name, Hannah Hoagie, but according to several yellowed and brittle newspaper clippings, was also a member of the Beautiful Bordello Bandits, the notorious all-female bank robber gang that somehow managed to evade the authorities and capture during their sixty robbery run.
The elegance palace in which I work is huge, larger than most I have seen in the city, with at least two thousand working girls at an average age of twenty-five, which is fairly decent for a bordello.
In the center of the Hostess Center, there is a big stage, where a live band sets the mood of the palace. Why a live band at a sex shop? To help break the ice. Most of the clients are intimidated when they first walk in, which means it is the hostess’s job to make them relax via a series of activities.
One such activity is the Single Mingle, where I must dance with a client if they ask me. Refusing a client a dance means I am forced to pay a penalty. To date there was only one time I was ever tempted to face being fined. It was with a client who looked old enough to have great, great, great, great grandchildren.
He kept pulling me in close by the waist and I could feel his erection poking my thigh. Hard enough to sex four women at once. But that was the only solid thing about him. His grip around my waist was feeble and he had a body tremor that he desperately tried to suppress. My guess is that he was rounding the corner on eighty and found a pill that gave him an eighteen-year-old’s erection. Problem was if I kissed him hard enough he’d have a heart attack, so instead, I danced him around until his hard-on caught up with his age and sent him on his way. I considered that my senior citizen service for the month.
Not all of my clients are one-offs, though. I have a regular, a blind man, and if it is possible for a woman in my line of work to have a favorite, then he is mine. A hassle-free man that I do not have to dress up in silly costumes for or pretend to be someone else. Our sessions are almost always the same. Short, but sincere small talk, followed by kissing and heavy petting, then a massage followed by a leg hump in cowgirl position until he ejaculated. The very first time I put his erection between my lubricated thighs and moved up and down for several minutes, he exploded easily.
When it was over, he asked, “Did you use a rubber?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
It caught me off guard, the way he asked. If I am being honest, I felt a little insulted that he thought I was so filthy that he could contract a disease from me from a simple leg hump. I wanted to tell him what I pack is far worse than any STD he could ever imagine.
“Is it really all right with you?” he asked.
Then I understood. He thought he was inside me. I chuckled and explained who I was, what I was capable of and what I actually did.
“Taking advantage of a blind man, eh?” If he was hurt, I could not detect it.
“That is not it at all. You did not know who I was. You did not come here looking to beat the odds or for an easy way to die. You did not judge me based on my appearance. I was not a spectacle. So, what I gave you was pleasure and allowed you to keep your life.”
He reached out for my hand and I took his. “I’m not sure how happy I am being deceived like that, but it felt real. The best I’ve ever had.”
And the damnedest thing happened. Despite the fact that I sell sex and death for money and I hate my job, this blind man paid me a compliment that made me feel good about myself. Pathetic, I know, but you have to take the good bits as they come.
And for the record, for all you that might think a leg hump is lazy, let me tell you that it is more work and harder to make a man ejaculate than either manual or oral stimulation.
Now, I hear you asking, “If you can do all this then why do you kill so many men?”
Human men die because human men are stupid! I offer them options but they always want what is worst for them. Who wants any other orifice when they have access to a taboo killer vagina?
E-mail. I get e-mail. Tons of email. The two most frequently asked questions are:
Can I get your private number, because I’d like to date you outside of work?
Do you know such-and-such-girl on such-and-such-floor? If so, can you put in a good word for me? I think we’d be great together.
Answer #1: No, because I’m off the market. Despite the fact that the devotion pact I made with my husband dissolved the moment he died, he is still the husband of my heart and I will never take another. I am, however, in a steady relationship with an ex-floor manager here at the prex, the nature of which is none of your business.
Micha isn’t attractive to me… in the same way none of you humans are, not that this is your fault… your race is simply not designed to be alluring to my race. I chose Micha as a companion because I feel safe being with him. Working in the same field, I don’t have to hide anything and that makes me feel good about the chances of our relationship staying the course.
Answer #2:I’m no matchmaker. You want to pick up a working girl at the prex? Do your own legwork.
The first thing you need to realize is only we’re allowed to call each other girls.
Prex girls are women.
And despite what we do for a living and the abuse we put up with on the job, we are interested in finding good men, the same as most other women. Especially since we meet so many different kinds of men everyday at work, and ninety-nine percent of them don’t even come close to being on their best behavior.
So if you want to be selected by a prex girl, you really need to be outstanding.
The worst tactic to try is becoming the object of your affection’s regular customer. You are no longer dating material at that point, you’re a revenue stream that dries up when you attempt to cross over into the relationship zone. Prex girls know how to treat clients, and rarely, if ever reveal their true intentions to the clientele, so the girl you fall in love with might not be the girl you wind up with if you manage to finagle a date this way.
Is it true that prex girls only date the staff?
Ummm, yes, that’s mostly true, but mainly because it’s a safe bet. Working together, you get to know the real facts about this particular job. And it’s easier for a girl to open up and feel comfortable being honest. Giving of yourself in open truth is always preferable to giving of yourself in guarded truth, if you understand my meaning.
So, are you saying I should get a job at the elegance palace?
Absolutely not!
You wouldn’t be the first guy who thought they could land a quick job here and go girl hunting. Prex girls are very sensitive about this and can spot an intruder and sniff out your intentions in an instant. You’ll be avoided so hard you’ll swear you had leprosy.
If you really want to date a prex girl, never step foot in the prex, and meet them somewhere else, at a location that has nothing to do with the escort, sex, or adult star industries.
How am I supposed to know they’re prex girls, then?
There’s a term I’m encountering more and more that started on the message boards that has finally made it’s way to the prex.
Princess.
I can’t tell you how much I hate it.
Girls in my line of work offer their flesh to men for money, not pleasure. Why use such a beautiful word to describe someone they can’t be bothered to treat half as beautifully?
Is it because the men who pay for sex don’t want to own up to the fact they bought the act of ejaculating? Because the memory of being with a beautiful and experienced woman is tarnished by the reality of cash exchanging hands?
Does princess magic all the bad stuff away? If they drill the word into their everyday vocabulary, does it make it seem like they respect the girls. If it makes them feel good, then isn’t it good word to use?
The truth of the matter is they reduce the sense of sin of buying sex when they use the word. After they’ve enjoyed the sex play and before the guilt sets in, they start calling us princess.
Worse are the ones who practically live at the prex and feel they’re experts in the field and try to lecture you on what an honor it is to work at the prex because so many smart and entrepreneurial girls working in the field.
They want to think their behavior is right. Wake up, you just bought a prostitute! It’s not respectable. Whenever you say, “I spend my time with lot a of pretty princesses.” what you’re actually saying is, “I feel like a man when I pay cute girls to fellate me.”
If you want to get off properly, you should just be honest. Don’t say things like, “I’m going to the castle to see my princess.” just say, “I’m going to a whore house to see a prostitute because I want to have sex with somebody instead of being alone at home, giving myself a French handshake.”
There’s a girl at work who calls herself Shrinking Violetta. In very high demand because she’s the best submissive you’ll ever have the chance to meet. And we’re not talking role play submissive, either. She is the genuine article, a true submissive.
When you hire her, she serves you from the bottom of her heart. None of that pretend nonsense of addressing one another as Mistress, Master or Slave, or negotiating limits of submissiveness. Vi has the uncanny ability to anticipate her client’s needs and fulfill them before they ask, sometimes before they’re even aware they wanted it.
I know this first hand because she demonstrated her talent for me. You must understand I have no desire to control anyone, but the attention Vi paid to my every desire was a heady experience and though I never need to do it ever again, I enjoyed myself immensely and I’m honored that she shared her skill with me.
I plan to talk about Vi and her amazing abilities in depth, with her consent, of course, or maybe give her a chance to vent as a guest blogger at a later date. This post, however, deals with a completely different matter, a non-sexual reality about working this business that saddens me.
I gave you the brief insight into Vi so that you may understand just how popular she is. She’s the only one of us that consistently books clients the instant her high-heeled foot touches prex floor.
So, one day when her line of clients ran out the door and the rest of us fought for scraps, Vi dashed into the changing room to slip into her business attire and left her purse in the room. And she wouldn’t be the first. Lots of girls leave their bags on the table instead of their lockers, because this place had been safe for long time. When she returned to the room, as you might have guessed, she found some of her money was missing.
At first, she thought she misplaced it and looked all over, but it never turned up. It wasn’t a little bit of money, either. It took several days to make that money. She worked prex subbing during the day and hostessing at night. She made that money selling her obedience. She made it selling her flesh that was soft and smooth but now covered with welts and bruises. She needed that money to pay off her loans.
We all had an idea who the thief could have been. Vi, heart as large as the sun, helped out her best friend, Shirley, by getting her a waitressing job at the prex. It’s not the best gig and you have to constantly fend off gropers and develop a thick skin against derogatory comments, but at least you’re not being penetrated by the clientele.
Come to find out that Shirley really isn’t such a good friend because she was extremely displeased to discover a guy she likes was one of Vi’s regulars. Not that jealousy was a good enough reason to steal someone’s hard earned cash, but you could have understood the revenge angle. But other things have gone missing since Shirley started working the prex. Make-up, clothes, jewelry and not the expensive stuff, either. Just junky costume stuff, but still, it was the principle of the thing.
A couple of the girls confronted Shirley Swiper, a name that surfaced almost the instant she became a suspect, but she denied stealing anything and there was no proof so the whole matter was dropped. There really isn’t a point to this other than venting frustration on how shitty people can be to working girls. Even friends. Needless to say we all use the lockers now.
The elegance palace I work at is huge, larger than most I’ve seen in the city, with at least two thousand working girls at an average age of twenty-five, which is pretty decent for a bordello.
In the center of the Hostess Center, there’s a big stage, where a live band sets the palace’s mood. Why a live band at a sex shop? To help break the ice. Most of the clients are pretty intimidated when they first walk in, so it’s the hostess’s job to make them relax.
One of the activities is the Single Mingle, where I have to dance with a client if they ask me. Refusing a client the dance means I have to pay a penalty. The only time I was ever tempted to pay was when this client who looked like he had great, great, great, great grandchildren, asked me to dance.
He kept pulling me in close by the waist and I could feel his erection poking my thigh. Hard enough to sex four women at once. But that was the only solid thing about him. His grip around my waist was feeble and he had a body tremor that he desperately tried to suppress. My guess is that he was rounding the corner on eighty and found a pill that gave him an eighteen year old erection. Problem is if I kissed him hard enough he’d have a heart attack, so instead I danced him around until his hard on caught up with his age and sent him on his way. I considered that my senior citizen service for the month.
***
I have a regular customer, a blind man, and if it’s possible for a girl in my line of work to have a favorite, then he’s mine. A hassle-free man that I don’t have to dress up in silly costumes for or pretend to be someone else. Our sessions are almost always the same. Short, but sincere small talk, followed by kissing and heavy petting, then a massage followed by a leg hump in cowgirl position until he ejeculates. The very first time I put his erection between my lubricated thighs and moved up-down for several minutes, he exploded easily.
When it was over, he asked, “Did you use a rubber?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
It caught me off guard, the way he asked. If I’m honest, I felt a little insulted that he thought I was so filthy that he could get a disease off me from a simple leg hump. I wanted to tell him what I pack is far worse than any STD he could ever imagine.
“Is it really all right with you?” he asked.
Then I understood. He thought he was inside me. I chuckled and explained who I was, what I was capable of and what I actually did.
“Taking advantage of a blind man, eh?” If he was hurt, I couldn’t detect it.
“That’s not it at all. You didn’t know who I was. You didn’t come here looking to beat the odds or for an easy way to die. You didn’t judge me based on my appearance. I wasn’t a spectacle. So, what I gave you was pleasure and let you keep your life.”
He reached out for my hand and I took his. “I’m not sure how happy I am being deceived like that, but it felt real. The best I’ve ever had.”
And the damnedest thing happened. Despite the fact that I sell sex and death for money and I hate my job, this blind man paid me a compliment that made me feel good about myself.
Pathetic, I know, but you have to take the good bits as they come.
And for the record, for all you that might think a leg hump is lazy, let me tell you that it’s more work and harder to make a man ejaculate than either manual or oral stimulation.
Now, I hear you asking, “If you can do all this then why do you kill so many men?”
Human men die because human men are stupid! I offer them options but they always want what’s worst for them. Who wants any other orafice when they have access to a taboo killer vagina?
MADD FICTIONAL 