I just woke up with an excruciating cramp in my calf from a dream of kicking a man in the head. The man in my dream does exist. And so did that incident, unfortunately. It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve been paid for, but there are plenty of stories I could share. I mean I could go on forever, but here’s just a few who have earnt their place in my weird and wonderful memory bank. (Don’t worry, I’ll leave out the icky ones so you don’t choke on your breakfast.)
We’ve all seen The Adventures of Pinocchio, and can remember the old guy, Mr Geppetto, who created the “real boy” (creepy, or just me?) Well I once had a man pay me several times to let his friend play puppets with my boobs. Each time there was a different storyline with a different pair of characters. The longest session was Mr Lefty and Mrs Righty’s trip to the beach, which lasted an hour and cost around $600. What I found strange about it is that he didn’t seem aroused at all. It was like watching a child play with dolls. Which is probably even creepier, now that I think about it.
I once had a man ask if he could pay me to cut my thighs. He couldn’t understand why I turned down his invitation.
I was always a magnet for people with sniffing fetishes. Now, I know what you’re probably thinking, but sniffers could be satisfied with any sort of scent at all; arms, hair… armpits and feet were going a little too far for me, personally.
An “Old French Massage” sounds like something most women would pay top dollar for in high- end day spas. But the name takes on a whole new meaning when you find yourself in a private room with an old French man who is paying to massage your semi- naked body. This self- proclaimed master masseuse was from New Caledonia and visited once every few months. He would stay for two weeks at a time and would make nightly visits during his entire stay. Each night he would book up to three girls, one at a time, and they would leave the private room wearing nothing but baby oil and awkward, (yet oddly relaxed,) expressions. How old Frenchy could afford hour after hour of wasted lap dance time, or have the energy to massage girl after girl, I do not know, but “Petite Fleur” certainly became a well- known nickname throughout the club.
There once was a man who paid girls to act dead. One of my friends was “fired” for breathing too much. They would lie still for an hour at a time and Mr Necrophilliac would sit back… sip his red wine… and watch. What a pleasant way to unwind after a hard day at work. (Surely there’d be something to watch on TV?)
I had a regular customer who would book me specifically to stand on his thighs in sharp stilettos, pull his hair, slap him, choke him, kick him in places which could be potentially harmful to his fertility, and occasionally punch him. This was particularly useful for days when I could no longer stand the male species and needed to let off steam.
I somehow acquired a personal foot puppy. This is how it went: He bought me shoes, I’d take a photo of my feet in them, then swap the photo for another pair, and so on. My shoe collection doubled that month. He called me Princess in the few messages he did send me, asking which shoe brands and toe nail polish colours I preferred.
Being booked by a couple is always an odd experience. Especially since the woman is often paid for, so the drunken male, who wants to make the most of his time with her, spends your entire session on top of her, which unfortunately leaves you with no other option than to become a forced spectator to the alcohol- fuelled mess of entangled sweaty bodies before you. I’m telling you, some things can never be unseen.
One time I met a man with a thing for unicorns. He tied my bright pink hair in a ponytail which he raised above my head with one hand, and stroked my nose with his other hand, making soft cooing noises.
Two words: period fetish.
Another two words: no thanks.
Okay, that’s enough for now, before I throw up my own breakfast.