netmichelle

Posted on 01-30-2005 at 2:39am Belladonna Movies

I was very happy to learn you will shave your head next week for the Do Not Disturb DVD bonus. I am definively a big fan of your bald look. Can you disclose some more info: will you shave yourself or who will do it for you? I hope you will do it full with razor an foam. Any plan for doing the eyebrowns in the same scene? I have also seen that NetMichelle has shaved her head begin January and posted a few pics on her site. Some time ago she spoke about having a scene with you. Any news about it ? I wish all the best for all you 3. --Jean-Paul

"I am going to have to shave it myself because I cannot find another helping hand. I will be shaving it down and then taking a mach 3 razor and cream to go totally bald. I do not have plans to do the eyebrows. I like net Michelle with a shaved head!! I need to do a scene with her for my site!! Thanks alot..." --Bella
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Posted on 01-30-2005 at 8:43am Fan Mail
Me too! I am dying to work with you girl! LOL. Seriously, whenever, wherever, I am so there, you are my fav. Saving myself for you... http://www.robertlonghitano.com/sg/DSC_2878.jpg --netmichelle

"I know I have been talking about it for years now!! I need to get together with you and do some nasty content for our sites!! I promise it will happen soon!!!" --Bella


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http://www.enterbelladonna.com

Boys, and germs, I am shaving head again, for art, lust and the greater erection. Synch your watches for mid afternoon tomorrow.

Miss ya all. More updates to come!!

I think I am going to do this Route 66 thing OFTEN. I have been having so much fun. I know I am freezing my butt off but I have seen the largest cross in America, a round barn, outlet centers for cheap fireworks, tobacco, and alcohol, titty bars and lots of amusing rednecks. I cannot believe that I have traversed the red states unscathed. Lemme pinch my butt.

I have been coming up with lots of interesting thoughts while driving. I will post them soon, along with the shaved head photo shoot.

Thanks Daygoguy! That was an amazing show!!
http://www.fashionistastheshow.com/

So while I am concockting mayhem for the masses via a tour schedule like an ovulating lemming, my new puppy is licking my bald head. Maybe I should change her name to Pamela Anderson.

Jan 10-13 Phoenix, AZ
Jan 14 Sante fe, NM
Jan 18 Oklahoma City
Jan 20 Kansas City
Jan 21 St. Louis
Jan 23 Indianapolis
Jan 25 Pittsburgh
Jan 26-28 Philadelphia
Jan 29 Columbus, Ohio
Jan 31-feb 2 Los Angeles
Feb 3 San Francisco
Feb 5 Maryland
Feb 7 Princeton, NJ
Feb 8-11 Manhattan
Feb 13 Hempstead, LI
Feb 14 Fire Island, LI
Feb 15 Southampton, LI
Feb 17 Hartford, CT
Feb 18-19 Saratoga, NY
Feb 22-24 Burlington, VT

I shaved my head! I feel SUPER naked.
(wow)

Were you all naughty or nice all year?

I had a suprise present, a Staffordshire Bull Terrier puppy was thrown into my lap. I worked on a type of brain cancer when I was a vaccine formulist, and the exact same tumor is killing a neighbor of mine's girlfriend. She was in remission they got the puppy then she got headaches again and then the MRI confirmed it. The cancer was back again. Very sad. It is a short rotation on the record player, things come around again. Over and over.

http://www.enterbelladonna.com/guests/page.php?node=freevideo&videoinfo=Free+Sample+Trailer+Clip+-+Ryan+Conner+%26+Bella&ref=http://www.evilangel.com/movies/trailers/Belladonna/maih-d2-320.mov

Yeah, I am doing this super hot shoot planned for around AVN time in Vegas with a photographer I have worked with a lot. It involves a Playboy Playmate, uh...yummy! Can't say details, but it is going to be cool. Guess I will be wearing wigs for awhile, but hey, those black sisters of mine have got it going on. Perfect hair 24/7? Yep! I am so there.

Understood. I am this big soupy mix of feelings and passions and I like it. THE REASON WHY I WANT TO BE WITH YOU AFTERWARDS IS THAT I WANT TO DIGEST EVERYTHING AND FEEL YOU EVEN MORE INTENSELY, (ooops caps lock, sorry.) I want to see you, maybe it is a reflexive instinct, should I find a reason to push you away, or to fall deeper, or more intensely to where I have no control, which is ultimately good. (yes/no?) I need an outlet these churning feelings are driving me nuts...or should I cap them like fireflies in a jar and watch them find the invisible walls of no way out. Profound? no, but I do like to imagine. I draw outside the lines. I don't mind. You know me.

And now you are asleep, and I sit here, knowing the real you behind the caustic abrasive wit. I know you because you are like me. Or are we different? I have not tasted you enough to know. Did I become a crazy woman, because I half-felt something that could be construed as nothing...did I imagine it all? am I adding frosting to something that has melted? I am thinking too much, and not enough, I have slipped, fallen but I enjoy the support of the concrete. When I go to sleep I will think of the weight of the air as you. A sea of questionmarks, and an ocean of my own making. I am lost but I am found. Claim me.

Oh yeah, and I reek of ciggies. What would Vegas do without it's ashtrays and vats of ethanol?

I did some insanely good work with a photog out there, and picked up a CD of other images. Another update is going to occur, if I can get through my hurdles in a timely fashion, there shall be stereophonic visuals for all of your paid members of my site. Oh yeah, I am shooting super hot kinky monkey BJ action at the end of the month. Better lose your mind now. I cannot help you later. LOL. OooOOoooOoo almost forgot: shooting with a Plyboy bunny for an erotic fetish watersport shoot in Jan during AVN. Suprise. No, I will not. No, you must wait and see. Ha-ha!

Can you wear (deleted) I got it bad. It is like I can smell you, I close my eyes and feel you. I want to....hmmmmm....mmmmmm......feel you press against me. I like the weight of you pushing up next to me. Spooning. Relaxing. Feeling. Knowing.

(dleted)

I am going to sleep and I am going to think about you laying on top of me, pressing into me, and making me feel complete. Well, it should drive you nuts that the emotion is real. It drives me nuts right now. Makes me feel bittersweet about leaving. Okay enough of that. (deep breaths) Why do I feel like I have a stone in my throat and like my forearms feel like dead weights dripped in orange acid when I type this. You are the only reason why I have been checking my e-mail as of late, and why I smile to myself when I stop at red lights in my car.

Yeah, but you aren't perfect. Don't worry. No obession. You spent way too much time at DATY, you could slam me a little harder with my legs over my head in Mish, you could grab my hair and kiss me, and hold me really tight. You could look at me deep in my eyes and do nothing, while you pin me down with your hands on mine, then don't kiss me, but breathe very slowly all over me.

Everyone leaves. That is the beauty. It is fun and then, it is over. Right? I know. It is easy when we forget and hard when we remember. May I never remember, may I never forget. I wrote that last sentence on my wall after my building burned down. It makes the most sense. It is sometimes after all that I have been through...all that I know by heart.

It is easier being alone. I like the fact that people can't hurt me. But that is so easy and safe. I prefer the (deleted) edge. Show me you blade and I will show you worlds you have never dreamed of. Then *poof* I will be gone. Like a comet I will come around again. I wish I had a center. A gravitational pull. Till then, I am in orbit. Floating.

Nettie:
 
   After reading your post in regard to your tryst with BeBeDoll,I have come to one conclusion. You are very scary!
 
   Legend has it, that when God created woman, Saint Peter was present as his assistant. As God was fashioning her vagina he asked Peter to hand him ten extrasensory nerves. "My Lord" Peter replied. I suggest you rethink this number! "These are the most powerful weapons in your arsenal and they are the one's that will insure that mankind procreates and populates the earth with children, wrought in your image!" God thought about this for a minute, and then he said to Saint Peter. "You're right!" "Give me twenty!" "I want her to scream my name when they kick in!"
 
  Bottom line dear, I thing El Supremo had a hangover when he created you. I think every neural grid in your entire body terminates at your pussy! I have been a very lucky individual in my life, and I have been with some woman whom I have deemed to be insatiable, but, after being a member of (deleted) for (deleted) months, I'm convinced that you are the quintessential Sine Qua Non of a pure sexual being. I've always thought I was the horniest being on the planet. You put me to shame! If sex alone would provide you with the necessary elements to support life, there is no doubt in my mind that you would eschew all other means of sustenance. I am truly in awe of your sexuality. God bless you, and that is no small praise, coming from an agnostic!
 
                                           Faithfully TER,
                                                (deleted)
 
P.S. Your body art is intoxicating!

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i am extremely disappointed with you, (deleted)
am also very upset, after reading your inexcusable diatribe on
(deleted) attacking (deleted) (among others). Whoever else hurt you,
(deleted) is certainly not to be blamed for your behavior or your
decisions.  Nor can she really be blamed for not satisfying your
needs or hidden agenda.

When you and I last spoke, I told you quite clearly that I sent you
home because you were the problem, not her. You were the problem
because you brought emotional baggage on that trip and had a
private agenda, to which neither (deleted) nor I were privy nor players.
If you felt hurt & pain from this encounter, you should have dealt
with it privately, not in a public forum.  The only benifit there
is self-serving.

Curiously, both she and I independently apologized for any pain we
might have caused you.  Yet, I did not receive an apology from you
for nearly torpedoing my holiday.

did I make a mistake in befriending you, (deleted)I thought that
you had more integrity and character then this; but without an
apology to her, you should not count on my friendship in the
future.
(deleted)

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I apologize for nothing. If friendships are this tenuous and require demanded apologies like faked orgasms then this friendship will easily break in the future. I tell it how I see it. I am climbing this mountain and if you don't like what I write about then don't click on it.

Things are picking up speed before I leave at the end of the year. I feel redemption. I feel a stirring in my senses. I feel alive.

I just got back from San Diego and Long Beach and I worked with a bunch of photographers. The work is stunning. for those of you that are members, hold on, I will update with new images. this one is a sneak peak! You like? Heh-heh. Just wait and see. I will blow your mind.

I need to wear some bright red lipstick and squirt the perfume! Maybe hit the dance floor and shake my thing... I need to remember how to flirt and play hard to get.

Not all women who claim to be bisexual are indeed bisexual. Most of the egregious psycho behavior I have received has come from women. They are vindictive. They have hidden cards that they play when you thought the game was over. Being fucked over by a woman is definitely worse than a guy. Some of the women in this game have no business being a player. They don't abide by the rules and they will cut a sister down to make a buck, all the while smiling at the chick in public. Bad karma does not happen fast enough for them.

Guys just basically want to get laid. I don't blame them. Each guy has different orgasms. Sometimes the second pop is larger than the first. Sometimes they shoot their load when they are semi-erect. Sometimes they shoot at the drop of a hat, and other times it takes hours. Sometimes they direct me like traffic, other times they just sit there like they are getting their teeth cleaned.

I have two serious fetishes with men: I love a furry chest, and I love to watch a man whack himself off. Nothing is hotter than watching a guy pleasure himself.

A little giddy, and it isn't the wine. Kinda like that g-force pull on the gut in a tight turn with a sports car.

Hurry up and put me out of my misery.

I am giving up my swank apt at the beach and tossing stuff and hitting the highway in search of myself and where the road takes me. Blastoff is January 1st.

I have been working on the website, I got approval, and Webmaster hooked the code today, so in about 48 hrs, the gates will be open. CHARGE!!

So I really have to get enough content out and often to make it worthwhile. I just edited out 900 images! I am doing all the editing and dirty work. I hope to keep people signed when they get on board. Some of the images look repetitive but I wanted to create a story line and show how good models work, that a small hand movement here and a bit of breast revealed there makes all of the difference in a stunning image. Some of the sets are hypnotizing, and pull you in deep to a special place. Others are whimsical. Then there are the money shots for all you horndoggies.

This photo is fun because it shows me as a defiant slave. I am portrayed as a submissive but I am resisting by pulling on my leash.

The holidays are a real wierd time for me. I usually just hold my breath all the way from now till Easter. It seems that half of the year is filled with hope, remembrance, forgiveness, and family. All of this stuff drives single people such as myself just nuts.

What am I thankful for? I suppose I am thankful for all sorts of things, but mostly the open skies, the wind on my skin and for now the coffee in my coffee cup that always gets lukewarm and bittersweet before I can finish it. Isn't that what life is like anyhow? Bittersweet till the short end.

Marriage and kids are out for me on this spin around the pole of lifetimes. I would not change anything, but I think I would have climbed more mountains if that was even possible. I would like to get back to Tibet. I am sure it has changed a lot since I was sixteen.

Maybe I would have passed one more car when I was racing that Lambourghini last summer on PCH in my turbo. And then I wish I could have flipped off a few more people on my way out of their lives. (laughing.)

I wish I would have planted more trees, so that when I go back to the places I have been I can watch them grow and see how much I have grown as well.

I hope to God, when I am old, I am a righteous woman, tattooed, wrinkled and with a furry bush, sitting on my porch and watching the world spin slowly by. By the way, my website hit 350,000 hits yesterday alone.

Okay here ya go! Unretouched, the real deal. (cymbal crash!) Ask and ye shall receive! There are more raunchy ones, but frankly, I cannot show them here.

Good news, I got approved by a payment processor after monkeying with my site for over a month, so this means you guys can most likely log in and sign up tomorrow. Thanks for being patient. I will update once a week, so let me know what you like and what you want to see more of when you get in.

Feeling dark, sultry, and very naughty right now.

I have been paying attention to all the griping about inflated rates and I can appreciate that everyone must start saving for the holidays, so I have decided to drop my rates throughout the holidays entirely. I have given this a lot of consideration, and I can say that from my viewpoint, I enjoy spending time with self made individuals and not gentlemen that throw money around to excuse their pompous behavior.

I can fully understand the position from the gentleman's perspective of maximizing his dollar, but what is more important for me, is the type of individual that I choose to spend time with. I have said it before, but I have found that the gentlemen that work harder for their dollar are often times more loving, respectful, considerate and interesting than a whiny trust fund buffoon.

Yeah, it was surreal and pretentious as hell, but what does one expect in Los Angeles? A whole flock of jumping, writhing Playboy bunnies were zooming in front of Hugh Heffner like the secret service, plowing the way for the allmighty nipped and tucked satin collared pornlord. The guy went right past my booth, and I should have stuck out my 8" stiletto to trip him but I was just in awe: the guy is so tiny and smug he looks like a action figure toy in a happy meal. Shiny and not fully functional.

My jaw feels much, much better. I am now upgrading up the food chain to semi solid foods and switching to Advil. My doctor was really impressed with how much I have healed. I am ready to play now, so come out, come out wherever you are!

I did get a bucket load of hits on my website, so I guess passing out those free photos and magnets really helped. The website is coming along, and it is starting to take shape.

I am off to go check out a used car for my exodus east. I am getting excited about pulling up roots and hitting the highway. No officer, I am not smuggling anything only g-strings, whip and chains, and enough lube to loosen up the most uptight conservative. 2005 is going to be a whole lot of fun.

I just made 133 magnets for Glamourcon! I am really stoked. I making a huge vinyl banner 6 feet long and 4 feet wide with my nekkid tattooed white trash butt on it. I also have oversize posters and 8x10's being made. I am giving all the guys at Kinko's major woodies over this one! Still waiting approval on the paysite.

I am busting my ass for Glamourcon in Los Angeles this weekend.

http://www.glamourcon.com/

I am nervous as hell because I haven't been able to work out, my face is puffy and my jaw is killing me. Today is the first day I have felt coherent, but I am in major pain. Well at least I look skinny from not being able to eat. Pathetic. I sent off for a huge vinyl banner, some poster sized prints and snowglobes. I am making free magnets to give out. I am loading pages as fast as I can to get the website approved for payment processing. I am going to read RuPaul's autobiography for inspiration.

Pain, pain, and more pain. I got very little work done.

On the bright side: Boston Legal is on TV tonight, and there is this under rated thing called sleep which I think is supposed to make me feel better. Or at least it said so on the application page for the job called a human being.

I haven't forgiven anyone, but I have ceased to run the tape in my head over and over.

This week has been the odd week from hell on many levels, and today was the day from a firm, visceral and fetid hell. If I had a fuck you very much for each instance, I would yank out their wisdom teeth, yell at their windows when they are sleeping and say so who want's to fuck me while I sit by idly with a strap on.

Excuse me while I go spit some blood and get an ice pack. I have reached my limit for this utter XX chromosomal ineptitude. The post-op sheet says day two and three are the worst. I can hardly wait for day three. Today took the cake.

OMG I was so nervous I did that fish kiss thing which I hate! Sweat was running down my back, and I just could not stop smiling all night. I think I have one photo somewhere where my forehead vein was popping out from excitement. (Not pretty.) You will have to wait till the pay site goes up, but let's just say I have several witnesses and photos to proove how much fun I had. Hell yeah!

PS. Since I am rather incapacitated, I promise to respond to all your e-mails now.

This was less I think around Feb of this year with Belladonna. I always find a way to get naked around that woman! If you look, the top flower wasn't done yet, and the middle one was half finished.

Look I have blond dreadlocks!

Got my wisdom tooth yanked today. I am in a lot of pain, but I ran across this great old photo of me and Belladonna. If you look my tattoo it was just outlined with some black ink shading. I look so cute. Damn Bella is hot. YUMMMY!

I know I have been quiet. Just thought I would stick my head in here. Still working on the website, and you will see some new stuff: the Amnesty Intl. banner has replaced the Kerry banner, the bio page has a hot new photo that you can DOWNLOAD, go ahead, I know you have been trying (wink)...Paysite goes up by Nov. 20 due to glitch, on my part. I messed up on a slew of photos, but there will now be a whole lot of content up soon!

Just got back from Chicago. Geez, if guys get any nicer to me I am going to be falling in love pretty soon. Quick, somebody get a shovel, we have a melt down in the Chicago O'Hare airtport...lol...

ooo! I am spending a week with a hot girlfriend around Napa. Can life get any better?

Bizarre magazine called. I think they want me to shoot with them!

Off to Chi-town to do some more model gigs, then up to SF. I actually turned down a model gig that was for paid work in Chicago, I just could not motivate myself to work with this person. Sometimes if their work is really bad I can get into it because it is campy, or so benign it gets fun and I get silly trying to keep the Warhol movie charade, but this was really harsh: old website, looking home brewed and a tad sleazy but not really enough to make it worthwhile. Not one bit cool even in a 70's porn way. *sigh*

This is some work by Manta Ray in the Bay Area. That shoot was a blast!

am transferring my ass to New England next year.

I am completely blown away? Bush won? This is a dream right? I am going to Canada. Who is with me?

I had to postpone my SD tour: one photographer cancelled and only one client verified so I bought a 12-pack and order probably my last Domino's Pizza before my Glamourcon convention in Los Angeles. I am splitting my beer with my webmaster I am ahead by two beers; he is working on his first. Wuss.

I am seriously excited about my trip to Chicago. I have someone that has agreed to tag along to Quimby's on the L and to that other fine used bookstore I love so much. I am so partial to old buildings, with books. It just makes me so excited and nuts: I love the smell of old paper. I should have been a librarian. I think I will feel him up in the stacks when he isn't looking.

As an artist it is a serious thing me going ahead with this pay site. I know I am onto something, sometimes I come up with something and I break out into hives, it just is searingly right! Fresh, new and unexpected. I think it is time to take the porn industry for a ride. Be patient: I know you all want in, just hold on.


I will be in chat tonight on TER if you want to log on: 6-8 pm. PST I think.

So, I should have known that something fishy was up. I got an e-mail from a super hot model, you know: blond, 5'2" 95 pounds and 25 and oh-so-yummy...I know...I know. I fell for the bait like all you other guys. She tells me of a group shoot then the coin and directives, so I travel in my long stretch ghetto fabulous limo also known as the Los Angeles local bus transportation and behold: I am truly in the ghetto. I walk three block and get honked at 6 times (and I look like I could represent, but, it is good to know for the ego boost) so I head upstairs and it is hot, the inadequate fan is running at mach 5...girls are like everywhere man, dancing girls, you know: the ones without a good ass but plenty of cleavage, or some that look like they need their fix, others with pimp hubbies with a careful eye on the property AKA THE WIFEY...oh bother! Here we go. I proceeded to apply the pancake makeup and ended up sweating most of it off, or rolling the rest on the floor. I ended up taking over the shoot. Everyone wanted to shoot the tattooed girl. Later I convinced one of the girls with boobies and a whip to shove her high-heeled shoe on top my ass and play spank me. That rocked. Sorry, since it was a paying dirt bag gig, I did not get copy. So let me translate this. This means that my body will end up photoshoped and yes, you guessed it, I will be published but probably for LA Express or some other spank copy. Now I am responsible for more girls getting spun in the washing machine of the biz. Knock Knock. "Yes? But you aren't the girl in the picture..." LOL! Strange how this life keeps making figure eights on the same piece of ice.

I am going to be working on a pay section of my website. It is going to look radically different, and will have all sorts of stuff that will blow your mind. I am so looking forward to giving you 100% pure unadulturated stuff. I have already been sensored, apparently a link on my links page shows blood sports: Persephone, with a web link to her fetish model site, and I was told to take it down. I haven't even faxed the contract and I am censored. Move over Howard Stern. It is my turn.

Here is the offending link:
https://netmichelle.com/banners/persebanner2.gif

Today, I went on one of those stereotypical photoshoots. LOL!

So, I should have known that something fishy was up. I got an e-mail from a super hot model, you know: blond, 5'2" 95 pounds and 25 and oh-so-yummy...I know...I know. I fell for the bait like all you other guys. She tells me of a group shoot then the coin and directives, so I travel in my long stretch ghetto fabulous limo also known as the Los Angeles local bus transportation and behold: I am truly in the ghetto. I walk three block and get honked at 6 times (and I look like I could represent, but, it is good to know for the ego boost) so I head upstairs and it is hot, the inadequate fan is running at mach 5...girls are like everywhere man, dancing girls, you know: the ones without a good ass but plenty of cleavage, or some that look like they need their fix, others with pimp hubbies with a careful eye on the property AKA THE WIFEY...oh bother! Here we go. I proceeded to apply the pancake makeup and ended up sweating most of it off, or rolling the rest on the floor. I ended up taking over the shoot. Everyone wanted to shoot the tattooed girl. Later I convinced one of the girls with boobies and a whip to shove her high-heeled shoe on top my ass and play spank me. That rocked. Sorry, since it was a paying dirt bag gig, I did not get copy. So let me translate this. This means that my body will end up photoshoped and yes, you guessed it, I will be published but probably for LA Express or some other spank copy. Now I am responsible for more girls getting spun in the washing machine of the biz. Knock Knock. "Yes? But you aren't the girl in the picture..." LOL! Strange how this life keeps making figure eights on the same piece of ice.

You will be happy to know that I am getting a HAIRCUT and yes I did shower after 2 days, however I am intrigued with the hair growing under my armpit. Maybe George Clooney was onto something.

Yep, you guessed it. I am revamping my website. Nope, it isn't done yet. Very cool looking.

Just got back from...One of those whirlwind trips where I think I left vaginal epithelial cells in 2 new England states, and left several broken hearts. Typical.

One of the encounters was with someone younger than me. This is pretty rare. I was pretty flummoxed when I opened the door. I kept thinking cop, but he was getting a freebie (contest winner) so, I tried to calm down. I proceeded to rock his world. (Evil grins).

Met super fun new client and visited the regulars. I wish they all could meet each other. Maybe I will have a party. If I had to pick just one, I couldn't do it. Some may call me a slut; technically I am a polyamourous chick that likes her lifestyle. Purrrrr...

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Just got the sexy haircut. Am I the only girl that goes to her hairdresser without underwear and leaves a big tip? Don't worry, I didn't shave below...

Chastely unchaste.

After having done a few foot fetish shoots, I think I must have one now too. I keep staring at chicks feet and most of the SucideGirl photos I like have added to my stash have to do with feet too. There is a link put on my website that I adore: it is called: "used and abused shoes." Here is the URL:

http://www.abusedshoes.com/


I have recently purchsed some vintage silk stockings, garters and big panties that I think are from the 40's. I can hardly wait to do a shoot with them.

I love Vermont. What else can I say?

It's getting dark, she spies a dim lit garage, she starts to lift her skirt, touching herself, and then the garage attendant screams....

Since I cannot play an instrument, I decided to play my muse.

Tough life, a lot of work, an hour a day, family, respect, tough work, get home get midnight get up at four-thirty, oh yeah, (orange broom swiping at my ankles) 10 years. Exchanging, people come over here from there, learn how to play (inaudible), oh yeah? Wow. Yeah, that’s cool. Yeah. Gotta do waz right or can’t make it very far. (Ready…gate #2.) No smoking allowed. Not an entrance. Restrooms. Plastic string attached to air conditioning grate to prove that it is on. Raiders. Skill work. Steel buildings, rebarb. It’s tedious, its tough. Carry it all on your shoulders. #5 especially. A couple pieces of rebarb doesnt look like much but it is very heavy. Its hard to pay your dues and make your way up.

5 hour wait. Been here for a while. I don’t care, I’ll talk to anybody. They fuck with the people that they are enemies with, but they will leave everybody else to their own. It used to be much rougher. Pot doesnt do much for me. Cold beer sounds real good right now. Can’t drink on the bus. The homie dude? Oh yeah. Yeah. I will take a mess of Tylenol PMs, that is what I need. It’s a long ride.

Greyhound Bus Terminal conversation that I heard, San Francisco
8:03 pm on a Wednesday night.

The thinking man's sex symbol practices her deep suction on thick creamy vanilla bean malts with a cherry red straw. This heroine fights off angry glares from malnourished wannabe MILFS and fleeting stares from their pussy whipped husbands. This is a big City, but this gutsy gal has decided to conquer it, one dick at a time, one lick at a time. Remember when the air was clean and sex was dirty? It takes a dirrrty girl. Come on baby, let get dirty. Uh-huh.

I found out that my booker was working for another escort company. I was thrilled to learn that she was doing well and had a plan to get me in to the company. It was hard for me to get hired in the Los Angeles escort agencies, they would tell me that I was too old, but she knew that I was reliable and not a drug addled flake like the other girls. There was one small problem. I knew the guy who ran the company, and I wanted to go low profile. So she concocted a new name for me and did not put my photo up on the escort website. I was instead the new girl who was saving up money for pictures. This worked out perfectly. The money was substantially better, and now I started to have confidence. I was getting better clients. When things are good they only last so long.

My booker was a speed junkie. She would work all hours and chat non-stop to my prospective clients on the phone, making me sound like a movie star, a perfect 30s bimbo, a housewife, a college slut, you name it. She was fucking amazing. The problem was that drugs were clouding her judgement. Or that was what I wanted to believe, when in actuality, I realized much later, I was set up. That is all that I can say for now. I will have to wait for more time to pass to elaborate on the details. The individual who was responsible for my demise apologized to me once so profusely that it hit me all of a sudden: that she had quickly carried out her threat to turn me in. Just the thought of her now makes my skin crawl in revulsion.

Now is the time for me to talk about agencies. It is something that I have been reticent to discuss mainly because they are the reason that I came to be. Nobody is born a whore, they are schooled and groomed for this position. Someone had to teach them how. It wasnâ??t easy. I wasnâ??t young or pretty enough. One agency ran by a lady told me that she only takes women that are 18-23 and with long hair. She only gave me the time of day because I was not black. She told me to meet here at a cyber cafe in Hollywood, and she never showed up. She probably saw me and decided to pass. This cafe was later to become important to me. There were many ladies that were prostitutes there, all checking their e-mail and chatting on their cell phones getting ready for their dates, and coming in for food. The place was open 24 hours, so for 2 months this cafe became my second home.

I think working for an agency is like drug running or like bank thievery. It is all a hustle, a scam, a game of smarts, The idea is to not get caught. Play it cool and no one gets get. Make sure that you keep you r eye on the ball and the name of the game is money and the name of the ball is more money. I really donâ??t know how I ended up in this biz. I am a really good natured person. I have never shop lifted, and I have never scammed someone for money. Suddenly I was thrust into a business that I had no business being in. Namely smut. Glorified smut. I had to convince them I was worth giving money to. I had to con everyone that I was better than I was. Basically I was a good looking pan handler.

Let me clarify this. It is so crazy that people have to pay for stuff that they do all the time anyway. Pay for sex? People will have sex anyway. Perhaps we, as providers, we help diminish rapes, we help reduce domestic violence. We keep the familial unit intact. We help keep that big rock of servitude on the finger of the wife. We keep our mouths shut and we take our payment like every other public servant except we know we may be gone tomorrow.

Agencies. I thought slavery was over. The sex trade is alive and well and they will keep shackles on you long after your time is done. They take the prettiest and youngest and then they squeeze the best years of your life out like toothpaste: a little here, a little there, and then one day, you wake up and realize that you donâ??t even have enough for yourself.

When I started I was their darling. Of course I made money. I was new. I didnâ??t know but I was being auctioned as a new girl, my implied virginal state was plied and angled like a fishing line iin the Snake river of Los Angeles. Of course they took the bait, I looked good, smelled good and did not know my ass my mouth.

I was pretty lucky but I got greedy. I started signing up for all the shifts. I was super whore. Better, faster, and more passionate than a politician on a campaign trail. I was determined to be, all that I could be, a w-h-o-r-e. Life was good. Then I started to fuck up. I started looking more ratty, and I had these bags under my eyes that would not go away no matter what I did. I would drive around all night zooming here and there, only to find more often than not, I was not the girl in the picture, and that I would knock on the door and no one would answer.

I started to get upset. I started to bang loudly on those shut doors. I would show up chewing gum because what-the-fuck, I was not giving the fuck, they were paying for my fuck. And fuck them I did. I started to get back at them. I started to give really good service. It was my way of fighting back. Maybe it was my martial arts training but I realized that I was going into the enemy, becoming one with the enemy. It was mind blowing when I turned the tables on them. I was the predator and they were the prey.

I looked deep into their eyes when I went down on them. I grabbed their hair when I fucked them, Occasionally I would lay their in missionary all passive and then I would look at them like a rabid animal and start spanking their ass. I was no longer super whore, I was psycho whore. They would feign to not kiss me and I would suddenly grab them and kiss them, almost violently, this was fun to do as I left them and went out the door. I started making more money. Guys would call up and start asking for me. I was being asked by the agency: What do you do to these guys, they are crazy for you. I shrugged my shoulders. I could care less. I was making money, but more importantly, I was working hard so that I could stay numb. As long as I did not look in the mirror, everything would be okay. Or so I thought.

One night my booker was not there. I made little money. Then that night stretched into three. I was seriously low on cash, and worse yet the agency director started to blame me. What happened. He would demand. Nothing. I went out on the two calls and booked them. Not my fault. I knew that my time as an agency girl was coming to an end.

Thank you for your time that you have taken out of your otherwise productive day to post to my blog. Althought I feel that everyone's opinions have merit, I refuse to subscribe to your raddled drivel and frankly due to their unsalacious and unsalubrious effect I find them to be a desultory diatribe. You will ultimately drown in your own maelstrom.

Peace.

I absolutely love this photo. It sums me up completely.

I think I kissed more girls than I have fingers. Lordy! I am still digesting, more on this later. I think I may get to do a virgin, a virgin girl-girl. This needless to say is making my clitorus a little wigged out. I think I need to go breathe in a brown paper bag a few times.

Who would of thought I could make a few hundred dollars for a foot fetish shoot. No nudity, just my 10 pink piggies. I can still hear him: nice toe point! Good tension! Good wrinkles! I had a nice dark "patina" on the soles of my feet. (It is called dirt.) I got really turned on when he put my feet on the towels and then posed my feet next to a jar of Vaseline. Oh boy. I really want copy of this! I am looking forward to my next shoot. I am never looking at my feet the same way again. Wanna toe suck? Okay, but just one.

Looks like I am going to shoot with some amazing photographers in the bay area next month. I am so happy. High probability these shoots will go for editorial content, which means..... tear sheets, which means more money, which means me relaxing a little. : DD

Ah...life is good.

Somehow I still get all these nasty e-mails, probably from disgruntled providers, since most guys would give up by now. I remembered this amazing thing: the block sender feature. Viola! They are gone. It just blows my mind they have all this free time to nitpick on someone who really doesn't even know what to do with them. Do I print them out and send them to Provider Times? Are they coded lottery numbers? I mean, WTF? What a waste of neuronal circuitry!! I bet someone actually responds.

OK this is a test post from my webphone. I must go now. Thumbs tired from typing.

My ink is an art created in pain and is now beauty, rippling, breathing, warm colorful flesh. I surprise myself when I look down as I get out of the shower. It is a constant revelation.

Soulless? No. I just keep it real. No need to dot the "i," and no need to put out the standard flourish. Others do that so well and bank by their reputation. Hate to give them any competition.

http://www.bmezine.com/

They interviewed me, and have pics. I will let you know when it goes up!

New sexy links on my website. May I offer to wipe your drool?

https://netmichelle.com/links.html

Just to let you know of some of my fav model queenes that I like to dream about.

(*pish*) Sound of me opening anothere Tecate. Cheers!

(While I wait for little rain droplets to hit my hotmail, I will dream up some lurid and libacious post for my next weekly ad.)

How about this one: plagarized from the New Yorker:
I am taking a wine class, but not for credit ;))

I had a super boring catalog shoot for some skanky clothes in Anaheim today. Somehow I got my groove back.

I am still here. Maybe it might be fun to be a lurker. You know, hit on guys behind the scenes. Lemme try here: so are you as cute as your posts? NAhh,,,,wait.....Do you post in caps because you are muffled in the DATY position? Gasp, is that a semi colon or just a suirt of cum? lol.....I must go to bed.

Oh here are the pics. I hope you can see them.
http://member.onemodelplace.com/model_list.cfm?ID=123169

I am feeling better, frisky, and ready to tackle all important issues: global warming, political refugees, and the economy. This translates into me doing my pedicure on the train on the way to my catalog photoshoot in Anaheim, while trying to look undercover on the train...sure you know girls just jump on the train with 5 pairs of different colored 7" heels, makeup, carrots and water in a duffle bag all the time Mr. Train Inspector.....LOL. Wish me luck. You will see pics on OMP (One Mdel Place) in the AM. Ciao for now. PS. I hope I get laid soon. Those condoms are going to waste boys. (hint-hint).

Dear Michelle,

The Erotic Review without eroticism is breathing wihtout air. How can nueral electrons promote to a higher energy state without energy INPUT?

BUTTERFLY emerging from cocoon (http://www.onemodelplace.com/member.cfm?ID=123169).

Conceptual knowledge; not knowing, a passive desire.

A choice (http://theeroticreview.com/msgBoard/ViewMsgBody.asp?BoardID=1&Page=1&Messageid=120351).

Sad I am for the state of things.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Trust me, me too. I will still write on my blog, perhaps even better stuff, more honest, more edgy than what I have been writing there. I am still escorting, you can you know, meet me and touch me in the flesh. It won't kill ya.

Dear Michelle,

The post that offended you must have been pulled before I saw it. I am sorry that it annoyed you so much that you felt the need to make some drastic changes in your life such as to quit touring, posting, etc.
----------------------------------------------------

Yeah, well it is better that you missed it. It was really bad. It put me in a bad funk that lasted two days. I am still escorting but I can't be posting. I should focus on writing a book when I can and advertising. I am so broke right now and when that jerk started calling me a dirty little whore, tattooed white trash and nobody wants to see me stuff, it really shook me up, because I am trying to get business. That was the only reason I posted. The other posters on TER have gone too far, especially this guy. You should see the filth he is slamming into my email mailbox. I never met him, never will, don't know him and it comes out of nowhere. WHAM. I woke up one day and now I have a new stalker. What is really a riot is one another stalker is pissed that I quit posting too, now more e-mails from that one, and post about how I need to not leave...
insane.

I know it is a bad month but this is ridiculous. I may have to get back into stripping, until the modeling stuff gets squared away.

I honestly feel like I have this huge fan club that loves and adores me, but for the most part they don't see me. They just associate my posts with everytime they go on TER, if I don't post I get phone calls of are you OK? Not hey, I want to see you. I know I am a good writer and entertaining, but I have built my reputation, I don't want to have to struggle anymore. I am tired of fixing other people problems, giving advice that they don't take and getting bitch slapped for telling the truth.

Anyhow I am dusting off my resume, ripping out all the science and publications but now it looks pretty week.
Lets see what surfaces. I am thinking of something boring. lol.

OK. So I was not the most brilliant but I made occasional miracles happen in the science field. Whatever I set my mind to, I learned to find a way to accomplish it. One day I woke up and found a way to get paid for doing something that I have been doing since I was 10 years old. Sex.

Sex sells. Women have been selling their bodies since the beginning of his/herstory began. The only difference is that I actually enjoyed it. Today was the first day that I did not enjoy being an escort, and for the rest of the day I will find ways to ease the memory: an aspirin, 2 beers, leafy green vegetables in the sun by the ocean, a good read of a book, and then a nap. I am prescribing myself a hefty dose of lesbian erotic fiction, a dip in the ocean and a stroll along the beach. It is not real life here. It is just elaborate mind fucking. Forgive me if I am not a manipulative person deep inside. I do not even know how to manipulate well. I refuse to lash back. I am just a just a squirrel trying to get her nuts in a row for the week. This week I lost two. Most squirrels think they can get them back. I am not so sure.

I first stated writing in this profession as a means of venting my feelings since I really had no one to talk to about what I was going through. I have been brutally honest ultimately much to my detriment. I thought people would be more excited to meet me because I was different because I was pulling the wool off the eyes of the sheep on the boards by exposing the inner working of this biz in my blog. I actually killed my business. All of my regulars, and there were not many, have seemingly crawled as far away as they could. New clients could not understand why I was being so paranoid when I screened them more than the other girls do. The shit I have had to go through would make most people’s skin crawl. (The tirade from this morning is kindergarten to the stuff I have endured here.) Meanwhile my reviews on the erotic forums continued to escalate and my fame grew. I never really knew that I was getting famous. Other people told me. Oh! You are Netmichelle? Really? Wow. What a pleasure it is to meet you. Some new clients were so nervous to meet me I could hardly get them into the hotel room. Others would tremble and their hands would get sweaty. Other escorts give me a thorough scrutiny, thinking how does she do it? Where did she come from? Can I be her friend?

I did kind of pop out of nowhere, now that I think back on this past year, it has been a bit of a whirlwind. One day I saw someone who quickly posted a review of me on an erotic forum, and then my phone would not stop ringing. It was a flurry of days and weeks and then suddenly it was done. I had a few reviews and then, I wasn’t the new chick on the block. I was just one of the many trying to stick her neck out and get noticed in the chicken coop. Over time I started reading the forums, then responding, adding insight and learning a lot about my self and my sexuality. Reading the erotic forums was a lot like the first time I ever got onto the internet. I was glued to the screen for hours, up all night and only taking the necessary breaks. I soaked it up like a sponge.

People tell me to be stronger. To fight back and be brave. Why should I be the heroine? I have nothing much to gain and everything to lose: my self worth, my reputation, my strength.

Cumulative changes and nuances of my life transformed me into the individual I am today. Today was a rough day.

The purpose of erotic discussion forums is to provide a forum where like minded individuals may meet. People from all walks of life can find out if they are compatible. I have not found anyone compatible with me, yet I have always found myself intrigued for the time shared with other individuals. It is always a song, a dance, and then it is over. Today was a day I wished I could stick my head in the sand and wait till the wind stopped blowing.

It has been difficult w/ the blog. It is wierd when they say: I thought I knew you... All this b.s. in their own head clouding their judgement comes from them, not me. At this point I am no longer upset. It is like a whining child that has snot running down their nose jumping up and down in their face. I feel like all I can do is tune them out and offer Kleenex.

I am broke at the moment, so I am not sure when I am going on tour for certain, but I am hitting the road at some point.

Since I registered at OMP (One Model Place) my mailbox is clogged with model shoot offers, all within 24 hours. So wierd because when I was into modelling a decade back I couldn't stay booked for the life of me. One photographer asked me two weeks ago what is it with my eyes? How do I do that? It is because I have seen and tasted more than people would ever know in several lifetimes. At some point in this crazy rollercoaster of life I stopped screaming and learned to stand up in my seat and keep my eyes open. I guess I am warped. I actually like turbulence on the airplane.

I am have to field an insane amount of e-mails that should have been funneled to my blog, many of the comments and questions could have been dealt with here. Also, sadly I have lost many of my clients here in LA., something that was not my intention. For the amount of positive feedback it has been rewarding, and I have been happy to share, but when my private musing hurt my business, I am not a happy camper. Thus, my blog shall be here for awhile and then hidden in my pay site since given the amount of advertising that I have invested in I do not want to make it so difficult to well....you know...I need more coffee.

I hope to simplify my life within the year, snag some land, get an RV and actually bash out these novels in my head.

Michelle:

Thanks for your response.  Burningman was cathartic
I’m sure.  I love environments where honest expression
thrives and I hope that someday I am able to be there
and experience the whole thing for myself.  I’m sure
there’s really no way to put it into words,  but I’d
love to see you try. 

Glad to hear my initial concerns about you were
over-cooked.  Early on I lost someone important to me
and her echo haunts your words.  The frame of a
broader life surrounds your thoughts.  Sadly, she
didn’t get far enough to complete the frame.  I know
the therapy of writing, of expression for that matter,
and hope you continue to add to your blog – whether
public or private.

It’d be fun to write every now and then when there is
a thought.  Your honesty is compelling.  There
wouldn’t have to be a reply.  There would be no
obligation either way.  Like you, writing for me is a
form of therapy.  You’re more courageous than I am.  I
privately seek objection or agreement, or simple
response.  You’ve the balls (?) to let it all hang
out.  I admire that.

Peace to you and welcome home.
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I just got back into town from Burningman. I loved all of your responses to my initial blog entry. I was inundated with private messages and e-mails. I am glad I touched a chord in all of you that responded. Writing for me is a form of therapy. I thought I would share some thoughts with you all that were rambling in my head over the summer, and I have been quite suprised and pleased at the outcome. However after writing a similar response to numerous individuals I must reiterate a few things.

Please do not take my writings into such dire constraints without the understanding that these writings were written without a filter and written over the course of a few months when I had hit a few rough spots. During this time I got off my antidepressants. I have PTSD, post-traumatic-stress-disorder from a horrific event I lived through, and I was on heavy medication for more than a year. Life is not always rosy, and we all have our demons. I choose to keep mine in the bright sunlight. The pen has proven to be mightier than the sword. I know this to be true for me. Many ladies have contacted me, have concurred with some of my sentiments and have felt healing from what I said; one has even started her blog.


Peace.

Here are some responses I have received. Remember you can post anon here on my blog! Share with everyone.
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You’re going to get 10 million replies.  I know that
so I’m mostly writing this for me.  If you happen to
read it and it helps, or hurts, or makes you think, or
makes you laugh than it was worthwhile.  It is
worthwhile for me to write.

Loneliness is pervasive.  We battle its effects with
anything we can grasp.  Kittens, sex – meaningful and
meaningless, tours, books, art, work, marriage,
whatever it takes.  I forget the movie or the play or
the book where I read or heard that people get married
one day when they run out of things to talk about.
That was the case for me. Where it ended doesn’t
matter.

You know this already.  You’re way to smart and have
thought thoughts that are way too deep not to know
this, so I’m mainly saying it for me.  You have to
find some way, some reason to love yourself.  I never
would have guessed from the prose on your site that
you were veiled.  Do you have a split personality?
Are there times when you love who you are and times
when you hate who you are?  Without alcohol? Without
drugs?  Without companionship?

I’m not an analyst.  I think they’re for shit.  In my
experience analysts become analysts because they’re so
messed up they don’t know what else to do, so they
make appointments with people who are less warped then
they are in a vein attempt to pull them down.

I can’t help you.  I don’t know you.  I’ve never seen
you.  I know your words resonate somewhere down deep
and forced me to write.  I battle loneliness.  Your
battle and mine are similar, though mine takes a
separate path.

You are beautiful.  You are brilliant.  You are
valuable.  You have a deep soul.  You battle demons.
You win sometimes.  You lose sometimes.  You are
unique.  Uniqueness is the definition of perfection.
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Greetings Michelle. We have not met, and you may not desire it, but I want to acknowledge your beauty and brilliance.
There are very few things in life that gat the attention they deserve, and the recognition necessary. I have spent most of my life wishing I had taken action in certain situations instead of acting as a voyeur and dealing with consequence later.....I am working on stopping that.
------------------------------------------------------------------
I read your blog.  It made me feel sad.  Unfortunately, I have no words of wisdom for you.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Hello, this is X (better known as XX).  I have read your posts for some time and always find them quite quirky and entertaining... I saw your post this morning and went and read your blog... 
I wanted to drop you a note to let you know that I think you are a phenomenal writer.  I am an avid reader and I found your writing to be brutally honest, insightfully and most of all, very well written.  I couldn't stop reading it !!!  Even though I was currently involved in my current obsession at the time (X).  You should absolutely write a book.  While I'm giving unsolicited advice.......   if you don't already have a members section on your site, you should really consider it.  It is easy to do, and I think w/your following, it would be really successful and a great outlet for your creative energy.  I did X's members site and if you have any questions or I can be of any help, just let me know.  
I just wanted you to know that I really envy your writing ability.  It is truly a gift to be able to express your self so creatively....
Best of luck and have a great day !!!!
[edit ],
X
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I have a fetish client that has a penchant for wrestling which got me doing some revisiting of images from one of my fav artists who died awhile back. Ever heard of the artist Eric Stanton?

http://www.wildseduction.com/featuredartists/artandlust/Eric_Stanton.html

http://www.mutoworld.com/Stanton.htm

Eric Stanton worked as a commercial fetish artist for 50 years. 90% of his work was done on commision. His favorite muse was his wife which he met in 1971.

http://membres.lycos.fr/malainbertrand/DESSINS/Stanton/page_01.htm

In under a year my website has hit over 10 million hits, I have produced my first amateur porno, I have been featured in major magazines and newspapers. I have gone from relative obscurity to one of the most desirous individuals in this country. What a long strange trip it has been. I have decided to openly share, for a period of time, some of my personal thoughts over this past summer of 2004. This is my gift back to all of those who have given to me and those that will in the future.


The funny thing about hookers is the more they try and stay on the down low, the more they fascinate those around them. There are those that know that something is amiss, and they notice that things do not add up at the end of the day. People need to see others toil away at the same grinding wheel or else they get suspicious. I suppose my neighbors knew I was eccentric, but never quite fully realized the extent of my capabilities. I was a high-class call girl, an escort, and I made enough money in one day to pay my rent for the month. I walked around my neighborhood dressed like a homeless person: wearing paint-spattered overalls, flip flops and no bra, and thick glasses. I dressed for my clients in my apartment or in a hotel. My transformation was so dramatic, that my neighbors could not recognize me. I told my neighbors the truth: that I was a slut and dated a lot. This made them smile at me knowingly when they saw me, and raised less suspicion.

Every family has secrets. My family prided itself on education and the fostering of knowledge that brought power. I was always told to know things directly, to go out and live life to the fullest. Don’t trust just what you read, know it as truth. Some family secrets get so embedded, that the lies eventually become reality. I don’t remember how it begun, it was always there. The story of how I came to be a prostitute is irrelevant, the fact that I can stand and tell my story to you is remarkable.

My mother was a good mother. She worked hard to feed her four children. I always knew that she worked at the hospital nights and I knew that she would be there in the morning to feed us and make sure we went to school. I never suspected that she worked much harder than any mother should have to, that she literally laid her life on the line for us. It was not till much later that the puzzle pieces clicked into position and the family picture became clear. I was destined to become a whore. The women in my family had sacrificed their personal lives for those they loved a secret that bonds them tighter than blood ties.

Every woman is a whore. We look to men for our affirmation and self worth. My mother at nearly half my age was starting on her first of four children. Her mother before had already had plenty of children, and my mother was a mistake. My grandmother never forgave my grandfather for that. I was a mistake as well, the end product of an extra marital affair from the end of the bottleneck of the sixties. My father was not present in my childhood, and it was not until I was much older that I wondered if it would have made a difference.

Like my mother, my sexual history had a long list before long. I had begun to have more meaningless sex, and I craved for more passion. I thought this meant marriage. I dallied with professional boyfriends, but I became increasingly bored. One must eat, even if all that is on the plate is bland. I started to expand what was on my menu. Suddenly, not everything tasted just like chicken, and my world became colorful.

I was waiting to get off the plane in Chicago OHare airport when I noticed something peculiar. Most of the stereotypical male clients that I have had are usually seated in aisle seats, and have mild crown balding spots, and travel with one carry-on slipped into the overhead compartment. In typical type A fashion they seemed oriented to exit the plane as fast as possible. They were in a hurry to go absolutely nowhere. This made me flash back on the memory of a few of my former clients that they felt compelled to bolt as fast as possible from my in call apartment. They were internally synchronized to their type A clock, as if they had heard a gun firing off, and away they went: dancing on one foot, and shimmying on their exotic black briefs, snapping their watches on wrist as they smoothed their thinning hair flat. Everything was in control and in order. I could almost hear their mantra, no one gets caught, and no one gets hurt. The goodbye kiss was perfunctory and put me in my place. I wonder now if this is the kiss they kiss their wives, on his way to work, which enables them to pay for an encounter with me and buys them a little more time before purgatory.

I remember most clearly the ones that could not have much sex with me. The ones that wanted to touch my skin, and look at my face. The man I tried to fellatiate in vain while we listen to Broadway show tunes in a deluxe suite hotel room. The old man that came so quickly and would leave faster than he had ejaculated, was apologetic and sweet.
When I was arrested for prostitution a year ago, I took my phone number off my ads. I felt shame, I really wanted to find a way out of my immediate hell. I found the jarring ring of my phone put me into a panic, a rabid mix of sex, blood, fear and magic that contorted my voice into something that I could not recognize as my own. I was afraid of what I was becoming, and I needed control. I began to scrutinize the drug dealers in my neighborhood. I needed to learn how to keep my cool. I needed to know how to keep myself together.

I stopped crying all the time. I knew that my life had always been a struggle and that I was slipping. I told myself that because I could still pick myself up was a sign that I had not completely fallen apart. I started to take days off. I answered my messages less frequently, and I began to write. Writing was what saved me, I started posting witty banter on an erotic web board and started to attract the clients I had always wanted. Intellectuals: doctors, lawyers, CEOs, writers, and artists. These people enjoyed my quirks and started to seek me out and celebrated my uniqueness. Before I knew it, my rent was paid on time, and I was not going hungry. I decided to travel; I wanted to find America and myself.

America was calling me so I picked up the phone and spoke to her. She told me her story, and as I listened I became wiser. I found her wanting me more than I was ready to desire her. Like a reluctant lover, I listened more and eventually found myself wanting to be a part of something greater than myself. I learned to wash my ego down the sink drains of Greyhound bus depots because I understood that I desperately wanted to know what it means to be an American. I did not have enough money to take a plane, so I went to the train station, I missed the train by 5 minutes, and so I went to the bus station. For less than two hundred dollars, I could see America in three days.

Breakfast was consumed amongst the twinkling lights and spinning slots of Las Vegas, shared next to clusters of aging white people, who drank and gambled even as they ate. Everyone was in touch with the American Dream. The cocktail waitress confidently bestowed her blessings of good fortune. The security men stayed in the shadows alert to any deviance from the script. I played my part without flinching.

The next afternoon Utah healed my spirit with her majestic red buttresses. The shape of the mountains was mysterious and personal. I wanted to have a cabin to sit and watch these formations till I could hear all that they needed to tell me. The shadows of the mountains reminded me of a nude woman’s body, warm and inviting. The desert is like an ocean, it engulfs all that enters and offers sanctuary. It is silent. It will continue to exist much longer than I will.

Baltimore clung to my skin long after I left its humid core. Smelling like the new juices of a lovers embrace, mussels and of micro brewed beer, I sashayed down the blocks and connected to the buildings, surprised at the dead presidents and culture that lay dormant.

Chicago called. Its grimy bricks and well-worn sidewalks lined the subway routes, twisting and moaning its blues song into a faded memory. The sky was electric with lightning and the color of her eyes told me to stay awhile and hear her lusty song.

I knew that I was getting close to Minneapolis when I spotted am Amish couple. I almost ran over them in the bleak dark hours of morning while walking through the train. Their habit concealed their purity and protected them from my worldliness. I looked at the young Amish wife in the eye, and she looked surprised as she gazed into my soul. The secrets that I keep, I shall for years to come keep these secrets deep. I know why the caged bird sings and why the ones who fly choose to stay silent. I looked at her and told her silently, we each have our own means for survival. Respect.

The first time that I was paid for sex surprised me. I was clinging to this super sexy starlet of a strip club that I worked at. We wound up in Vegas in search of the big money. She was the side girlfriend of the owner of the strip club. His best friend was very dashing and Italian, and old as the hills. He was so charming, and as I was being fed and wined I found his manners to be irresistible. At the conclusion of dinner, he retreated and I offered to walk him up to his room, as we could not stop talking to one another. Before I knew it, I was unzipping his pants and inhaled him into my mouth. He came so quickly, and it tasted like salt water. I held it in my mouth and politely went to the bathroom sink to spit it out. I couldn’t get the sour taste out of my mouth and there was no water. I was happy to make him happy. I put on my high heels to leave and then he pressed money into my hand. I said no, I am not that kind of girl. He told me it would insult him deeply to not take his gift. I said OK, OK, for cab fare. When I was coming down the elevator I opened my first and out popped a wad of crisp one hundred dollar bills. The stiff ones that the gambler keeps, still cold from the well from which they sprung.

There is a commonality that binds hookers and artists. It is superficial, but its veins have the potential to run deep. Once a woman accepts money for sex, she is a hooker. When she sucks that dick, and takes the money, whammo she is a legit whore. When an artist sells a painting she becomes a real artist. She has made money from her creation. It may sound weak, but from a woman that who has tried for a year to keep the two separate, and now is trying to merge the two, the significance means everything.

After I started escorting my art started to change. I had always painted abstract paintings, but now I craved the human form. I got some books on drawing, and I tried to teach myself perspective all over again. When I had drawn all the images of female nudes I could find, then I started to paint myself in my full-length mirror in my studio. I would hide my right hand behind my back, as it would tend to look withered since I am right handed. My breasts fascinated me. I tended to edit, something that I could not control. I made my breasts droopier then they were, and my belly larger than it is. In retrospect I realized I wasn’t comfortable with my own nudity since this was something I could not control. I was forced to look into my own eyes, and I was troubled by what I saw. I painted a sad, uncomfortable and stiff woman. I painted who I was. These paintings never sold. I would put the prints on display and people would stop and stare at them.

This is you, right?

Yes I told them.

They would look at the painting, then at me, then back at the painting, and they would smile knowingly. I wondered if they knew more about me than I did about myself. I have put them into storage for now. They still make me uncomfortable, but less now.

I started painting lesbian women when my manager who was always trying to find a way to fuck me, had dropped off some source material for a photo shoot we were planning.
I was smitten by the simplicity of the black and white copies in the folder. The white creamy thighs of one entangled in another. An arm caressing here and a lingering kiss there. It was the sharing of sex, both figuratively and literally. I now have an overflowing box of source material that I use for photo shoots. I tear things out of magazines that catch my eye: colors, makeup, shadows, and poses. I like to push the envelope and see what I can come up with. It is hard to find models and to find money to pay for them. I have had to satisfy my desires by painting the images from pages ripped from magazines. If I can not touch a woman’s skin, I can paint it for hours.

Women were too much work to date, but they were fun to fuck. I completely understand how they drive men crazy. For me, it was the most vivid sex that I have ever had. It taught me how I could be a better lover. It taught me a lot about myself. For once I had the perspective of the man, and I enjoyed it immensely. Most lesbian women I know are in relationships, but almost all the bisexual women I know are loose canons. We like our freedom, and its not that we cannot make up our mind, it is just that we like to walk the tightrope; it feels comforting for our feet. Some people need to feel the razor edge in the mouth when they play the blues harmonica.

Since I am hooker, I pay attention to all sorts of stuff that seems like sexual objects. A discarded and stubbed out cigar in a Boston subway elevator seems to me like a Bobbitized penis. An empty candy wrapper appears like a moist vaginal cleft. That person looks well sexed. She has a great ass to hold. Does she wear those come fuck me shoes because she enjoys the power or does she really want to get some? What would she do if I walked up to her and kissed her right now?

Hooking suits my sexual temperament. I was always the instant gratification girl: I want it now, faster and harder. I disliked foreplay. It irritated me, and made me uneasy. I did not know my place, and it always seemed one sided. Sexual foreplay now is a power trip. I love to prolong the inevitable with my clients. The ones I could care less for, I wanted it over as soon as possible. I enjoy fucking the shit out of them, I am usually in better shape then they are, and I can stare at them hard while I watch them crumble into an orgasm. Then it is done. My job is over, and now all I have to do is wait for them to leave.

I like the feeling of a dick inside of me. A fleshy warm bundle of nerves and blood that completes me. I do not like it to outside of me. I do not like it when someone repeatedly completely withdraws and inserts. I love a butt plug up my ass. I feel electric, alive and safe. I could walk around with one for hours. As women we are trained early to have insertion. Tampax is shoved inside through an alien cardboard tube insert. Like the first time, it is dry and stiff, then you expect it. As women we know that the uterus is unpredictable and can usher forth its own weather report. We didn’t ask to have an extra period in a month. We didn’t know we were baking something in the oven, usually until it is too late.

Dang it! All this northeastern seafood makes me horny for women. Now I know why you guys don't wash your hands after a session. I have had Baltimore mussels, Boston soft-shell crabs, Philadelphia shrimp tempura, and oysters at the NYC Grand Central Oyster bar on this recent tour. When I get back to the hotel, I am left alone, with one hand on the remote and the other hand near my nose inhaling fish scent. My thoughts wander to the girls at Scores and humid rainy afternoons in Central Park.

Hookers get tired like no one else on this planet does. We feel it in our bones, and it shows on our faces. There is nothing like T.V., comfort food, warm baths, and alcohol to sooth the frayed and split edges of our soul. Sleep takes away the pain, but then there is the morning and the memories. Sometimes it feels like my skin is falling off in sheathes; the very air that surrounds me is hostile and biting. Everybody wants something from me, and I have nothing left to give. It isn’t the sex that is difficult; it is seeing the pathos in others and having nowhere to hide while you watch their personal reel of their own horror show. The price of admission is your soul.

I shack up in a youth hostel in St. Louis not far from the home of Mark Twain. I play with 2-week-old kittens on the office floor for hours, unable to get enough of their scent, their fur, their tongues. When you are at the breaking point there is nowhere to turn. Eventually the therapy will present itself unsolicited, and it is right in front of you exposing its lazy tummy and mewing plaintitively in the summer heat. The time will be available, and you must take it, because there is always another storm brewing on the horizon.

Money. It always makes it better. At least for a while, until it is gone. I think of all the money I have earned in my lifetime, and it is still not enough to buy a house, I am sure of that. I spent way too much time in college for degrees that I cannot use and have racked up more debt than I can pay. I bought all these books that I could not use, and then they burned. I can\not figure out what makes me more bitter. The fact that I am for hire, or that I cannot ever erase what I have done. It is not so easy as saying: once a whore, always a whore. It is much more flimsy. Once tainted, will we ever be pure again? Purity depends on its opposite. Whores exist because married women exist. If women never got married, would we have a job at all?

There are few words that define a woman that are more charged than whore. Bride is hopeful, pure, and full of potential and promise. Eventually the bride becomes wife and then whore. She must service her husband. She must learn to be a provider, or she will lose her man to a provider.

Few transactions are more charged than the transaction between that of the john and his date. It is demanded usually up front, and I always felt that there should be an as is warranty disclaimer posted onto her. Rarely are things in life what they are expected to be. Men have desires that they feel need to be satiated and even though the supply exceeds the demand, (there is always a poor hooker) there are no receipts or guarantee that there is going to be a good time to be had by both parties. More often than not, the experience is disappointing for both parties. The sex is usually bad, and the money is never good enough. As soon as you get it, the sooner it is gone: both the pussy and the money.

Sometimes the sex is really good. Surprisingly good. I have had the best sex I have ever had in my life. Why should I ever give this up?

The sad part is after they leave, I feel so alone. I ache to be held for me, just me and nothing else. I sometimes afterwards I wish they had left. I wonder if I was good enough. I feel bad for taking their money. Did I look like the girl in the picture? If they are so good in the sack, why are they coming to see me? They could have and keep any girl; they are rich and good-looking. Why me?

Each time before they arrive I get sick with worry. Are they law enforcement? Where did these bags under my eyes come from? I am not pretty enough. I am fat. God, why do I keep doing this? What if they don’t show up? What if they decide to leave? Oh God, how did I end up doing this? Shit, I forgot to shave.

The crazy thing is, as good as I am at marketing myself to strangers I am completely and utterly a failure when it comes to dating. I am way too naive. I assume what people tell me about themselves is true. I could care less about their past. I assume that when they come back, they enjoyed our time before, and they hope to have an even better time. A real relationship would stress me out too much. I would not know what to do. I would not know how to just be. I would be constantly fretting about the gaps of time in between fucking. That is why I try to keep their cock in my mouth. Then I do not have to talk. The only other certainty is the locking of the door at the end. That click is deafening. Then and only then can I sit, shit, relax and cry.

You would think that the guys that have been in this business would be more understanding. They are, but up to a point. Then they just want you to be your fuck fantasy. They pay you to leave. They fling the white envelope like it is the hem of the red cape of a bullfighter. They know the power of money more than others ever will. The power of money brings me back. Slowly, my soul corrodes away. I stop trying to come up with excuses anymore. I just tell my story and hope that someone cares to listen. Is that not what life is all about anyway?

Under slept, slurping a Bloody Mary for breakfast on a Southwest flight out of xxxx (dinner date and more for $xxxx) with a bruised temple, bags under my eyes, and a photo shoot looming ahead of me in a few hours. So how did I end up this way? The alcohol kicks in and soothes my nerves. I hate flying. It messes up my sinuses and I feel like a herded piece of livestock: let us hurry up now and get branded as safe so we can proceed to get stuffed into an aerodynamic sardine can. I got fucked last night. For once I felt as if I had earned every penny of that xxxx. I fucked so hard, that later when I tried to fuck again it felt like knives in my pussy. I couldn’t do it anymore. I was spent. I went to sleep with him jacking off, and woke up to him jacking off; I just couldn’t hang with it anymore so I bailed to catch my plane. I felt bad. It is rare that I have to throw in the towel. He won. Now I have to deal with my pussy looking like fried clams and my eyes showing all I have been through.

I am getting burned out. I am tired of having to scrounge up business. Maybe I should advertise and raise my rates. The possibility of a boyfriend or future husband is laughable. Normal sex seems so boring now. I don’t find any passion anymore. I just want to please my fetish clients. When they get off it is so incredibly satisfying. I just wish I could be more enthusiastic with the regulars but I cannot. I dread having multiple hour sessions. I cannot fuck that long. I am bored after 40 minutes. Well maybe 30 minutes. Then there are the times I wish they would never leave. They listen so well. I tell them too much.

My body is ragged. I keep coughing. Maybe I have TB? Nah. But now my throat hurts all the time from deep throating. My knees are shot from kneeling. I want to just curl up and sleep. It will all just melt away. That is when I am my happiest. Right before I go to sleep and when I wake up. I remember when I had my fortune told by a mystic. She cried. She told me my life would become difficult. I was not scared. I was angry. Why does it have to be such a struggle? Why can I not I be blessed with beauty and peace in my life? Why me? I will never know. I wait in the dark.

The chase is straightforward. The pictures, the alluring text, then the price and then they are done. Everybody must pay. Wait. Phone calls are the worst.

Hi, are you available?
Now??
Yes.

Your heart panics, and you think, oh crap it has begun. It usually starts early in the morning. Sometimes at 7 am. If you do not switch off your phone it will go till 3 or 4 am.

Hello.
Yes. Michelle?
Yes.
Hi.
Hi.
What is your availability?

The first instinct is to say no and hang up. I could never get used to the intrusion of a phone call. It is not something that I want to get used to. But that was then, this is now. Now I have calluses on my hands not from hand jobs but from hauling luggage through the subways of NYC.

The relief washes over me, and the excitement ensues. I am flush with cash and aboard the train heading south from New England, staring at the foliage and greenness, and finding rejuvenation. I hope for salvation. I want to find myself lost in these woods. I want to drink deep from the greenness and wetness. I want to be known, I want to be loved, but more importantly: I want to be left alone. I want to find myself.

The thing I did not account for was the exhaustion. Being a prostitute is exhausting. There is no time out for ones own thoughts. That is the real intrusion, not the phallus, but the alien ego that must impress his fat ignorance upon my fertile and virgin soil. It is much like being pressed flat in missionary position, finding an air pocket in an armpit or feeling the crushing weight on my jaw because somewhere despite the discomfort I always found a way to listen. I only tune out in desperation.

Does it make me feel better knowing that I didn’t have a choice? My childhood was fucked up enough to warrant my slide into deviation. What child wants to kill their father? What torment must I have endured to make such a choice? Years of pain and abuse are welling up under the brim of my laissez-faire composure: just ask me about it and I will dissolve into a salty puddle. But be careful. I have thrown away my floatation devices. No more antidepressants. I do not know what will happen if I open that trap door of misery. I might drown, and when you find me, I will be three feet from shore, but I could have never seen it in that fog of despair.

Drug dealers sling their dope, I sling my pussy. I am grateful that I am young enough to hip to the ways of the Internet so that I might better market myself. However when money is low, my spirits get low, I can’t keep the ads up and no matter what I do, there is never enough money. The downward spiral ensues. After awhile the numbness becomes familiar, and then I start to forget. I forget what I was supposed to do, where I am going, and who I am. I have become the escort, no longer my original self. My original ambitions have been dashed. Now all I have time for is work. Work offers vacations, but they are just more work. No time to relax when the male phallus in the shape of his ego is trying to insert into my vaginal mind. Who would not crave the sensuous and golden life that we all deserve? Who would not consider selling their soul to the devil? Once it is sold, the devil always has it. Maybe I can get it back for a while tonight. Maybe I can spoon it back into my morning coffee somehow.

I remember the first time. Like relinquishing the burden of my virginity, my first time as a hired agency whore was something that had to be endured. I was so nervous, and afraid. I was afraid that I was going to be killed. I was too self-righteous to think of cops. Like a cow lead to slaughter I threw myself toward my demise with ambition. I knocked on the door. I was let in. The grey acrid smell of drugs coated my lungs. Well he was not a cop, so I stayed. I told him it was my first time. He never believed me. I felt it wasn’t worth convincing him. I was exhausted from pleasuring him, but I felt strangely aroused by him. I had nowhere else to put that experience, so of course I had an attraction for him, as I always will. You always remember your first time. I had his number and e-mail and I tried to contact him but to no avail. Later when I was arrested, the cops took his information. I was still foolish then, I thought I had to love a man that I had sex with. It helped to take the coldness out of the transaction.

Later I started to have orgasms with clients during sessions. It wasn’t something that I wanted to do initially, but it was important to my clients, so I faked a couple and then got frustrated with the tedium and then I decided to take charge and come into my power so to speak. One cannot be a nymphomaniac and a charlatan at the same time. I lifted the veil and provided real sex. Now I was more naked than I had ever been. Later the writer comes armed with only her laptop. When they leave, I do not put on the clothes right away. I sit in my nakedness and write.

If you have seen what I have seen about people and sex you would never look at the world the same way again. They use everybody. Some whores survive by using the users. This works until they are squished one day like a cockroach into the pavement. I have not seen the carcasses but I have heard of them. Now I see women get stepped on everyday. I just keep walking. I used to intervene, then I realized that the men did not like being interfered with, and the women did not know that they were being stepped on. Ignorance is bliss?

What did the police ever do for me? Nothing. So I have learned to persevere with the perpetual exudates of plot against counterplot. As the police get clever to my ways, I will have to find ways to become more sophisticated. I know that one day I will get caught again. That day is the day I will go underground.

I will not forgive what the men in my life have done to me, but I will not forget them either. It is a two way street. I would hope that they would remember me as a fiery comet that burned brightly in their lives, if for only a few hours. After everything that I have been through it makes sense to somehow preserve my cockquests. Who knows? It may be valuable one day. Someday I will have a furry grey haired pussy fro and a well-worn groove under my rocking chair. Someday, the dust will learn how to settle around me.