S. E. X.
Say hello to the best three letters of the English alphabet. As I was coming of age, I had as much sex as I possibly could. As a matter of fact, I lost my virginity at the ripe old age of fifteen, only a week after my father died, and to an eighteen-year old senior. After that day, I figured I knew just about everything I needed to know about girls. I mean, hey—an eighteen year old wanted to play with my cock. I figured I’d have the pick of the litter after word of my prowess and my huge cock got around.
Of course, it didn’t quite happen that way. I think I actually got carpal tunnel from jerking off so much. As it turned out, the eighteen year old had only lost a bet. She didn’t want me. She was just the one who lost and had to be a pity fuck for the poor kid whose dad had just died. Whatever the reason, I still fucked her.
Funny thing happened a couple years later, though. I grew about eight inches and then sat back and watched as my shoulders got wider and my muscles became more defined. Six-pack? Nah, I had an eight. And guess what? Girls dug it. But I still couldn’t seem to get the sex thing quite right. Then it hit me. Here I was, a physically great looking specimen of man, but I didn’t know shit about what women wanted in bed. And I didn’t really care as long as I got off. However, word spread about my selfish behavior in the sheets, which didn’t work out so well for me.
My sexcapades weren’t nearly as frequent as I thought they’d be through high school, but near the end, I was learning. I learned to listen to the girls I was with. When I stroked them a certain way and they gasped, I stored that little nugget of information away. And then I hit the mother lode. I tasted my first pussy and, fucking-A, I was hooked. All I wanted in life at that moment was to learn how to conquer that tender little nub that drove girls to grind themselves against my face, calling out my name.
That learning helped me immensely in the next phase of my life.
“That’s it. Fuck, yeah. Just like that.” Christ! Will I ever get sick of getting blown? “Softly now, sweetheart. Oh, yeah, that’s it. That’s perfect.” I watched her lips slide slowly over my dick. I could feel her tongue lick at my balls when she took me in all the way to the hilt. Was there a man alive who didn’t love that?
“I’m gonna come right down your throat. Is that what you want?” She moaned and curled her fingers into my ass confirming what I already knew. She was yet another trophy wife who didn’t get the attention she needed from her wealthy husband. “Ahh, God!” I grabbed a fistful of her hair and moved her head faster, watching her suck me in over and over. “I’m gonna fill your mouth.” I came, thrusting deep into the back of her throat. She gagged on it, and I came some more. When she spit me out, I took my dick in my hand and continued to pump myself until I had nothing left. I was mostly done at that point, but I still had enough left to shoot a couple of hot drops on her parted cosmetically enhanced lips. Lucky girl.
Like I said before, my sex life wasn’t always like this, but it is now. I can pretty much fuck who I want, when I want. Yeah, I’m that good. And no, I’m not humble. If you’re good at something, be proud of it. Own it. Now, before any of you women get up in arms thinking I’m still a selfish piece of shit, who only cares about getting himself off, get the whole story. Talk to one of my dates. They’ll tell you what’s what.
I admit that I might hold their head down on my dick a couple of seconds past pleasant. I might ram into them from behind a bit too hard in the heat of the moment now and then, but ask them how their night was. Besides, there’s a fine line between pleasure and pain. I haven’t had a complaint yet, and this is why—I don’t come until she does. If I can’t make her come, and come hard, before I do, then I’m not doing it right. So, yeah, I’m that good.
So I guess I should start at the beginning to get you up to speed. My name is Joe. Joe Starling. Joseph Starling, Jr., to be exact. I’m twenty-six years old, and I’m a professional escort. You might wonder how someone comes to be in that profession. Well, you’d be surprised how prosperous life can become when you’re in the right place at the right time.
I can’t say that I was ever grateful to be poor, but if I wasn’t, I never would have been where I was, when I was, the day my life changed. You see, I have this friend. His name is Shawn, and I’ve been friends with him forever. He’s one of the few friends that didn’t drop me when my life turned to shit after my father died. Apparently, when you go from being a rich kid to a poor kid overnight, your desirability as a friend decreases.
Anyway, seven years ago, Shawn married his high school sweetheart. Even though I sure as hell wouldn’t have thought about getting married at the age of nineteen, it didn’t surprise me at all that he did. And I was happy for him. I really was, but when he asked me to be his best man, I had to tell him no. He knew why and he wouldn’t accept my answer. I didn’t have any money.
Now, I don’t mean that I didn’t have the money to throw him an epic bachelor party. I wasn’t talking about not being able to hire the hottest strippers with the biggest tits. None of that. I actually didn’t have enough money to rent a tux or buy him a gift. You know what he said to me? He said, “I don’t want to hear it, Joe. I’ll get your fucking tux. If you’re not standing up beside me, I’ll punch you in the throat.” You might think that sounds harsh, but he had just told me he loved me and needed me by his side. Us guys, we don’t gush mushy shit, but it doesn’t mean we don’t feel it.
So, what was I supposed to do, not be in his wedding? This guy is closer to me than any blood brother would be if I had one. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. So I pulled extra hours at work to scrape up enough money to help put food on my mother’s table, help her pay the rent, and have enough left over to buy a small gift for Shawn and Carrie.
The day of the wedding, already dressed in my tux, I was running one last errand for my boss when it happened. The blueprints I was delivering slipped out of my fingers as I tried in vain to hail a cab in the late afternoon. As I bent down to scoop them up, I saw a man scanning the crowd as if he were looking for someone. We locked eyes for all of a millisecond, and he headed my way. As he worked his way through the throngs of people crowding the LA streets, he seemed to be checking me out. When he finally reached me, he grabbed my arm and turned me fully toward him.
“Yeah, I think you’ll do. What’s your name, kid?”
“What’s my name?” I jerked my arm out of the guy’s grasp. “What the fuck’s your name?”
He laughed at my attempt to be a tough guy. “Calm down, kid. My name’s Gary.” He looked me up and down, which was just plain creepy. “How’d you like to make five-hundred dollars tomorrow night?”
“Yeah, right.” I couldn’t imagine what this joker was about, but I knew I didn’t want any part of it. “I don’t sell drugs. Take a hike.” I turned around to leave, and he grabbed my arm again.
“Wait. Hear me out. I work for an escort service. We have a client who wants someone young and hot to make her sisters jealous at her twenty-first birthday party. Big family, old money. Our escort got sick, and I’m looking for someone fresh to fill in for him.”
“An escort service. Is that even a legal business?” What the hell? Was I in Vegas or something? Candid Camera? What was this?
I could tell the guy was annoyed with my question. His body spoke volumes—tilted head, raised eyebrows. He was genuinely offended.
“Yes, it’s a legal business. Escorts are simply that. Escorts. This isn’t a sex operation. It’s an escort service.” He handed his card to me. “Look us up. If you’re interested, show up tomorrow morning at ten. The girl’s party is tomorrow night. We’ll see if you might suit her needs.” Done giving me his spiel, he turned around and left.
You know the saying ‘curiosity killed the cat?’ Well, hear me meow, because there was no way I was going to miss that meeting. I mean $500 for taking some chick to a party? Count me in!
That meeting changed my life.
Nikki Worrell is a country girl from South Jersey who took her love of reading and shifted it into a love of writing. When not at work as a full-charge bookkeeper in Philadelphia, she’s at home writing, reading or simply spending time with her husband of over twenty years. Both she and her husband love animals immensely, which is evident in her writing. If there is any advice she would impart upon you, it is this: Follow your dreams. Always. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s foolish or unattainable. You have but one life to live—live it!