The by-line of my blog may be a little misleading. The one about me being an ex-call girl. I am indeed a call girl, who no longer works in Ireland. After the money stopped flowing, I really couldn’t see the point of continuing to work there. The food is disgusting, the weather is even more so, and the over all attitudes of the citizenry, once while easy to tolerate at a rate of 250 an hour became unbearable at a lesser price. They wanted the same services, were just a filthy as before, if not more so. But now any pretense of humanity was stripped from them, the facade was gone, and you had standing before you an emotionally stunted individual with delusions of some worth not even willing to offer up the basics of human courtesy.
Not that they were ever big on courtesy to begin with. The rudest phone manners of any group of people, I have ever come across. A few sample phone conversation openers: “You open today?” “What can I get, for 50 euros?” “Hey I want to fuck ya.” No, ‘hello, good day.’ Nothing. I am not amazed or shocked by them anymore, no more than I would be shocked to see a dog shitting on the street. It is how they are, no manners, no courtesy, no manners-that is for me, a foreign hooker.
Most days I wouldn’t even respond and would hang up, on the better days I would offer up a cheeky response and hang up.
I never took this type of behavior personally, because how can you blame an obviously emotionally stunted and dysfunctional person for their problems? You really can’t. I have worked around the world, and have met different men. As a whole, men who purchase sex aren’t interested in the person, they are interested in the act, now some have enough personal development to be able engage in a conversation say before and after, to even share a small amount of themselves with you. Not so with Irish men, they find it hard to look you in the eye, are embarrassed at their nakedness, and generally ashamed of even being in existence-Original Sin and all that Catholic shit. They would actually like it if the lights were completely off and sometimes I swear if I erected a wall with a hole where they could stick their beloved ‘mickeys’ in, life would pass for me in a haze of random dicks appearing at will in this hole.
They can’t even pretend to be interested. Once the money changes hands, they dissolve into quivering masses of jelly. Oh the odd fool will try to reclaim a tiny shred of his manhood, by attempting to order me to do something, I will look down on them, I am taller than most, stare them in the eyes, and ask them to repeat what they just said. Usually an attack of instant amnesia hits, he mumbles incoherently lays quietly on the bed and takes what he is given. I have to remind them on occasion, just because you are paying me a fee, doesn’t give you the right to attempt to tell me what to do. You can ask, and if I am in the mood, I might do it. If not, take what you get and be bloody happy.
Not your normal punter/hooker interaction. Oh please, I have a naked, pathetic, slightly over weight, balding peon in my room who has just handed over his cash for sex, who has the power in this dynamic? He may think he had a advantage before he paid, but now as he stands before me in all his naked glory, he on some conscious level realizes who is in charge, and it certainly isn’t him. Also my height plays a part in this. I am quite tall and love to wear heels. The higher the better. So, unless a man is well over 5’10” I will tower over him, this establishes things from the moment they walk in the door. Nothing like a height advantage to throw a nervous man off his game.
I remember having had one punter, who was talking loads of shit before he handed over the money. I bit my tongue, until he paid. Then I walked up to him and smacked him hard on the back of the head, and said “So, who is the boss now?” I then went and called my taxi driver, told him to be ready for me in 30 mins, went into his kitchen made a nice cup of tea, sat on his sofa, chatted to him, and just as he was ready to head to the bedroom, I said, “So sorry, I am leaving you now, byyeeeeeeeeeee!” Waltzed out door into my waiting taxi, and left. With his money in pocket. Idiot. I do not normally do this, but this trumped up little turnip had it coming. He kept going on about how much he made, and how much he paid for his house. Fucking spare me. I just kept smiling. I NEVER give away my true financial situation to a punter. They don’t need to know it and it isn’t going to change his pre-conceived opinion of me. If anything, it will really piss them off and could cause them to turn nasty and become jealous, and wish to exact a small bit of vengeance on me, so it is best to keep shut about finances, especially in Ireland! And especially now. In the middle of one of the worst economic recessions/depressions escorts are still able to earn a rather decent living, when compared with the rest of the population.
You can be Donald Trump, if you are in my boudoir, you are a punter and that places you firmly into the persona non grata category as soon as you leave the premises. Again there are exceptions to this rule.
The Horribly Happy Hooker 