Blatantly ripped from Hustler magazine: good read!

[PoorGuy]

June 2000 feature article:

Platinum Pussy Party
Throw Down Serious Cash for High-End Gash
by William McWeary


Time spent with a hooker can scar a man for life. A poor man will buy a $5 handjob from a toothless crack whore, and his dork will develop a Pavlovian aversion to anything with two X chromosomes; a rich man will spend a lost weekend with the ideal of female perfection, and he may never be able to return to banging his ball-and-chain again. Money distinguishes the wealthy man from the working-class schlub, but both are equally susceptible to hooker-induced misery.

Last month, HUSTLER’s intrepid tag team of consumer advocate William McWeary and test pilot "General" Henry Biggs rated the low end of prostitution’s ranks. General Biggs enjoyed a mouth massage from a jack-shack geisha, purchased a second hummer from a gender-indeterminate streetwalker and blasted a load of chowder into an incall floozie’s snatch. This month, lucky bastard Biggs samples the cream of the escort crop. His firsthand experiences prove that money can buy happiness—usually about an hour’s worth.

Jack & Cooze: The Bar Hooker
Prep: Rent a room in a high-profile hotel; shower and hit the bar.

How to Find: Stake out fancy and semifancy watering holes in your city or camp out in a swanky hotel, especially when a convention is in town.

Price Range: $250 to $800.

Pros: Sitting for a long time getting drunk; if she’s not a hooker, she could be your next girlfriend.

Cons: Sitting for a long time getting drunk; if she’s not a hooker, she could be your next girlfriend.

Risks: Being bounced from the bar for inappropriate behavior (be sure to tip the bartender); getting arrested for loitering (keep ordering drinks); alcoholism.

The McWeary Theory
The bar hooker is by far the most challenging type of sex-for-sale animal. Any guy can go to a supermarket’s fish counter and buy a salmon fillet, but to catch his own sockeye, kill it, gut it and fry it up requires the skill and determination of a true hunter. The same is true for snagging a slice of snatch at a local watering hole—it can be done, but it requires savvy and know-how.

In the case of the bar hooker, the bartender typically plays the role of pimp. Chat him up and, after several rounds, ask ‘where a businessman can find some action in this town.’ Posing as a tourist (i.e., playing dumb) tends to open up conversation, as does slipping the booze merchant a hefty tip. Sometimes several visits are needed to build trust; consider each Jack and Coke an investment in future fucking.

Another strategy for zeroing in on bar girls, one that cuts out the middleman/barkeep, is to locate conventions in town and stay at a nearby hotel.

"I saw the bar-hooker phenomenon firsthand at a gaming convention in New Orleans," says Patrick, a Web master for an online casino. "Working girls hit the hotel bars when businessmen are in town. I wait for new conventions to roll into the city, hang at the bar and approach every girl. Hell, if she’s not a hooker, I could end up with a freebie."

Consult local newspapers or call a city’s convention center for a schedule of upcoming events. Find out from the convention center’s information line which hotels offer packages for incoming businessmen; odds are, good-time girls will set up shop in the lounges of these fine establishments.

After locating a bustling hotel lounge, sit at the bar and relax. Maintain composure and never drink too much. Alternate alcoholic beverages with soda or water—the goal is to be loose but lucid.

When a working girl arrives, the barkeep (by now, your friend, after several rounds of generous tips) will nod in her direction. Send the lady a drink. It is best to have a room ready upstairs, as most barflies won’t want to climb into a stranger’s car and leave the safety of home base behind. As with incall girls, always negotiate the specifics of the sex act, as well as the price, up front. False assumptions and high expectations can lead to disappointment.

General Biggs's Trench Report
I have cased a handful of Los Angeles’s flashier nightspots and have settled on the bar at a ritzy Beverly Hills hotel. I throw down $160 for a standard room, shower and hit the bar.

An hour passes before a girl I had noticed the previous weekend saunters in and sits by herself at a cocktail table. In the dim light, she looks like Sharon Stone, if Sharon Stone had crow’s-feet around her eyes and mouth and a psychotic flit to her eyelids. Okay, she looks exactly like Sharon Stone. The woman’s pert breasts fill out the front of a tight, black evening dress quite nicely. I ask a cocktail waitress to bring the low-profile whore a cosmopolitan.

It isn’t long before the lonely lady lifts her drink and smiles in my direction, my cue to sit down at her table and introduce myself. We chat about nothing for a couple of rounds until the Sharon Stone lookalike decides that it is safe to drop her opening line.

"So, do you have a room here?" she asks.

"I do."

"Wanna have a little party?"

"I do."

The hooker leans toward me and brushes her lips against my ear.

"For $500, I can make you come all night," she whispers. Her hot breath raises goose bumps on the side of my neck. My new friend is staring me in the eye, attempting to gauge my reaction. In my mind, we’re already upstairs.

Once we settle into my room, "Becka" collects my cash and stuffs the bills in her purse. Next she uses the bathroom, then phones her boss. Having taken care of business, Becka unbuttons my shirt, licks my chest and bites my nipples. "Wash up and meet me in bed," she orders.

Between the sheets, Becka straddles my dick. With the alacrity of a seasoned professional, the blonde produces a condom and rolls the rubber down the shaft of my cock. Becka takes her time with the oral preliminaries, suckling my dork from knob to nads. I tell her that I want to eat her pussy, but she politely declines and places my fingers on her clit instead.

I rub the pretty bar slut’s love button, which triggers histrionic moaning that rivals screen slut Teri Weigel’s phony shrieks. I lick my finger and run the digit through Becka’s slit. The whore is positively caterwauling. She screams something that sounds like "Go ahead, stick that finger in my tight asshole, baby." I act on her instructions, but Becka’s hand clamps tightly around my wrist, indicating that I heard wrong.

I knead my lady friend’s B-cup boobies, then climb between her legs and slide into her snatch, which is tight, primarily because it is dry. I pump my penis deeper and deeper into Becka’s gulch; with each stroke, her cunt moistens and loosens. Eventually, I slam my six-inch stick as deep as our interconnected anatomies will allow. It isn’t long before I’m ready to blow my load.

"Do it inside me, baby," Becka screeches. "That’s it. Give it to me!"

I unload wave after wave of splooge into Becka’s hole (or, more precisely, into the latex that’s strapped onto my bone). The girl grasps my testicles and feels my balls quiver with aftershocks. I peel myself off her sweaty stomach, walk to the minibar in the front room of the suite and twist open an airline bottle of Stoli. One fuck down, all night to go, I muse, deeply satisfied.

When I return to the bedroom to snuggle with Becka and warm up for the next round of lovemaking, I find that my meretricious companion has hastily dressed and is talking on the phone.

"I’ll be there in ten minutes," I hear Becka say.

"What’s going on?" I ask out loud.

"Sorry, I gotta run."

"I thought you said all night."

"Take care, sweetie." Becka brushes me off and flees the room.

Total Cost: $660 (without drinks).

Elapsed Time: Two hours.

Afterglow: "Hello, room service? I’d like a large cheese pizza and six Heinekens."

 

[PoorGuy]

The Promised Labes: The High-Class Hooker
Prep: Shit, shave, shower, shine and masturbate.

How to Find: Unless you know Charlie Sheen, consult the Internet.

Price Range: $600 to $3,500.

Pros: The most beautiful girl you’ve ever fucked.

Cons: A month’s pay down the tubes.

Risks: Divorce (if you find yourself unwilling or unable to return to having sex with your wife); bankruptcy.

The McWeary Theory
Madam-to-the-stars Heidi Fleiss was onto something: Well-heeled gentlemen will pay good money to fuck the finest femmes in the world.

"You pay for quality," says Niki, a $600-an-hour escort. "With me, you get Nordstrom’s as opposed to Target."

Paying through the nose has advantages above and beyond the fact that more money buys prettier and hotter chicks; those same hot chicks will be inclined to indulge the paying prick’s sexual idiosyncrasies, because high-class whores understand that wearing a heftier price tag requires providing a full-service sexual experience. Of course, more exotic requests inflate an already sky-high fee.

"A guy once asked me to give him a golden shower, which is no big deal," says Niki. "He just wanted me to stand over him and pee on his chest. Things like that, I negotiate a little more, like an extra $50."

Another nasty Nici (www.nicisgirls.com) has gained widespread notoriety by providing upscale gents with the cream of the hooker crop. For $1,000, a man can spend an hour with a former or future HUSTLER Honey. Double that price, and the same lucky stiff can spite his ex-wife or show off at his high-school reunion with one of the world’s sexiest women on his arm. A cool $4,000 has been said to buy quality time with an A-list porn star, the likes of Brittany Andrews, Jeanna Fine, Lene Hefner and Sunset Thomas.

Most upmarket escorts offer a multihour dinner-date package that includes a naughty nightcap. These "date" scenarios typically last for about four hours.

"We meet in a restaurant bar around eight o’clock," Niki says. "We’ll drink and maybe take a walk. I’ve even seen movies as part of the evening. These guys want the experience of a date without worrying about whether they’re going to get something at the end of the night."


"You should always negotiate a flat fee up front for your scenario," advises cybermadam Sweet Sarah. "A quality girl should charge no more than $1,500 for dinner, dancing, hot-tubbing and sex.

"Client rules are simple," Sweet Sarah adds. "Take a shower, brush your teeth—maybe even twice. Put on cologne."

Ironically—or perhaps predictably—a pricey tart’s typical trick tends to be a married man. "I get a lot of movie stars and sports figures," Niki reveals (though she declines to name names), "but the majority of my clientele is businessmen, and 90% are married."

A man who is willing to pay a premium for sex should not content himself with ten minutes of wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am; the chump’s change has bought at least 60 minutes of a woman’s time, and he would do well to make every minute count. High-class whores recommend that a john consider a little romance.

"If he sets up a little date, it makes me feel more comfortable," Niki says. "Appetizers are nice, like a shrimp cocktail. Open liquor makes me worry that something could be slipped in my drink; so wait until I get there before opening a bottle. The more comfortable I am, the more fun he’s going to have."

The advice that a whore is not likely to give to a prospective john is to masturbate before her arrival. Ridding the penile pipes of that initial load of excitement forces a hired guppy to earn her cash and affords the man greater staying power—essential in maximizing every second of in-and-out time with a piece of gold-plated gash. Endurance is particularly important given the fact that the high-priced pussy party is over once the trick blows his load.

"An hour is one party," Sweet Sarah says. "Most guys are through in 15 minutes, but that’s still considered an hour. She may sit with you or give you a massage, but additional sex will cost more money. If you know you’re a five-minute guy, ask her for a sensual massage in the beginning; relax, have a drink, chat, then get to it. On the other hand, if you talk too much or waste too much time, she’ll split at the 60th minute unless you pay for another hour."

Allow a certain amount of time early on for mental and visual foreplay, then let the nut-busting games begin.

General Biggs's Trench Report
Having plumbed the desperate ins and outs of prostitution’s lower levels, I am ready for the top of the hooker heap. After days of Web-surfing, unreturned calls and interactions with dubious phone personalities, I settle on Chantel, a bubbly girl who is "guaranteed to please" for the one-time-only price of just $800 an hour. With a deeply tanned body and long, flowing platinum-blond locks, Chantel looks like she just walked off a Mötley Crüe video shoot. My date with the Pamela Anderson Lee lookalike is set for 8 p.m. I whack off at around 7 p.m., then clean myself up, dress and lay eight hundred-dollar bills on a silver tray next to a bottle of champagne.

Chantel shows up at my home at 8:23 p.m.; her face is tanned and her bright-blue eyes shimmer under the porch light. She looks lovely. The girl wears a tight, white dress and red, spiked heels and carries a large purse with a beeper clipped to the outside. For the first time in my history of hooking up with hookers, I feel free from the threat of cops, scams or bad service.

"You’re so pretty," I tell her.

"You’re sweet," she replies.

With this simple, bland exchange, the ice is broken. We sip champagne and speak of sex.

"I want this to be the most memorable night of your life," Chantel says. "Tell me what you want."

My dick is already hard, but I don’t want to start fucking yet. Chantel is like a still-wrapped Christmas gift—part of the thrill is not knowing what is inside.

"I used to be a professional masseuse," Chantel says proudly; she puts her skill to use by removing my shirt and rubbing my shoulders. Chantel then demonstrates that she is currently a professional slut by gently blowing into my ear and running her tongue across the back of my neck.

With 20 minutes elapsed, my lady friend still hasn’t removed a stitch of clothing; not surprisingly, I am highly aroused. Finally, Chantel stands up and drops her dress to the floor. She looks like a Victoria’s Secret model, with emerald panties and matching bra. She seductively strips off her underwear; her pussy is neatly coiffed and dyed as bright blond as her mane.

Chantel lies back on the bed and pries open her snatch, displaying the fresh, young, beautiful love tunnel I’ll soon be slamming into. I remove my slacks, and we whack off in unison. She rolls over onto her stomach and spreads her ass cheeks. The delicate crinkles of her anus are a tongue’s length away.

Chantel drops to her knees and makes eye contact with me from beneath my balls. "You’ve got a beautiful cock, Henry." The top-shelf whore tickles the underside of my shaft with French-tipped nails, licks my stick from bottom to top and swallows the entire shaft.

Chantel’s blowjob is crisp, clean and effective. She pulls her head away from my rod and breaks a long line of saliva that connects her face to my veiny foil. She smiles and guides my hand so that my palm presses against her left breast. "Do you feel how fast my heart is racing?" she asks. There’s no faking a pounding heartbeat; my hard-earned dollars appear to have purchased passion.

I lead Chantel into the bedroom; we paw at each other in the darkness. Her hand never leaves my dick. I fumble with a rubber for anxious seconds before she pushes me to the mattress and squats above me. She spreads apart her pussy lips and sits slowly on my cock.

"I want to feel your hard cock from every angle," Chantel purrs. We fuck slowly for 30 minutes: reverse cowgirl, missionary, doggy-style, spoons—I have an all-access pass to Chantel’s body.

When holding back an explosion of sperm is no longer an option, I announce that the end is near. "Can I come on your tits?" I ask.

Chantel smiles, presses her golden globes together and urges me to splooge on them. "Shoot it all over me, Henry. Just keep it off my face."

No problem. I pull out of my hired date’s velvety vise and hurl the condom at my bedroom window. A blast of semen splashes against her left tit and spills onto my sheets. I attempt to top off her navel with the final spurts of ball batter.

Chantel tastes my gonad grease, then instructs me to lie on my chest. Nude, she straddles my bare ass and massages my neck and nads.

I fall into a half-sleeping state; Chantel retreats to the bathroom. When she returns, I have no desire to move. She sits next to me, kisses me softly and thanks me for a great time. "You’re very special, Henry," she whispers, before tweaking my nose like my mother used to after tucking me in. She kisses my lips lightly and leaves.

When I awake the next morning, the used condom is stuck to the center of my window, a foot above my dog’s outstretched snout—proof enough that the best sex of my life had not been a dream.

Total Cost: $825 (including champagne).

Elapsed Time: 75 minutes.

Afterglow: To sleep, perchance to dream.

The General's Summation
The giddy rush of whoring having passed, reality dawns on me like a freshly sprouted herpes sore: I have blown nearly $2,000 on a smorgasbord of snatch. With my savings account and my testicles equally dry, I am left feeling that, at the end of the day, I’d rather have a girlfriend. It’s true that prostitutes don’t nag (they barely speak), but a girlfriend will allow you to kiss her on the lips, lick her pussy and come inside her, all for the price of listening to her complain.