I Made Pancakes
May 6, 2012 § 1 Comment
“Well, the first pancake is always the one you throw away.”, Max is telling me as V stuffs baked chicken into his gaping face hole.
The Russians are here to take pictures again, but it wasn’t like the last time, V pointing his hundred dollar crap camera at my ass, telling me to arch my back more, more, the men will want to see me arch my back, me painfully aware that my pussy looks like lunch meat from that angle, thinking no amount of arch is going to make that any more desirable.
This time the Russians are taking pictures of the bites, the bruises, the marks left by my first client, their comrade. They called him earlier in the day and he promised I was lying to them, so they needed the photos to take back to his apartment, to take back along with a baseball bat, to take back so they could get more money out of him.
The Russians, they were trying to help me be better at this. They were full of advice. They were clear about how it was supposed to go down. You get the money right away. The money is for the show. You take some cards, offer to play poker with them. You dance sexy in their laps and tell them how hot they are. You put off the sex for as long as you can, and then, when the time is up, you ask, “Another hour?”
At this point, you text the Russians with “Another hour” because if you don’t, they will kick down the client’s door and kick in the client’s face. They’ll give you about five minutes, but that’s why you have to either set an alarm or locate a clock as soon as you arrive. So, anyway, you get them to pay for another hour, and you stretch that out as long as you can, and just when they say “Ok, let’s fuck already, enough with the cards and the dancing, I’m not forking out yet another $300 to not get fucked.” then that’s when you say “Oh, but that 300 was only for the show. If you wanted something more, well. That’s not a part of the show. That’d just be because I like you so much. Plus, you also haven’t tipped me.”
And that’s when their dicks are throbbing and they’ve just dumped a grand on this night, and if it’s going to end well, they certainly want to pop one off, so you get the $300 for another hour, and they fork over extra for whatever it is they want. Some girls do anal and make a bit more. Some girls only do blowies. I personally think my blowies are worth a lot more than my asshole, and from all the times I made them cum immediately with my mouth, I don’t think they were ever sorry to have slipped me an extra hundred.
Then you go to your driver, either a Russian or some jerk they’d hired, and you give you driver $25 for every hour he sat there. And you give him an envelope with $200 for every hour, and that’s for the Russians to keep. And you put your $75 for every hour plus whatever tips you’d made in your purse and you swish out your mouth with a bottle of water, and you wait for the next call to come in.
Max never stopped talking, he was so full of advice, and he would repeat himself a lot. And this day, as they were taking photos of the absolute mess their pal had made of my face, of my body, he just kept going on and on about the pancake. “That’s the one that’s burnt, you know. And this is just your first pancake.”
This job, my first job they’d given me, was a favor for a friend who was feeling down about his divorce. He was an ugly, small man with a weasesly Russian face, and I recognized him immediately from one of my favorite HBO shows. He had a roast on the counter, which he told me to cook while he made a few drinks.
I’d been going out by myself on Craigslist jobs. Those were pretty straightforward. I would meet with the client, discuss his needs, change my clothes, and do whatever it was they’d asked. When I saw the ad to work for a “woman owned adult entertainment agency”, it seemed like a safer, easier way to make money.
After the client made the drinks, he pulled a cucumber out of his refrigerator and told me to bend over. I laughed a bit, in that way you laugh when you know you’re about to have a cucumber shoved in your cunt, which is more of a question than a laugh, and he insisted, and that was the beginning of six hours of pain.
I only worked with the Russians for six months, and in the end I could feel that they were getting as tired of me as I was getting of them. All of the following “pancakes” were predictable, better, lacking violence. It was just that after a while I decided I hated pancakes. My heart wasn’t in it anymore. “You tell us how you’re doing sometimes.” Max said, and V shoved a sandwich into his gaping mouth hole, and I said “I will” only I said it in that way you say a thing when you know you’ll never have another cucumber shoved up your cunt.