Clients I Never Should Have Accepted

In sex work, you quickly learn that people aren’t always what they seem when they call on the phone. Those who speak most politely aren’t always the ones who behave best. Those who seem coarse sometimes turn out to be the most respectful. It took me several months to understand that principle, and I learned it in the worst way possible, through experiences I don’t make any effort to remember.

I started out of necessity, like most people in this line of work. I was twenty-three, had rent to pay on my own, and few alternatives that could cover what I needed in the time I needed it. An acquaintance explained how it worked, I made a profile on a contact platform, and within days I already had my first messages. The first client wasn’t terrible, but he also wasn’t what I’d imagined. It was something between a transaction and a performance, with me learning not to show what I was really feeling while a stranger fucked me, his breath coming in short gasps against my shoulder.

Over time I established my own rules. The most important one: they had to shower before I arrived or do it in my presence. It wasn’t negotiable. Even so, with certain clients, that rule was absolutely useless.

***

The first one who left me with an impression that was difficult to erase was a very large, middle-aged man who always arrived in his own car and paid in cash. He did shower, yes. The problem was that as soon as he started moving, he began to sweat in a way that had no precedent in my experience. Thick, sticky sweat, with an odor that was difficult to describe without making it sound worse than it already was.

Added to that was the problem of his size. I’m not referring to his genitals, but to his body mass. He was so large that reaching certain parts of his body required something resembling an acrobatic maneuver. Sucking him was an exercise in willpower and contortion at the same time: I had to put my head between his thighs as if making my way through a tunnel, hold his cock with both hands because he couldn’t even see it beneath his belly anymore, and work it with my tongue from the base to the glans while his stomach pressed against my forehead. The angle was uncomfortable, the smell from that distance was intense, and more than once I had to pull it out of my mouth halfway through sucking and breathe deeply through my nose to control my gagging. I ran my tongue over his balls, sucked them one by one, swallowed his cock as far as I could, and he responded with short grunts and a hand on the back of my neck, pushing me farther than I could take. He didn’t seem to notice, or he didn’t care.

For penetration, the only position that worked was for me to ride him. I had to climb onto that bulk, straddle him with my legs spread, and lower myself slowly until I fitted his cock into my cunt, feeling the flesh of his thighs soak my buttocks with sweat the moment I brushed against him. I worked it into myself as best I could amid the heat he gave off and the sweat covering everything, and moved until he finished: up and down with my knees burning, bracing my hands against his hairy, slippery chest, while he squeezed my tits with thick fingers and pinched my nipples so he could finish sooner. Every thrust from me drew a gasp from him, and the smell of sweat mingled with what rose from where our bodies met forced me to breathe through my mouth. It took quite a while. It always took quite a while, and when he finally came, he did it inside me, his cock buried to the hilt and his hands digging into my hips, leaving my cunt full of warm semen that ran down the insides of my thighs as soon as I moved away. He always left me with a feeling of exhaustion that went beyond the physical.

I wondered many times afterward whether I should have turned him down from the beginning. Probably. But at that moment the money carried more weight than instinct, and that was something else it took me a long time to learn.

After the fourth time, I told him I had temporarily retired. He didn’t insist.

***

There was one booking I remember in detail, not because it was the most unpleasant physically, but because it showed me better than anything else how far objectification can go. A group of men contacted me looking for someone for what they called a “session with spectators”: four would participate actively and three others would watch. They offered me good money, and I accepted.

I arrived at a flat on the outskirts of town on a Friday night. Four men between thirty and fifty, none of them particularly pleasant, and three more sitting on sofas with beers in their hands as if they were waiting for a football match to begin. There was quiet music and little light, which neither improved nor worsened anything.

They stripped me amid laughter and comments I didn’t even bother listening to. I sucked each of them in turn, kneeling on the living-room carpet, moving from one cock to the next with barely enough time to breathe. One grabbed my hair and shoved his cock down my throat until tears sprang from my eyes and a thread of saliva fell onto my tits; the next preferred me to suck him slowly while looking him in the eyes, as he fondled his balls with his other hand. The men on the sofa commented loudly, pointed, and told me to do this or that, to lick one man’s ass, to spit on another’s cock. Then they penetrated me one by one: on all fours over the sofa, with one fucking my cunt from behind while another put his cock in my mouth, then turning me over, riding on top, switching holes, switching men. And between two of them, they even gave me double penetration, something that hadn’t been part of the original agreement but happened anyway: one lying beneath me with his cock buried in my cunt, another kneeling behind me, spreading my buttocks and pushing with spit and little else until he worked his cock into my ass, both of them moving at once while the others watched and masturbated without trying to hide it. When they had all finished, they came all over me: they put me on my knees in the middle of the living room and came in turn on my face, my tits, my hair, one after another, hot streams of semen running down my chin and onto my breasts. And then, as if it were the finishing touch to something no one had entirely agreed to, two of the spectators stood up from the sofa, pulled out their cocks, and pissed on me too, the warm urine running through my hair and down my shoulders, mixing with the semen already drying on my skin.

I remember the smell on me when I left. It isn’t something that disappears easily, not from the skin or from the memory. I showered at the gym next door, which was still open at that hour, and then again when I got home. I never accepted another group booking.

***

Not all difficult clients were difficult because of hygiene or brutality. Some were difficult because of the fetishes they brought with them, sometimes with a naturalness that was almost more disturbing than the fetish itself.

One of them was a man around sixty, impeccably dressed, who always arrived on time and paid with the money already counted out in advance. He was polite, conversed well before we began, and asked how I was. In a different context, he would have been a perfectly pleasant person.

His fetish was urine.

He wanted me to suck him after he had urinated. And afterward he wanted me to piss on him, in the shower in his bathroom, which had a marble floor and a designer showerhead that seemed to me a waste for what we were going to do. He asked me the first time with the same calmness he might have used to order dessert in a restaurant.

“Can you piss on me afterward?” he asked, as he undid the second button of his shirt.

It took me a moment to process what he was saying. Then I said yes.

The first part was almost a ritual: he went into the bathroom, pissed into the toilet without closing the door, and returned with his cock still dripping. I knelt on the bedroom carpet, took his cock in my hand, and put it in my mouth without cleaning it, that bitter, metallic taste permeating my tongue. I sucked him all the way, running my lips along its entire length, playing with the foreskin with the tip of my tongue, swallowing him down to my throat until he was completely hard. I sucked his balls too, one by one, and he guided my head with his hand without squeezing, with a delicacy that contrasted with what he was asking me to do. Then he fucked me standing up, my face pressed against the still-dry shower tiles, thrusting from behind with short, firm strokes until he came inside me with a restrained moan. And then came the second part: I climbed onto the edge of the shower tray, spread my cunt open with two fingers, and pissed on him while he lay on his back on the marble, mouth open, receiving the stream on his face and chest as if he were being given Communion. Among the clients I had, he wasn’t one of the worst. He paid well, never asked me to do anything that put my safety at risk, and always seemed grateful when he left. But the shower afterward was always a long one.

***

Of those who did put something more than my comfort at risk, the most striking was a man I’ll call Andrés. He introduced himself as a businessman in the livestock industry, had a ranch on the outskirts of the city with some animals, and spoke in a way that tried to project authority in every sentence. He was one of those men who, on the surface, brag about their conquests with women, but once the door closes, want to get on all fours and be treated without restraint.

That wasn’t a problem for me. He liked rough sex: having me tie him with ropes to the bedposts, insult him by calling him a bitch, pig, submissive whore, spit in his mouth and have him clean it with his tongue. I fitted him with a harness and a thick dildo and fucked him in the ass with him face down, holding his hip with one hand and smacking his buttocks with the flat of the other until they turned red and hot. I whispered filthy things in his ear while I pushed it all the way in, pulled his hair back, and forced him to repeat what he was while I penetrated him at a pace that gave him no respite. He was into verbal humiliation and total control, and when he came, he did it without touching himself, his cock dripping semen onto the sheets while I kept thrusting the harness inside him. He was the kind of man who knew exactly what he wanted and didn’t beat around the bush when asking for it.

The problem came during the third session. While we were resting, he asked me, with complete calm and an almost administrative tone, whether I would be willing to let one of his horses penetrate me.

I thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

He said it with the same expression he might have used to suggest changing positions. With no apparent awareness of what he was asking, no indication that he was crossing a boundary that would be obvious to anyone.

I stood up, dressed in silence, and left. He tried to say something when I was already at the door. I didn’t listen. I drove back to the city with my hands clenched around the steering wheel and without turning on the radio.

***

There were other requests I refused with less drama but equal firmness.

One client wanted me to defecate on him. He asked with the same calmness he might have used to order something to drink, as if it were just another service on a list. I told him no.

Another pulled a pocketknife from his jacket and asked whether he could make a small cut on me and lick my blood. He described it as something intimate, special, a form of connection. I told him no.

Over time I learned that short refusals work better. Long ones invite negotiation, and there are things that are not up for negotiation.

***

Not all the strange moments came from men.

A woman contacted me one Thursday afternoon. In her early forties, well dressed, with a tension in her jaw that should have warned me something was wrong. She hired me for two hours at a hotel downtown, said she wanted to have a good time, and that it had been a long time since she’d had sex with someone who paid real attention to her.

The first part was relatively normal. I undressed her slowly, laid her on the bed, and ate her pussy calmly, running my tongue over her outer lips, sucking her clitoris with pursed lips, inserting two fingers and curling them upward until she began to arch her back. She came with her mouth open and her thighs squeezing my head, and then returned the favor with a skill I hadn’t expected: she held my legs open over the pillows while running her tongue over my pussy in slow circles, pulling away to suck my nipples and then going back down until she made me come too. Then, while we were at our most intense, with her sitting on my face and my hands gripping her buttocks as I ate her pussy again, she took the phone from the bedside table and began taking photographs.

“For my husband,” she said, without pausing what she was doing.

She hadn’t asked my permission. She did it with a smile that wasn’t one of pleasure but of cold satisfaction, the smile of someone carrying out a plan she had been preparing for weeks. I was the instrument of her revenge, and she hadn’t asked whether I wanted to be.

I stopped. I asked her to put the phone away. She told me not to worry, that my face didn’t show. As if that solved anything.

I finished the agreed-upon time and left before she could try to convince me of anything else. I never found out what she did with those photographs, and I didn’t want to know.

***

The last client was the one that brought everything to an end.

His name was Rodrigo, or something like that, in his mid-forties, with a well-built body, and he took sildenafil to prolong the session. He told me as soon as he arrived, with a certain pride, as if it were an advantage I should appreciate.

It wasn’t.

The session lasted almost three hours. Rodrigo had a large cock, thick from the base, with prominent veins, and an energy that didn’t flag. His idea of good sex was continuous, intense penetration, without pauses or consideration for the other person. He started by fucking my mouth standing up, gripping the back of my neck and pushing it down my throat to the hilt with long thrusts, not letting me breathe between one and the next, until my eyes were watering and I was drooling onto his balls. Then he threw me onto the bed facedown, spread my buttocks with both hands, and drove his cock into my cunt in a single thrust, without transition, beginning to fuck me at a rhythm that was more like a machine’s than a person’s. He changed positions every fifteen minutes without asking: on all fours, on my back with my legs over his shoulders, on my side, on top of him but with him controlling my hips so he could set the pace. He thrust with constant force, his pelvis slamming against my ass, without wondering whether anything he was doing might be painful. I had explained my limits to him at the beginning of the session. He ignored them, or interpreted them differently from how I had stated them. When I asked for a break, he told me to hold on a little longer and kept thrusting. When I told him he was hurting me, he replied that it was part of the warm-up. He came twice without losing his erection for a moment, and the third time, when he finally finished completely with a grunt inside me, I could no longer feel my legs and noticed a strange wetness between my thighs that wasn’t just semen.

The next day I woke up with pain that wasn’t normal. I had trouble walking. I had trouble sitting down. I went to the emergency room that afternoon, and the doctor confirmed what I feared: an internal tear. Medication, rest, no physical exertion for at least two weeks.

I spent nearly twelve days unable to move normally.

I spent those twelve days thinking. About what I was doing, how much it was costing me in every sense, and whether the financial compensation justified continuing to expose myself to something like that. The answer was clear and didn’t require much deliberation.

I closed my profile the following week and never reopened it.

***

I’m telling all this not to invite pity or to shock anyone. I’m telling it because there’s something many people forget when they hire someone for sex: on the other side of that transaction is a person. A person with boundaries, with a body that can be hurt, with a life that doesn’t begin and end in that room.

Paying for a service does not give you the right to ignore what that person has said they are unwilling to do. It does not give you the right to take photographs without permission, or to propose things that put someone’s physical safety at risk, or to last for three hours simply because you took a pill.

Some of those clients probably behaved normally outside those walls. With their families, their coworkers, anyone who wasn’t being paid to tolerate them. But in there, with money involved, something in them changed. As if payment suspended the basic rules of treating other people decently.

It doesn’t suspend them. It never should.