anyone can be bought, right?

I quite enjoyed writing the past two days’ posts. Usually thinking about and especially writing or talking about my past sexual antics makes me feel either noxious or angry. But this time it did not.

I can, at times view my past sexcapades and be quite detached from them. In fact the Pysch and I talk about this ability to see myself outside of myself, kinda like a third party. I do it a lot; when walking down the street, the expressions I pull. I easily and I think objectively visualise how someone else experiences me.
Not always. Sometimes and other times I couldn’t give a monkey’s what the hell someone else thinks… that’s usually when I’m angry and Katrina Gee comes out. Dee the (ex) boyfriend calls me that when I get cross. Katrina as in Hurricane.
Nice.
OK – I’m gonna tell you something… Obviously the type of prostitution I was talking about yesterday was expensive and at the higher end of the spectrum of Hookerville.

It is only fair and honest that I tell you that I have also worked in a different way: I worked in a flat. I am embarrassed to admit it. Why? Snatch for cash is the same however it’s packaged, right?
‘That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet…’ We’ve had this debate before…So I don’t want to totally justify my decision to work in a flat, and I don’t want to squirm my way out of admitting the reality, because first, it’s part of my history. Nothing can change that.
Second - I understand that hookers who do work flats are as equal to hotel-visiting-ladies-of-the-night, just as a street walker is.
The job is the same, just dressed in a different suit. Just as with so much in life there is elitism and noses are peered down onto other people who are also just trying to get by in life.
I, for one, (and this is not a justification, but a fact) worked in a flat on two separate occasions at a time when my confidence was in the gutter.

My ego wasn’t even well enough to charge 300 quid so I had to find another way. Bizarre how, now, today – My price would be huge more than a measly £300. But at that time I thought I wasn’t worthy. Me? My pussy? My body? Not worth £300? It seems f ridiculous. How times change….

By the way: Before you ask me what the price would be for me to come out of retirement today, tonight – it would really depend…
But like so many people who don’t want to admit it, regardless of if they’ve worked as an escort in the past or not, I will admit I do have a price.

Most people, as I’m sure you’ll agree can be bought, with cash or otherwise.








Check out my Facebook page if you fancy a more personal chat. I'm under the name Missy Gee.