I started to go down on Natasha and immediately suppressed a gag. There was no warning, no bad smell, and no strange discharge, but as soon as I applied my tongue to her vag, it was clear that something was very, very wrong. Perhaps it was Natasha’s aversion to soap, or perhaps she had some kind of infection, but her unique flavor was like nothing I had ever encountered in any of my female sex partners. It wasn’t exactly fishy, but it was definitely in the same taste family. It was terrible. I really can’t emphasize enough how unpleasant it is to bury your face in a putrid vulva. I’m pretty sure that only H.P. Lovecraft could describe it properly.
Lucky for me, Natasha was building her undoubtedly fake orgasm much too quickly, and I didn’t have to keep up appearances for very long. It was clear that the time for the strap-on had come.
Trying to look sexy while buckling on a dildo harness is not easy at the best of times. Trying to look sexy while buckling on a dildo harness in front of a man who has just witnessed the worst sexual experience of your entire life, still has not pulled his dick out, and is starting to look very uncomfortable is practically impossible. I was at the point of praying to Ishtar that the guy would say something, but he seemed transfixed by what was probably the most fascinating trainwreck he would ever see in his whole life.
Once again, I didn’t have much choice but to go ahead. This time, however, I decided that I would make the spectacle as lurid as possible without causing any emotional scars.
I put a condom on the strap-on and ordered Natasha to get on all fours. As I started fucking her, I also let out a stream of abuse, hoping that the man sitting in the folding chair beside the bed would be turned off enough to ask us to stop. I called her a slut, I called her a whore, and I called her my bitch. I referred to the strap-on as ‘my cock’ and asked her if she liked it. None of this seemed to have any effect on our client.
Finally, as I smacked Natasha’s ass and asked if she liked being choked, the client spoke up, “Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry ladies, but this is weird. I feel like a creep. I thought this would be different.”
His voice was music to my ears. Natasha and I disengaged ourselves, got dressed, and got out of the apartment in record time. I’m sure that the experience was as awkward for her as it was for me because we never spoke of it again. Over the next few years she brought it up every so often when she wanted to impress someone, but she never went further than simply saying something along the lines of, “Yeah, Cate and I totally had sex.”
Despite the failure of her first foray into the sex industry, Natasha proceeded to try her hand at first prostitution, and then stripping. She failed at both of them, but at that point it wasn’t my problem any more since she wasn’t asking me for assistance with either venture. We had both learned our lesson: for each of us, at least, sex work was best left as an individual pursuit.
Cathryn Berarovich is a bit of a renaissance sex worker; she’s currently employed as a stripper (and writer) but has held numerous interesting jobs in the industry. Each week, she shares her stories in Harlotry.
(Still from Pretty Women by Touchstone Pictures)