Hey! Why are you reading this and not writing your own Hook Up Hero? Send it in here. Then you can read.
Twas my senior year in high school, and like any other male at my age my attention was not on my grades but getting laid.
Second semester rolled around and our school received several foreign exchange students, one of them being a total smokeshow from Germany. Blonde hair, C cups, a tight ass and an accent to die for. She needed an American Boy to show her around. I got close to her host girl…just close enough to slip the German my number.
Anyhow I invited her over to hangout and watch a movie. I was home alone and we went to the basement to pick a movie. Wanting to assert American dominance I turned on Top Gun. Didn’t take long before I was holding a push up position over her, elbows locked as she swiftly took my belt off. We were lip-locked and she pulled the meat sword from my boxers. The following hand job was the best I have ever received. Maybe it was hyped up in my mind because she was foreign… or maybe it was magic.
She used some sort of circular motion and I had to ask her to stop so I didn’t get too trigger happy. Apparently blow jobs aren’t part of german etiquette because I didn’t get one. But she didn’t like condoms and I wasn’t complaining. Long story short she was amazing and I got to hit it doggystyle, without a condom while Kenny Loggins “Highway to the Danger Zone” played on Top Gun in the background.
Cool. I’d say you should have wrapped it up, but as you are both high schoolers, it’s doubtful you have STDs yet. Also, I’m just gonna assume you are both 18 so this isn’t considered German child porn.
Hey, ever want to know what happens when you hire an escort? Get ready for a really in-depth look from a dude who refers to himself as ‘Gaston.’
I, along with several friends have been curious about how the escort industry works. Having such questions as: how is this legal, what do they do, how can there be clear communication without breaking the law, and the ultimate question of will they bang you even though they don’t have to. Being a business savvy person, I assumed that in order for the agency to continue to operate, they need consistent clients, in order to be consistent, they need incentive, and by incentive, I mean sexual engagement that kept them coming back for more. After a heated discussion with my friend, we came to the conclusion that our questions will never be answered unless we try it, so, I felt an obligation to roll up my sleeves, get my hands a little dirty, and take one for the team.
I did an internet search for escorts in the MD/DC/VA area, and without surprise, Google didn’t fail to deliver. Paradise Hotties with a URL of www.dreamescortsdc.com. I happened to be on my phone the first time visiting their site. I perceived a professional looking page (which isn’t difficult to do as we are in 2014 where internet scammers thrive off of professional looking websites) which was even a mobile optimized version to boot! I read what appeared to be a mission statement of sorts. To summarize, it stated that Paradise Hotties provides an array of “adult entertainment services” emphasizing integrity and discretion. I then navigated to the “escorts” page and if anyone has ever wondered what a “fuckbook” might look like, I think I found it. At first, second, and third glance, this page appeared to be a menu featuring gorgeous women seductively posing for a professional photographer as the entrées. The great photos in combination with names such as Lilly, Persia, and Natalia made for quite the buildup.
The escort profiles were an integral part of this buildup, including stats about height, weight, measurements, ethnicity, second languages, whether at some point they were an adult film actor, and even pubic hair style. I was ecstatic over the prospect that our questions would be answered by the end of my night, as well as the other obvious prospect that would presumably result from the answering of this question.
My stream of consciousness: “Ok, what’s next? How can I proceed with booking a date with one of these dimes?” The next step was an online screening form for prospective clients. With little hesitation, I began filling it out the form, which asked very basic questions such as age, occupation, and a photo submission. I submitted the screening form and called the agency, only to hear I must also complete and submit their credit card form. So naturally, I gave them my mom’s credit card information. Shortly after submitting, I received a call asking why my name and the name on the card were different. This was surprisingly easy to clarify, as my entitlement has me believing that my parents’ money is really my money, and they just don’t realize it yet. I tell the man on the phone (presumably a pimp or sorts) that I am a college student, and I use her card for various expenses as I see fit. I established a time and location which was 11:30 pm at my apartment and began anxiously awaiting my mysterious encounter with Lilly.
After frantically cleaning my apartment, making my bed, shaving my face, shaving my dick, putting dishes in the dishwasher, putting soiled laundry in my the washer, making a Tanqueray on the rocks, and brushing my teeth, 11:30 rolls around before I know it. I go downstairs to the lobby only to wait to get a call from a restricted number at 12:17 from Lilly. She says her staff needs to get my ID and credit card. I step outside and wait for a few minutes and this sketchy Persian dude is wandering around and asks if I am me. I reply yes, he has his iPhone in hand with his credit card swiping device jutting out of the top along with a credit card impression thing. I show him my ID and say that I do not have the credit card with me, as I only know the number.
“Let me go ask the agency if I’m allowed to enter the number,” he says and then disappears into the night. After waiting for another 10 minutes I receive an email from Lilly saying I must physically have the card in hand. I then reply to her email saying that I have another card she can run. No response. I call the agency only to get reamed by what sounded like my mom bitching at me. “You lied to the agency and were committing credit card fraud blah blah blah.”
To expedite the process, I make the most insincere apology and offer up my own card. She then asks me to fill out the credit card form from the website and call back. I hang up and my phone is literally on 1% battery. Thank god for Chrome’s auto fill function, Google filled that form out so fast and I was able to return to my room without losing power. Shortly after submitting, I receive an email asking to send a picture of the card next to my ID for verification purposes. I follow their instructions and head downstairs for the sketchy dude to run my card. All goes well with the payment and Lilly steps out of this blue mustang.
She is DEFINITELY not the Lilly from the website. She was overweight, had bad skin, and obviously in an altered state of mind. But regardless of her appearances I still had some investigative journalism to conduct. We start making small talk: where are you from, what’s your ethnicity, do you have siblings, the standard façade of giving a shit about other people’s lives, let alone an escort’s. We make it to my room and she immediately notices how clean the place is. I offer her something to drink from my well-stocked bar full of top shelf liquor, but all she wants is my cheap champagne. Upon opening my fridge, she makes the connection between my rock swole body and the healthy food. This opens up the door for me to give a brief lecture on fitness and nutrition and share the story of my inspiring body transformation from nugget, to the Gaston I am today. She can’t stop mirin’. We sit down at my kitchen table and I am pretty nervous as I have no idea how to go from chatting up this escort to getting her naked in my king-sized bed. She incessantly probed as to whether I’m a cop. “I am the furthest thing from,” I repeat. Then she asks why I booked an escort. I explain this profound curiosity my friends and I share about the escort industry without alluding to our presumption that escorts are a euphemism for prostitutes, hookers, whores, or ladies of the night.
I’m also fighting the urge to come flat out and ask, “How did you become such a train wreck,” so I beat around the bush only to hear her reality is far worse than I anticipated. Being the hypocritical grandiose condescending person I am, I jump at yet another opportunity to give a lecture. I go on rant about personal accountability and being the controller of one’s destiny, and similar to the mental fortitude involved in living a healthy active lifestyle or maintaining a six-pack, one must apply this same attitude to work to internalize life’s successes and failures. After my lecture on my recommendations this lost cause needs to do to with her life, I find myself mentally and physically exhausted as it’s nearly 2:45 in the morning.
At this point I am apprehensive about how to proceed. I want to maintain “integrity and discretion” while solving the quintessential question! And time is against me. I ask the most general question, “so..how does this work, what do we do next”. She says that she “works off of tips,” similar to an exotic dancer. Sensing my nervous demeanor, she insists “let me at least give you a strip tease.” I oblige. She tells me, “take off your clothes and get on the bed, I’m gonna freshen up.” I strip down to my underwear and the lighting is quite flattering as my pecks, abs, and quads are all popping. I just kept thinking if she was thinking how fortunate she was to have such a diesel rocket and not some older creepy dude as a date. I put on my playlist titled “bump and grind” consisting of slow jams from Drake, The Dream, and a clutch song called “my girl gotta girlfriend” and here we go.
THANK GOD for the dim lighting as I would have lost any wood I struggled to muster after regrettably hearing her sad story. Her dance was terrible, as it was mostly moseying her tits in my face, and smashing her ass into my groin. I’ve had enough at this point and say, “okay, now I’m gonna dance for you,” she goes along with it and is painfully shown up by my skills and coordination as a seductive dancer. I reveal my nickname to be “Magic Mike” and she asks me if I strip. I admit “I’ve thought about it, and have even visited a male strip club to ask the manager about what a prospective job would entail”. Despite being fully aware of my bright future I work every day to create for myself, she offers her wise insight “you should be a stripper.” I ignore her unsolicited career advice (told you I’m a hypocrite, I gave her two unsolicited lectures) and take the suggestion as a compliment to my body and dancing abilities.
I then lay her down and try to take off her thong. She stops me and essentially says I need to pay extra for entrance to her nasty box. I say that I wish I had known that before, as I would have withdrawn cash from an ATM. She astutely recalls that I know my mom’s credit card information. She suggests in what I had trouble differentiating to be cool calm tone or a strung-out-on-Xanax mumble, “well you could just buy me something online.” I think about it real quick then happily oblige and go to my favorite online retailer, Amazon and search for a Coach bag that fits her tastes. I add to cart, and hand her the computer to enter her shipping information, which I hope she realized stated her real name, real address, real email, and real phone number (which is not good if in your profession, your safety relies on anonymity). Luckily for Sara, a.k.a. Lilly, I am a college kid with big plans, and no time for harassing a busted hooker, excuse me, I mean escort. She then asks if I have rubbers. I am insulted by the question as I answer with a brief ramble while making sure to flex as I use hand gestures, “Lilly, think about this, I’m a college brah living in a bachelor pad, no shit I have rubbers.” I take off my Calvin Klein briefs and hand her the condom, she straps me up, and starts giving me what I am pleased to admit was above average head. “here we go” I’m thinking, knowing that time is of the essence, I only have a chance for two positions, so I bend her over my bed and go to town, well… more like a ghetto for a couple minutes, then turn her over and drill her until I feel like I’ve had enough.
It’s finally over, she gets dressed, I start making food, she leaves, and I cancel the order from Amazon. Boom! Now I have an answer to the quintessential question regarding escorts. Yes, they will have sex with you, but only if adequate incentives are offered. As to the other question others might be wondering, like are the girls on their site the same girls that come to your place. If it isn’t obvious by now, then I’ll just tell you, “FUCK NO.” If you want a beautiful escort/call girl/hooker, then you better have deep pockets or be willing to go to China, Amsterdam, Thailand, or the other countries who don’t impose their judgment on what services are acceptable to offer in exchange for legal tender or have governments that turn the other way as there are bigger issues to focus on.
After all is said and done, I ultimately rolled up my sleeves, and got my hands dirty and not only “took one for the team,” but I fuckin put the team on my back, so nobody else need ever ponder, or feel obligated to bear the burden of answering those questions. I already did.
Sorry to the break the news here, but if you made it all the way through that story, you are contractually obligated to send in your own Hook Up Hero. Don’t make me take you to court over this.