Confessions of a Call Girl

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call_girl_leadFollowing the launch of this illustrious website we were inundated with a deluge of praise and countless offers of sexual favors, which we graciously accepted. However, to be fair, there were a few criticisms. One of them being that the site was too male. Fair ‘nough. In an effort to placate the masses, we literally scoured the streets for a female author worthy enough to join our ranks. So without further ado, ladies and germs, may we proudly introduce the funniest person we could find bereft of a penis, Summer Ketchum. Enjoy.

If there’s one thing I like, it’s getting railed. There’s nothing better than having a John slide his jimmy up in my jawn. Well, that’s not true. There is something better than having some stud stick his spud in my chud and that’s getting paid to do the nasty.

I charge no less than a cool grand for a half hour with my sweetness. All you male readers out there are probably saying, Summer, how the hell can you justify charging a thousand clams for only a half hour of your goodness?

I say, because I’m god damn worth it.

Do you know how much the fake tits, the liposuction, the collagen implants, the trips to the tanning salon, the New York City haircuts, the gym memberships cost? And on top of that I’ve got to dress well. My clientele doesn’t want to bang some bleached blonde bimbo in JC Penny’s and Victoria’s Secret. I’ve got to have the finest clothes and accessories too.

Even though I savor looking fabulous and having every guy in Manhattan want to get in my $700 pair of jeans, some days I just don’t want to hear some fat retard from the Bronx yell, Hola, chica, let me holla at you. I’ll make that pussy feel real good. Most likely he could because I’ve screwed all kinds of guys and Latin guys can walk the walk. But still, I just don’t want to be bothered sometimes, so that’s why I charge you a thousand dollars for the everyday pain and suffering I have to endure for looking so fuckable.

Here’s a fine example of why I charge at least a thousand dollars for a half hour, plus an extra three hundred if you want to take the turnpike to Hershey Park and an additional fifty if you want to nut on my face.

The other night, after I got finished licking champagne off some hot Wall St. guy’s balls, he’s a regular, I had to head up to the Upper West Side for a new costumer. As soon as he opened the door, I almost threw up. Actually, I did throw up and charged the guy extra for making me throw up. It wasn’t his fault that he had a goiter the size of a pineapple on his neck or half his face had third-degree burn scars or he only had a stump for his right hand or he smelled like death from his rotting exposed toes or he had a baby’s arm growing out of his abdomen that he had a sleeve specially made for it. But still, nobody makes me throw-up without paying for it except myself after a big meal.

I’m not about to fuck The Elephant Man, I told him bluntly. This seemed to upset him. I could tell he was angry because one of the extra orifices on his face began to increase its spittle production. Still a little unsure whether he could actually understand what I was saying, I tried to explain further, I don’t fuck amputees. Call me what you will, but I’m no Wannabee. Good day, sir. But before I could get one Steve Madden out the door, a gentle male voice came over the intercom system, You’re not going anywhere, madam.

Fuck you, Voice of God, whoever you are. Nobody tells Summer Ketchum what to do. Depending on the price, I fuck whoever I want when I want and there’s no way in hell I’m letting this mutant near my love muffin.

You will be paid handsomely for your vaginal services, rest assured, the voice from the intercom explained.

How much, mother fucker? This sweet, delicious pussy doesn’t come cheap. Especially if I’ve got this science-experiment-gone-horribly-wrong fiddling with my business.

$15,000. Now shut the fuck up and kindly remove my brother’s pants, the voice said.

HOLY SHIT! Fifteen large! I couldn’t believe it. I’ve jerked off a donkey for less. This was going to be a breeze. I didn’t hesitate to take off his pants, they were tear-aways so it was easy. Like any good Call Girl I started to go to town on his business and he seemed to be enjoying, but the Voice of God coming through the intercom demanded that I stop, Cease your filatio. This is not what my brother enjoys. Is it, Thomas? Thomas a.k.a. The Afflicted One grunted something indistinguishable. From my vantage point though it seemed like he was enjoying my oral acrobatics. Everyone does.

Lift his shirt. I want you to suck on the deformed baby arm coming out of his abdomen, Voice of God proclaimed.

You have got to be kidding me? Thomas seemed frightened by the proposition too. His breathing got harder and harder. The sudden and violent release of flatulents also gave away his trepidation. Judging by the rancid smell he’s omitting, it doesn’t seem like your special brother here is too keen on the notion either.

Voice of God boomed back, he knows what’s good for him. This is the only way. Plus, I’ll give you an extra thousand.

Mutant baby arm or no mutant baby arm, my scrumptious ass was getting paid. No arguing with that, sir.

I took that baby arm in my bubble gum flavored glossed lips and went apeshit. Working on that thing like no other deformity had ever been worked before. Before long, Thomas’ grunts of fear turned into grunts of ecstasy. His chest heaving, his pelvis undulating, his goiter throbbing. Fools, you know I come correct!

After about 5 minutes of this, Thomas’ breathing was getting absolutely out of control. I wasn’t sure if I should stop or what, but being that I was receiving $16,000 for this expedition, I wasn’t stopping for nothing. All at once, Thomas’ breathing reached a fevered pitch and then, ARRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!

I leaped back quicker than a mongoose and then it happened. He climaxed. His football sized goiter exploded and coated the entire room in a glaze of goo. My face was coated. It was in my nails, dripping down the back of my neck after ricocheting off the wall, in my shoes, drenched my silk top, and it was even up my nose. I was blowing goiter goo bubbles! But worst of all was my hair. Oh my god, you sick fuck! I’ve got all this shit in my hair! Do you know how much I pay for this haircut. I have to fly to fucking L.A. to get this cut!

Thomas fell to the ground in euphoric release. A man ran into the room and quickly pressed a towel on Thomas’ neck where his goiter once was. Holding the towel with one hand, he reached into his back pocket with his other hand and handed me a check worth $16,000. Voice of God? I asked.

Yes. Now go. Your services are no longer required. Thank you and good evening.

And just like that he tried to brush me off. Don’t ever think about calling me again, I yelled while trying to wipe the blood and goo from eyes and out of the corners of my mouth, I’ve done some sick shit in my life but this takes the Carvel cake. Don’t ever call me again or even think about recommending me to any of your friends, you sick rich fucks.

I had to walk home that night, wearing down the heals of my $800 Pradas because no cab would stop and pick me up in the state I was in. I had to take two showers in tomato juice to get rid of the smell and even enrolled in hooker group therapy for a few months to get over the experience.

And this, motherfuckers, is why I charge at least $1000 per hour for my punany.

3 Comments

  • 1

    thats hilarious

  • 2

    for that experience, i wouldnt have left that place without getting a bonus for barfing and for the cumplosion. thats not right. you deserve better and more

  • 3

    Confessions of a Call Girl » great article thank you.

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