The prompt for this story was the title. It conjured a couple of vignettes that I then stitched into this story. One or two points aren’t realistic, including the part with the main prompt! Specifically, in that a good sex worker would keep her thoughts well hidden, rather than discuss them as my central character does.
That said, I believe in the message about consent and compassion, and I hope the story entertains.
“Not Paid To Like You”
She found him repugnant.
Not his body. Despite the crude tattoos, the rough, calloused hands and coarse accent and manner, he always presented himself immaculately at her door. Always wore a good suit, clean, freshly shaved, a hint of aftershave and deodorant. The money folded neatly, ready in his hand. Even his cock seemed perfectly sculpted for her pleasure, she thought, those first few times. No, not his body.
It was his views, his beliefs, that offended. Gays were “alright as long as they kept it to themselves”, lesbians just “hadn’t met the right man yet.” She told him one time that she was a lesbian. “Try saying that with your mouth full of my cock,” he scoffed. She got on her knees and did it. He laughed, and she smiled up at him. Immigrants were “stealing the jobs of honest, hard-working Brits”; the unemployed were “scroungers”. He held his tongue about sex workers, and was nothing but courteous while with her, but all the same his language showed his contempt.
His sessions feel into a routine. He told her early on, bluntly, that he wanted a “whore” (again, spoken without any malice, but the word choice was plain) to do what his wife would not. Sometimes he only wanted one or the other, but it usually meant a blow job and anal sex. And, like so many, he would talk and she would listen. He would talk about his wife, how he loved her, how he worked hard to see her happy and taken care of. She never asked, but he volunteered the information: “She knows I see whores. She’s just glad it’s one night I won’t want her to put out for me.”
Eventually, he cottoned on that she didn’t share his beliefs about most things. As he lay beside her after buggering her, he suddenly mused, “You don’t like me very much, do you?” She rested her hand on his, “Honey, I’m not paid to like you. Just fuck you. And I’m happy to do that.” He laughed, and booked another session.
* * *
Once, her girlfriend Jane asked her why she would see someone like that.
“Because he’s a good client,” she said.
“But you don’t even like guys,” Jane protested.
“I like their money. And I could never work in a bank like you: one of us has to earn an honest living!” Jane insisted, so she explained, “I do it for the money, but I’m happy to do it even if I don’t like it. And he makes it easy to be happy. Don’t you have clients who are nasty, rude or hard to deal with? And clients who are really easy to deal with and make your job easy? Well, he’s a good client like that.”
* * *
She recognised his number, and answered with a cheerful, “Hi!”
His voice was different. Tearful.
“She left me. She’s fucking left me,” he blurted.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, “Do you want to talk about it at our next session?”
“That’s just it. I don’t want to lose the kids. I can’t see you again. I’ve got to clean up my act. I’m sorry to cancel on you, but I… I just can’t.”
“That’s okay, honey,” she cooed, “I’ll see you again when this has all blown over, eh? My arse will be waiting for you!”
“No. I’m sorry, and thanks for everything you’ve done for me, but it’s over.” She let him hang up.
Jane said he deserved to be left. She disagreed, “I won’t gloat. However offensive his views, he’s heartbroken. I wasn’t paid to like him. And I’m not paid to hate him either.”
She cleared the slot in her calendar, and waited for a caller.