One of the better parts of my job, apart from getting paid shitloads of money to have threesomes, is touring. Basically touring is the same as sucking dick for cash in my home state, but I get to sample genitals all over the country. I'm about to embark on one of my biggest tours yet, which is taking me to: Perth, Darwin, Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne, Canberra and Hobart in just under a month to spend time with my male, female and couple clients.
It's going to be a fuckfest.
MONDAY - PRE-TOUR.
8 AM: I'm up ridiculously early as the cleaner is coming to do my washing, I sort ten loads of washing. Working what to take is pretty high on my pre-tour checklist. Apart from lingerie, costumes and paraphernalia, I also have to take escort dresses and clothing for interviews, gigs and social engagements.
Sit down to a call from my disgruntled personal trainer, I'd forgotten I had a nine AM session. I must have been drunk when I made it that early. Reschedule.
10 AM: Check my phone and emails. It's still too early to be considering the fetishes of strangers so decide have a wank. Wonder if I have enough condoms for a month. Count condoms. Get distracted and bat condoms across the room with vibrators.
12 PM: Check the bank. One of the benefits of touring is tour deposits. It's like selling tickets to a gig, you advertise when you'll be in town, clients contact you and you request a 25 percent deposit. A few days later anything from 25 to 100 percent of the booking has been prepaid and you know you're going to earn some money.
Tour costs can get expensive when you factor in five star hotels, flights, room service, food, drinks for clients, drivers and advertising. You usually have to have sex with a few people before you begin to break even.
1 PM: Confirm evening appointments and double check scheduling for the week. I've kept it pretty open pre-tour as there’s lots to organise.
Work on my op-ed piece about moving beyond the morality of sex work for publication this weekend. South Australia is going through law reform and I've been a part of the consultative process which will be presented to the lower house on May 16th. Legally Brunette.
Cropping my tits out of photos for a decent headshot to print. Finally email the editor. Think I may have left it too late for deadlines, freak out, then kick myself in the cunt. Upon reflection, perhaps some things are better left unpublished, I can write better.
3 PM: Confirm hotels for tonight and tomorrow. My personal assistant Amy will pick me up at seven to take me to the hotel so I can check in and we can run through last minute tour planning details and client enquiries.
She's a bit like a mother, if your mother was in charge of organising for you to get double penetrated by strangers and reminded you to buy anal lube.
5 PM: Start this fucking tour diary. Get lost in an internet black hole of GIFS of homeless women shitting out Nerf balls. Realise Amy is coming and need to get ready for work and look somewhat attractive for a stranger. Attempt to get my ass into gear.
7 PM: Amy arrives and berates me for not being packed and on time. Show her GIFs of homeless chick shitting out Nerf Balls.
7:20 PM: Arrive at hotel. Thank god for super platinum hotel privileges. As they politely offer me my room key at the priority check in they add, "Madam X, you've already been checked in and we've upgraded you to an x suite."
7:40 PM: Amy arrives at the hotel room and I'm running around naked, draining the mini-bar while ordering last minute room service. I stress over the op-ed piece and some lobbying work that’s fallen into my lap.
Start moisturising my body and double washing my pussy. I dictate budgets and tour concerns while Amy makes notes, checks flights, and runs through client emails.
Have a few scotches and pace like a lioness whilst trying to work out options. Start painting the face and Amy comments I have a hole in my dress. Cue housekeeping and emergency sewing kits.
She sews whilst I start turning into Grace.
8:40 PM: Amy leaves and client confirms a $1400 booking. She's already stripped the bed properly, hidden my sleeping sheets, stored the room service trays outside someone else's doors and we've planned Perth strategy.
I finally put my heels on and slip into my persona. Two seconds ago the last thing I could think of was sex, in two minutes I'll be starting to fuck.
11:42 PM: Exhausted, even though I didn't do much. Texts are filling my phone for last minute rendezvous. Not sure if it's worth it, but I need to push myself to work even if I'm not in the mood to really smash cock until the tour kicks off. Plus a nine AM booking will be cutting it fine, I'm a cunt without sleep.
Decide to mull over a scotch in the lobby, finish this diary, and try re-working the op-ed. Nervous about tomorrow: I've got a $1600 an hour, five hour threesome with a trans co-worker I've flown in from interstate.
Together we've got two cocks, one pussy, two females and one male in addition to a strap-on. Everyone is going to be double penetrated for hours.
Deal with Twitter trolls. Make a young boy shit his pants for being disrespectful. In addition to a deleted twitter account, I get a handwritten apology. I know more people than you kiddo.
12:00 PM: Still in the lobby. So much tour shit to plan. This is only day one.
7:30 AM: Arise bemoaning the fact I have to get fucked up the arse in, what, less than two hours? It's too early for this shit, especially with hyper-sexual eager clients.
8:00 AM: I'm smoking in the shower, debating if smoking in a steaming shower hides the cigarette smell. My hotel room reeks. Guess not. Consider Tuesday to be a viable day for a shower beer.
8:23 AM: Client still hasn't confirmed. Wondering if he'll be a no show, decide to start getting presentable regardless. Ponder what classic hip-hop beats are conducive to getting fucked up the ass.
8:42 AM: Still naked with no makeup, drinking beer and remembering I have real life shit to do today. Realise client is coming in 18 minutes. Drink more beer.
8:52 AM: Beer has kicked in, feeling mildly wet at the thought of being fucked. Client is a completely respectful stranger so figure I can't really go wrong.
9:05 AM: Client arrives. Changes a $800 PSE to a $600 GFE, which is basically everything minus anal. Remind myself not to bitch publicly about anal too early in the morning. Slowly learning that everyone reads Twitter, even if they're not on Twitter.
1:46 PM: Check into hotel for booking with K. Still trying to draft this piece. Frustrated. K arrives, knackered from Melbourne. We decide to upgrade to a multi-room suite so we can sleep on one bed and fuck on another.
3:12 PM: Discuss upcoming booking. Both slightly nervous about how much anal action we're all going to get tonight. K comment, "Lets just pray he's not an anal fiend who runs around with a butt plug up his ass."
We play paper, scissors , rock on who gets to douche their arse in the guest bathroom first. I lose.
K pops into the bathroom mid-douche,"You know what's even more terrifying?"
"When you douche again after 24hrs and nothing comes out."
"Dude you get fucked up the arse way too often."
8:00 PM: Client is arriving, K and I hang over the balcony playing spot the client. See a young and excited guy in a yellow jacket, figure it’s him. I go down to fetch and make him comfortable first before I bring him upstairs to get acquainted with K while I change from clothing to lingerie.
1:00 AM: K is fucking him slowly up the ass. Beneath them both I told his head and stroke his hair. I can hear him moaning softly as her cock slides in an out of his ass. It's a strangely intimate moment. I'm energetically reassuring him it is okay as she works his spots with her body, mouth and fingers.
3:00 AM: Client is asleep on the hotel suite couch, tucked in with rugs. It's not an overnighter but he dropped a lot, we've got the space and are both flying out on tour tomorrow. Plus it saves him driving five hours home. I'm showing K my beats whilst we discuss, lament and de-brief.
4:00 AM: We shut the doors to the lounge area and crawl into bed together. I exhaustively check if I'm allowed a sleepy wank, it’s non-sexual, like popping valium. K nods, but I'm so exhausted I fall asleep before my hand even hits my thighs.
10:00 AM: Wake up sick as a dog. There's a flu settling in my chest in addition to having to get a lot of lobbying, editing and writing done prior to flights out. Decide to change the Perth leg to the end of the tour when I've got more energy. Gives me until Friday to kick this shit.
12:00 PM: Check out. Drop my work gear off at home a few blocks from the hotel. Run through all the pre-tour planning, still not even halfway there yet.
4:00 PM: See personal trainer for the last time in a few weeks. Asshole makes me vomit, I need to keep reminding myself long business lunches including wine are not conducive to productive physical sessions.
10:00 PM: Still haven't bothered packing. Play XBOX. Lament the fact I told my psychiatrist many years ago I had a rebellious young adulthood and may have abused a fair few drugs. Makes it harder to get a legitimate ADHD prescription. Remind myself I hate stimulants.
11:00 AM: Wake up semi-hungover, drain a two liter bottle of orange juice. Still haven't packed or finished this writing piece. The anxiety hits me like a sledgehammer. So many emails to answer, my Amy is doing her best but there's so much still to do.
1:00 PM: I rarely work well from home, the downside of running your own business is that from a writing or administration standpoint, you need to leave home to actually get shit done. Pubs are usually a good option. Free wi-fi, you're around people and can have a beer. Go to pub.
2:00 PM: Journo friend calls me in a panic, they need someone for a community show to be played next week. No one else is answering their phones, agree to meet them in the studio in 45 minutes.
3:00 PM: Sitting in the radio studio chatting about sex work and decriminalisation. Somehow I manage to bring drugs and coloured condoms into it. Hey, it was the radio station I listened to when I actually did drugs.
3:30 PM: Journo friend is sitting with me at the pub next door, smacking me on the hand while I try and pump 650 words out in less than an hour. I know my topic and my fingers are flying across the keyboard. Every Time I pause I get lambasted.
4:59 PM: Submit, albeit a day late. Feel guilty. It's quite useful to have a editor on the fly amending as you write.
12:00 AM: Sleep after clients. Still haven't packed. Figure if I nap, I can wake up early and pack prior to flight. Set phone alarm for a two hour nap, with enough time to wake up, write and pack. Don't plug it into the charger.
6:30 AM: My father, after relentlessly ringing the doorbell, wakes my flatmate and I. Seems not plugging your phone into the charger has an adverse affect on the alarm. Flight is at eight. I reek like scotch, have barely done any laundry and crave nicotine. Miraculously pack in 15 minutes. Don't bother showering.
7:15 AM: Dad hands me a coffee in the car whilst en route to the airport. He asks about my tour, I barely answer in tiredness. His new girlfriend, who I adore, chirps about their recent overseas holiday. Dad quietly reminds me, "I shouldn't have to be your driver to get a moment of your time." Thanks Dad.
7:37 AM: After two rapid cigarettes, and my standard bomb screening, I'm sitting with Dad & L in the airport lounge. They're asking about my life, I don't even know where to begin. To be honest I enjoy being with them, but telling the same stories and facts over and over again gets wearisome. Listening to them is a blessed relief.
8:00 AM: Board flight, charm the flight attendants, crawl into my seat and curl up against the window. I've got roughly three hours to catch up on sleep before I land in Darwin. Unfortunately, I've got a gazillion emails to answer in addition to some further questions from an interview last November. I also have some design work to do for lobbying postcards. Attempt sleep. Mind is racing regarding media, lobbying and also nerves for my upcoming overnight. Bile rises.
9:36 AM: Stagger to the aeroplane toilet. Barely make it in time to vomit profusely. Grab the only vomit bag with a hole in it so bile leaks all over my jeans. Thank god I requested to meet the client at the resort as currently I'm covered in vomit and looking nothing like a high class escort. Nerves escalate.
10:59 AM: Realise sleep is futile, my mind is spinning too much. Grab laptop, smash out as many emails as I can.
12:15 PM: Arrive in Darwin. Grab a taxi. Taxi driver keeps asking me if I'm okay. Yeah buddy, I'll be fine when I have a fucking shower.
2:00 PM: Checked into the suite. The humidity is palpable. Turn air conditioner up and answer emails while applying something resembling an attractive face. Client is nervous, which isn't helping my nerves. In two hours we're going to try jumping into a plastic booth in a crocodile tank. Wonder if: "Crocodile Tears – Death Of Hooker Saddens Community" is a viable headline.
3:00 PM: Client arrives bearing gifts of french champagne, roses, a ride on hobby horse and a few other personal gifts. Note to self: don't tweet for a pony. He's wonderful though.
4:00 PM: Hello Darwin. Booking begins, end up in a glass cage waving at crocodiles. Tour has begun.
Grace Bellavue is an escort, writer, and activist. Follow her on Twitter @GraceBellavue
Details of specific sessions are printed with the permission of Grace's clients.