I saw Charles* weekly for just over two months. We'd have a lunch date every Saturday. No intimacy other than a kiss on the cheek ever transpired between us, but I never thought much of it. It was simple - he'd hand me an envelope of cash and we'd have lunch. Stranger things have happened. He liked to talk and the lunch dates just made sense in a hooker as therapist sort of way.

One of these lunch dates included a picnic rather than a restaurant. Much to my dismay, Charles brought headcheese. He honestly seemed to like it. For those who are unfamiliar with the epicurean bliss known as headcheese, it's simply a hog’s head, skull removed and all the fleshy bits chopped up and formed into a gory little loaf of brain, skin, tongue, ears, snout, etc.

In the name of decent manners, I ate the putrid concoction on what would have been an otherwise tasty baguette. I did so without gagging, but it wasn't easy.

A week after the headcheese and baguette picnic, Charles and I met up for lunch at a restaurant and he said, "This has to stop".

This seemed reasonable to me as these things don't go on forever, but it was then that he also demanded "the letter". I had no idea what letter he was referring to and told him so. Charles then told me that playing stupid didn't suit me, to just give him the letter, that I was blackmailing him and that he'd call the police if it didn't stop.

At this point I'm all at once amused, baffled and offended. Sure, I'm a hooker, but I'm a relatively honest hooker and blackmail has never even occurred to me. I told Charles that I was offended and added the fact that considering the innocent nature of our dates, I clearly don't have anything worth blackmailing him over anyway. He countered by stating, "Exactly. Why else do you think I've been giving you this money? Do you think I'm stupid? Just give me the letter. This is over."

...clearly the hooker as therapy bit has backfired as he never really seemed crazy until just then.

This odd little dispute lasted for about 10 minutes before we both went our separate ways. I assume he went home to seethe, but I left to inflict this fucked up little story on a friend over a martini.

My friend views this as hilarious. While I try to explain just how offended I am over the incident, he just keeps laughing. He's of the opinion that I should claim to have "the letter" and see what happens. By the end of the second martini, this seems like a good idea to me.

I call Charles and tell him that I have "the letter". Now it seems I'm much better at the nefarious business of blackmail when I don't actually know I'm doing it as the conversation went like this:

Me: Charles?
Charles: Yes
Me: I have the letter.
Charles: Just fuck off.
Me: ... Very well then.

Now my friend thinks it's even funnier. I'm not sure what he (or I) expected, but that wasn't it. He clearly finds this a little more humorous than I do as he's still snickering while I voice my dismay over the fact that it sucks to learn that I've unwittingly been accepting payment from Charles for something other than being so damned foxy. Blackmail or no blackmail, this really fucks with my irresistible man bait image.

Having recovered from the ego damage, foremost on my mind is the fact that if it weren't for Charles, I'd never have suffered the indignity of discovering what boiled hogs' brains taste like.

I'll consider this a lesson learned. Should a future client wish to introduce me to a gourmet taste sensation such as - let's say, minced livestock anus, I'm going to decline. Manners and the expansion of epicurean horizons be damned. It's really not worth it.

Miss Jones

Recipe courtesy of Peggy's Antiquated Recipes

*Name, which was probably an alias regardless, has been changed.

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 2:54 PM

God and Redheads

I can't scream in my dreams. I've tried. It results in becoming very frustrated and waking up to find that I'm making the most bizarre gagging, choking sort of noises. I don't wake up frightened - I typically don't even remember my dreams, I just wake up pissed that I can't scream. I've had only one dream that I actually remember in any detail and that also resulted in waking up frightened.

It was a recurring dream I had when I was younger which involved nothing but a red haired man chasing me into a church. It was understood in this dream that the man was "the devil", but the scariest part was having to run into a church. Church was scarier than the red headed devil and I couldn't get out once the door shut behind me.

Even when younger, I was sure that this dream was only the result of listening to my father rant about redheads and my grandmother perpetually rambling on about the god-fearing nonsense that she seemed to find so much comfort in.

My father was of the opinion that redheads where the result of some sort of unfortunate genetic fuck up. Evidence of this fuck up was abundant....they burn easy, have extra sensitive skin, eyelashes that can sometimes seem to be altogether missing, and most importantly, their hair was actually red. In my father's opinion, redheads qualified for their own handicapped parking spots and they should avoid breeding (He had similar opinions regarding the French and anyone with an accent). My grandmother's ramblings tended to focus more on the warm and cozy story that unfolds in the Bible...most specifically that cuddly little bedtime story also known as Revelations, but with the stoning of whores and tales of a woman's place always at the ready when Armagedden grew tiresome.

I first had the redheaded devil dream when I was about 8. Though I had the same dream off and on for more than a year I didn't tell anyone because what was more frightening than the dream itself was the prospect of having it "cured" by Grandma upping the weekly dosage of the bible and I didn't care to offer my father any more irrefutable evidence that redheads shouldn't exist - what with the freckles and such, they've suffered enough.

It's never occured to me to offer this little bit of personal trivia when asked to explain my tendencies to occassionally dye my hair bright red even though it clearly doesn't suit me, to very nearly throw up over any discussion of theology and to discard the notion of a woman's good and wholesome place while indulging in the act of selling my fine ass.

God still scares me more than any redheaded devil ever could.

Miss Jones

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 6:07 PM

Don't remind her that she has a pussy

...and that this is really the only reason someone else pays for dinner, as this reminder would surely result in Katharine Viner devloping a nasty bleeding ulcer.

Ms. Viner would like the world to know that it's not just shameful to live in a world where prostitutes exist, but also that it's an absolute disgrace that those naughty trollops have permeated society to such an extent that even the otherwise wholesome individuals who have sex for free have become more openly vocal about the fact that "free" sex tends to be plotted and bargained for (as it's always been). Apparently this somehow comes as a suprise to Ms. Viner and she's been good enough to provide her outrage in print form here.

I suspect that Ms. Viner, if she's ever had sex at all, would be very surprised to know that shortly before or after this free exhange of bodily fluids, her partner was quitely calculating the actual cost of the act.

XOXO, Miss Jones

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 1:44 PM

Not that there's anything wrong with it, but.....

What an interesting crowd you are. As I haven't updated in ages, I found it interesting to learn when checking webstats that you folks are hanging out here in an old dead blog . What I found considerably more interesting were some of the google search terms that brought you here in the first place.

My favourites from the last week:
  • My Slut Wife
  • Me and My Twat
  • Hippy Threesome Wife
  • Why are Frenchmen Called Frogs
  • Soupy Twat (WTF?)
  • Miss Whore 69 ( I wasn't around in 69. Hate to think I missed the ceremony)
  • Miss Whore 2000 ( Clearly a long running and very well established pageant)

I'm sure that in typing this I've increased the number of hits from the soupy twat seeking bunch. Perhaps one of you would be good enough to provide a link to whatever site you were really looking for. I'm curious (in that train wreck sort of way) as this would seem to be something best avoided rather than actively sought out. I only hope that locating the soupy twat site of your dreams doesn't result in future google search terms such as "bulk penicillin" and "itchy green genitals". Feel free to fill me in via the email link.


Miss Jones

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 6:18 AM

Oh, The Whore-ors!

Ireland Online:
"Chris de Burgh lost his virginity to a French prostitute when he was 16.

The Lady In red crooner claims he didn't know his first sexual encounter was with a call girl until they were in the bedroom of a brothel.

But De Burgh refused to let the incident torment him, and actually has fond memories of his first time.

"I can't remember how much it cost, but I do know that I wasn't exactly the world's greatest stud."

Daily Times:
"Oliver Stone says his father took him to a prostitute to lose his virginity. Stone tells next month’s Playboy magazine that his dad, a Wall Street financier, sent him off to all-boys boarding schools and all-boys summer camps before he graduated to Yale, so he was never around girls.

When the time came to lose his virginity, Stone’s father took him to visit a prostitute.

“My father was a generous man and I love him to this day for it. There’s a great tradition of that, I believe." fondly reminisce about a first encounter with a prostitute! It's a rite of passage. It's a dearly embraced custom, a masculine praxis, the stuff wet dreams are made of. It's an event that is lovingly remembered and one that men tend to be grateful for. The "first prostitute" story is always harmless, almost innocent and actually charming when a man tells it properly .

It's all so innocuous and even somewhat titillating until media/public attention focuses on the woman in question - then of course it's disgusting and she should repent ... perhaps pay a fine.

We've come a long way, baby! We can have careers, we can take care of our own finances, we can purchase our own property, we can have it all...but bring an actual vagina into the equation and it's still 1915.

XOXO, Miss Jones
Ireland Online
Daily Times

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 10:08 AM

Hippie Whore

I recently had a conversation with a fellow whore who actually admonished me for contradicting her and stating that the sex trade is largely concerned with sex; that it's called the sex trade for that very reason.

She claimed that most of her clients don't want sex at all and then dove into a rant about the "spiritual" role that whores play in society. I have no idea what this woman was carrying on about - sure, there are definate benefits when a society allows prostitution, but her speech was misguided, misleading, enitrely over the top and would have been better delivered to a group of granola crunching hairy assed asexuals than to a fellow prostitute (I would like to add that I have nothing against hairy assed asexuals). Either this painfully spiritual working girl sees the majority of her clients only once and they find her distinctly unattractive, is ashamed to admit to actually sleeping with them, or she's residing on a parallel universe.

All whores will eventually encounter clients that meet with them for reasons other than sex - that much is true but there shouldn't be so much shame regarding women having sex outside of traditional relationships that even whores are claiming that they don't do it.

Any claim that "most" clients don't want sex at all is in my experience 100% crap. Perhaps the spiritual prostitute herself will find this to be true once she discovers the much loved brazilian wax.

-Miss Jones

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 6:58 AM

Whitman's an Asshole

"You're not serious. That's sick."

"I'm serious, and it's not sick...perhaps
a little sad but certainly not sick

Sandra is a dear and lifelong friend of mine. She's mystified and surprisingly repelled by my stating that I do in fact genuinely enjoy the company of my clients; that the ratio of good sex versus bad sex is more favorable amongst clients than it is amongst men I've found myself in traditional relationships with. I have no idea why this takes her by surprise and I'm shocked that although she feels fine - even intrigued about my part-time career choice, she's seemingly mortified to know that I enjoy it.

I know her history well and it mirrors my own right up until adulthood thus I'm baffled by how vehemently opposed she is to my actually enjoying sex that isn't entirely wholesome.

Together we've shared all of the typical landmarks of girls, teens and women and have always agreed on nearly everything, so how is it that while I discovered my g-spot, Sandra discovered righteous indignation?

The History:

The kindergarten years:

We have new neighbours - a family of five. The children (two boys and a girl) are playing in their front yard and I introduce myself by sprinkling worms into the oldest boys hair. This inspires the oldest boy to scream, the girl to laugh and the youngest boy to run into their house and fink on me. The girl comes to my home where I'm now grounded to tell me how funny I am and that she's going to beat her little brother up for telling. Sandra and I were both five at the time and that's all it took to make her my very best friend. It seemed we had a lot in common.

The Grade School Years:

Sandra and I have no understanding of why we must attend French class. We doubt we'll be going to France and we're inclined to agree with our parents' unfounded opinions about the French in Montreal. "Fucking frogs....all of them." We still have much in common.

The Junior High Years:

Sandra and I wean ourselves off of the Harlequin Romance novels that we use as sex education manuals. The bodice ripper romance pulp is replaced by "real" literature. Sandra pretends to love and have an earnest understanding of Walt Whitman. I think she's made a poor choice in the clearly pompous and gay Whitman and decide that my own most personally revered author would be Hemingway. Whitman was an overrated queer asshole, Hemingway was my hero. This has been and may always be our biggest difference of opinion.

The Highschool Years:

Sandra and I devise the great cherry-popping plan. This plan consists of nothing more than getting drunk and being sure to say yes that weekend when our respective boyfriends start their usual begging. We'll report back to eachother once the deed is done.
The report: Nothing much worth reporting. We both wonder why none of that Harlequin Romance stuff happened. We go through Sandra's collection of Cosmopolitan magazines to see what we did wrong. We discover that our only glaringly obvious mistake in the eyes of Cosmo was a failure to bother faking orgasm.We still don't know what an orgasm even looks like - we've only read about them. She pays her brother to rent us some porn for research purposes. Upon viewing these videos we are at once appalled and intrigued....we vow to be more scandalous, slutty and hopefully genuinely orgasmic in the future.We still have much in common.

The College Years:

Sandra and I attend different colleges but see eachother often. We think we're very worldly and regret not taking grade school French class seriously. We both want to go to Paris - and if not Paris, then Montreal where we can pretend we're in Paris. We never should have called the frenchmen frogs....they have sexy accents. Sandra intends to become a nurse and marry a doctor. I intend to become an artist and to meet my future husband somewhere in Europe while taking the starving artist bit to a whole new eccentric level. We're both constantly politically outraged and use polysyllables with wild abandon. We're well on our way to different paths, but still have a lot in common.


Sandra understands why moonlighting as a whore makes sense to me but she thinks it's "too contrived" if it involves marketing. She claims that she'd gladly accept money for sex, but that she wouldn't feel right about letting a man know that beforehand (huh?). And now, for whatever reason, however accepting she is of my part-time career choice, she's appalled by the fact that I enjoy it.

My dear friend tends to become not so dear at all once my enjoying "dirty" sex comes up in
conversation. This is the same person who joined me in highlighting all the most torrid parts of our mothers' Harlequin Romances, the same person who was always sure to point out the "10 rules of fellatio" type articles in Cosmo, the same person who agreed with me on Anais Nin's distinct lack of talent, but very admirable sense of sexuality.My most dear friend, for whatever reason, when discussing the sexual acts that amused us both so much in the past, now has a stick up her ass.

Having very similar opinions regarding nearly everything since childhood, I don't understand how we can see things so differently regarding this particular issue.

Until she can actually explain to me why it's "sick" that I'm inclined to enjoy sex that comes with a price attached, I'll have to assume that this is simply another little rift somehow caused by that fucking asshole Whitman.

XOXO. Miss Jones

"Henceforth I ask not good fortune. I myself am good fortune."- typical Whitman garbage.

"What is moral is what you feel good after." -the words of a hero,Ernest Hemingway

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 7:10 AM


"I'll be in town tonight.Make reservations for dinner, grab a limo and
meet me at the airport at 5. Don't wear anything under your coat - We'll pick up
something for you to wear before dinner".

Message from a client that led to an evening of exceptionally delightful sexual indulgence.

"It's important for me to know that the woman I'm with pulls her weight.
I can't believe some women still expect a guy to pay for dinner."

Statement from a civlian date that led to an evening of his wondering why I'm "frigid".

-Miss Jones

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 4:03 PM

Your Wife: The Wanton Slut

"My wife would never do that" is not an uncommon statement made by clients. I hear it often enough that I know they feel their wives would never do that - often enough that I'm occassionally surprised to hear even a casual greeting before I hear the inevitable "my wife would never do that" mantra.

This leaves me wondering just how well they know their wives.

Women, no matter how complex their character, tend to be pigeon holed into their expected roles. This happens immediately. It's her first impression that dictates what role she's to assume in a relationship and a man will generally view the woman he'll marry as a "good girl". Now however wonderful this sounds, it's rather sad since the "good girl" role is painfully difficult to gracefully overcome and results in relationships that are so wholesome that they hurt.

Good girls can't jeopardize the respectability that's been thrust upon them by behaving too provocatively. Good girls mustn't express a fondness for cock. Good girls should never swallow...if unable to dodge, spit. Good girls must never express an interest in sex-toys,porn or kink and will certainly morph into the most wretched and despicable sluts if they dare to take it up the ass.

Conversely, a woman whose first impression was a naughty one has it made."Bad girls" have a much easier time switching roles on a whim. The badder the better. In fact, if she's bad enough, simply investing in a pair of cotton panties will cause jaws to drop and shock her mate into realizing that there's more to this woman than the role she plays. All women are multifaceted, but it's only the bad girl who has nothing to lose by making it known.

Men customarily fail to realize that every bawdy little slut has a good girl lurking inside her and every good girl has within her a filthy tramp waiting to emerge...she may just mistakenly feel that she needs permision. I honestly believe that if men could recognize their wives as the wanton cock loving tarts that they frequently want to be, they'd eliminate much of my income.

XOXO, Miss Jones

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 1:30 AM

Self-Governing My Troublesome Twat

It's been said over and over by radical feminists that prostitution is a slap in the face to women, that it objectifies women, that they feel sorry for the "victims" of prostitution because they must have no respect for themselves if they simply hand over such a cherished prize for a price.

I don't subscribe to that belief. It's not a prize. It's a cunt. It's MY cunt. It's the same cunt that I've given samples of to certain lucky gentlemen for free....and was thus patted on the back by fellow females for being liberated, for being empowered by the almighty vagina, for acknowledging my sexuality and for doing so without shame and without a husband granting me persmission to do so.

Why then, is this same act viewed as victimization when accompanied by an envelope of cash? How is an act that is clearly deemed acceptable when performed for free seen as demeaning to women when one chooses to capitalize on it? I mean, let's face it - if he's the sort of gent that invests a crap load of cash on one risqué evening, he's exactly the sort of accomplished, shameless hedon I probably would have slept with anyways.

Let me assure you, as a woman who has both fucked for free and fucked for money, the latter feels nothing like victimization. Returning from an evening out with a purse brimming with fiscal splendor beats the hell out of returning from an evening out with nothing but a sore pussy. I fail to see how this qualifies as victimization.

XOXO, Miss Jones

"And the crazy part of it was even if you were clever, even if you spent your adolescence reading John Donne and Shaw, even if you studied history or zoology or physics and hoped to spend your life pursuing some difficult and challenging career, you still had a mind full of all the soupy longings that every high-school girl was awash in... underneath it, all you longed to be was annihilated by love, to be swept off your feet, to be filled up by a giant prick spouting sperm, soapsuds, silk and satins and, of course, money." - Erica Jong

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 1:29 PM

Gentlemen, you know better....or do you?

I recently stumbled onto a request on a message board to post something I may feel guilty about regarding it's anti-feminist nature. I intended to post some nonsense along the lines of, "I feel guilty for having a sense of entitlement to having men open my doors, carry the heavy stuff, spring for dinner, offer me a seat and stand when I enter or exit the room". Before I posted this gibberish, it occurred to me this is nothing to feel guilty about. These are not unreasonable expectations. .

Consider this small argument for chivalry - then consider the countless unmentioned acts women perform daily that would seem to justify a return to chivalry REGARDLESS of how many rights and liberties we acquire:

1. Women don't need men to open doors for them.

I also don't need to schedule a regular pussy waxing, but I do. You may feel I enjoy the "luxury" of having hair brutally torn from my body, or you may feel that the "week before the next wax" itch is what I find titillating, but you're way off. I do it for you....and I like it when you open my door.

2. Women don't need men to carry the heavy stuff.

Sure, but I also don't need to wait until your ex-girlfriend or your buddies are within earshot before diving into a dirty little rant about what a fabulous fuck you are.. Any conveniently overheard purring I do about how "your big hard cock makes my pussy sooooooooo wet" or "I think your tongue may have earned you a threesome" is for your benefit only. I know that your announcing your own sexual prowess is viewed as somewhat exaggerated....and I'll do my part to put any doubt regarding it's legitimacy to rest - any "accidental" announcement of your stellar sexual ability is done solely for you....and I like it when you carry the heavy stuff.

3. Women don't need men to spring for dinner.

Let's get real here. I just spent a small fortune on new lingerie, the retrieval of that slinky little dress you like so much from the drycleaner, touching up my highlights, buying new strappy sandals to showcase freshly pedicured toes (you love my feet....admit it), and having a henna pro temporarily tattoo a charming little Ode to your dick on my upper inner thigh....and I like it when you spring for dinner.

4. Women don't need men to stand when they enter or exit a room.

I also don't need to stop myself before giggling and pointing when you've emerged from what must have been a particularly chilly shower, but I do....and I like it when you stand when I enter the room.

5. Women don't need men to offer them a seat.

I also don't need to refrain from pushing you from the seat you neglected to offer me while singing my own little musical composition, "you can't hit me cause I'm a girl", but I do. I don't do it because I fear you'll be candy-assed enough to press charges. I do it because I like you....and I like it when you offer me a seat.

Gentlemen, this is but a fraction of a seemingly never-ending list of the outdated, anti-feminist actions that women cling to almost lovingly regardless of all acquired rights, liberation and sentiments of equality. We don't hang onto such nonsense because we don't know any better. We do it because we like you.

A little appreciation in return can't be such a bad thing.

XOXO,Miss Jones

Visit the askmen page:Etiquette Of A Gentleman

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 9:18 AM