One of the worst clients I ever had was at the studios in Edmonton. It was the early shift- 9 to 4 or something. Two guys came in early, both wired and brawny. I didn't realize immediately something was wrong. I took one of them, blonde guy, veins so prominent they looked like plasticine. It turned out he had not yet slept. He must have been on coke, a common occurrence in an oil city full of young men. He was so hard and so out of his mind I really thought he'd have an aneurysm. He seemed to be hooked up to an electricity supply, jolted into frantic alertness, a caged bull. Everything he did, he did as if he wanted to squeeze me out of existence. When he finally came, he left it on my breasts and walked out the door. And he was still hard. Come to think of it, it might have been meth.
When I write about these things, it's with the distinct impression that I'm complaining about a situation I essentially chose. You can never really guess how a session is going to turn out so it's a risk you take. But there's this kind of quiet-girl mentality that takes over. You think, it'll be over soon, and it could be worse. You're constantly measuring each client against the worst client you've ever had. You think, at least there's no rape. At least there's no blood. Plus you zone out after a while in the business. You begin to think, what difference does another bad client make? You think that you've reached a threshold of pain or fear or anger and anything added is nothing, really. 7 years later you wake up with a hooker hangover.
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