'Hey - Nice Tits!'

Green Acres is the Place for Me...

Fri, 16 Mar 2007 00:53:42 GMT

So...

In a condensed version of 'wtf is going on in Morgan's life?', I hereby present you with -

I'm moving. To the country. Way the fuck out in the country. Way way way the fuck out in the country. Where my closest neighbours will be Mennonites.

No, I'm not kidding. Buggy driving, electricity shunning, black wearing, Old Order Mennonites. So many Mennonites that my local grocery store has a buggy parking area.

As my terribly witty nail technician put it "You going to live like little Ho on the Prairie!".

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

Morgan

Being nice sucks - or maybe it doesn't

Mon, 12 Mar 2007 22:47:04 GMT

Wow.

That was a bit more of a response than I expected, in more ways than one.

On the one hand, so many people have contacted Pixie and offered to help, or sent her a donation. She's got enough to pay for her first round of scary-disease shots, which is a good thing indeed. Plus, it's made her feel all warm and fuzzy, which is even better. So, Yay for you guys! You rock, and you know who you are.

On the other hand, a few (very few, all things considered) assholes have crawled out of the woodwork and insinuated that I'm doing this for gain, or, better still - that I made Pixie up altogether. Yes, those years of her having a website and being reviewed on at least four different boards that I know of? All a plot, an elaborate plot I've been hatching for years. I am dia-fuckin-bolical, bitches. Represent.

At any rate, I didn't write this to raise money for Pixie - that was really just more of an added bonus I thought would make a nice surprise for her. I wrote it because sometimes I just get tired of all of the he said/she said, we hate each other bullshit that seems to pervade escort/client boards. I wrote it because I thought it was a nice story, and that there might be other people who'd enjoy reading a nice story about a nice person doing nice things with her life.

If a few people read malice into that, or found it to be offensive, well - that's your problem, not mine, and certainly not Pixie's. Go stomp on a kitten or something, and leave her alone.

And for the people who either:

a) doubted she existed

or

b) asked for pictures of tits

I hereby present a nice photo montage of me doing things to Hailey's tits and ass, and her whacking me in the head with a pillow, probably as payback for the things I was just doing to her tits and ass.

Now, stfu and send the girl some money. Unless you already did, in which case... big hugs!

Morgan

Alphabet of Hookers - "P" is for Pixie

Sat, 10 Mar 2007 15:36:46 GMT

Sometimes, it's easy for clients to become jaded about seeing escorts. It's easy for them to make cynical comments about how all escorts are just using them, or that we're all shallow shopping junkies. It's sad, really, because inside of every cynic there's a disappointed optimist. I thought I'd try to write something that might allow the hidden optimist to come out of hiding, even if just for a few minutes.

I want to tell you about my friend and duo partner, Pixie. Pixie spent the last few years working as an escort while she put herself through school. Yes, really - there really are some escorts who work to support their schooling, and she's really one of them.

Pixie finished her degree in an obscure field that I still can't claim to really understand, no matter how many times she's explained it to me. I do know that it's not a field that will ever pay her well, or make her famous, or even let her live what most people would consider a comfortable life.

In a few months, Pixie is going to get on a plane and travel to a country that none of us could ever consider going to. It's a country that has been torn about by famine and war and politics, and that doesn't have much hope left in it. It's that place you see a sixty second clip of on the evening news, and think "someone should do something". Luckily for us, there are people like Pixie, who volunteer to give up their entire lives for two years, for free, just so that they can do more than feel bad about how much suffering there is in the world.

If there is a point to all of this, it is that someone reading this right now probably saw Pixie over the last two years. You saw her, and hopefully you liked her, and you paid her your money, and you went on your way. In that one small thing, you created a ripple effect - a ripple that ended with her getting on a plane with just one carry on bag, and traveling around the world. Because of that envelope, someone in the world will suffer a little less, because Pixie is there.

So, the next time you turn on the news and see that sixty second clip of people starving in a country that has been destroyed, look for that quick flash of a volunteer handing out aid. Maybe you'll see her there, and maybe you'll feel a little better about yourself, too.

And now, since you know there had to be a catch to all of this niceness, I'd like to mention that the friends of Pixie are trying to raise her a small amount of money before she leaves. She can't risk working anymore - ironically, she had to have a morals check before she'd be accepted to volunteer, for free, in a place where morals and ethics seem to be a forgotten concept. So, if you'd like to help her, you can contribute to the support Pixie fund via Pay Pal. The Pay Pal address to do so is support.pixie@gmail.com

I should also add that she doesn't know I'm writing this, and she *definitely* doesn't know I'm asking people for their help.

She's much too nice to ever do such a thing herself.

Morgan

Just for the record...

Mon, 08 Jan 2007 22:19:50 GMT

.. I'm actually not dead. I'm just on a sort of hiatus.

I'll try to write more some time this week.

Kisses,

Morgan

This fucking rawks!

Sun, 10 Sep 2006 02:00:00 GMT

Create your own!

Dear World: Kindly Shut the Fuck Up

Sat, 09 Sep 2006 19:48:46 GMT

Dear shrieky hell harpy on the Friday afternoon High Park street car:

As soon as our streetcar arrived at your stop, I knew you were going to be special. Your high pitched voice and shrieks of laughter cut through the roar of Friday rush hour traffic like a hot knife through butter. Nearby dogs rolled on the ground in pain, eardrums imploded from the frequency of your giggles. Once on the car, you apparently saw no need to moderate either your cell phone conversation, or the volume at which it was being carried out.

Thank you, hell harpy, for allowing me to learn how 'that guy who totally likes you' has a big nose, but that it's ok, because you're sure that means he has a big cock, too. I feel warm and fuzzy just having been privy to that kind of intimate revelation, as I'm sure did the other 50 or so people sitting around you, including the mothers desperately sticking their hands over the ears of their small children. Hey, fuck em, right? Kids need to learn some day that size does matter, so why not today, and why not from you?

Don't think that the other passengers weren't also entertained by you as well! I especially enjoyed the part where the woman sitting directly behind you mimed putting her hands around your throat and throttling you lifeless. She sure was good at it! I wonder if she's a mime? The man sitting next to me was also fun, especially when he began quietly chanting 'shut the fuck up, you loud mouthed cell phone using bitch' under his breath. He and I shared a bonding moment where we both rolled our eyes and shrugged, acknowledging how we were mutually rendered powerless by your high pitched yammering.

Hell harpy, I do have one suggestion. Hand talking? While on a cell phone? Not so much. See, the person on the other phone can't actually see you while you're doing it, so it's really rather pointless, especially when you get so vehement that you knock the baseball cap of the poor boy unfortunate enough to be stuck sitting next to you. I hope his hearing wasn't permanently damaged by his close proximity to your air raid siren-esque voice.

To be completely sincere, though, I really do need to thank you for letting me see that all of this yoga is finally paying off. It took every syllable of serenity inducing chanting that I've learned to resist the urge to walk over, tear the phone out of your hands, and chuck it out the window. Serenity now, bitch. Serenity now.

Thanks again, and please - shut the fuck up.

Morgan

Dear deeply and frighteningly over protective mom at Chapters in Ancaster:

The world is indeed a scary place. Pedophiles and kidnappers and child molesters skulk on every corner, waiting to pounce on your sweet and innocent offspring. In a time such as this, who could possibly blame you for worrying about public washrooms? Who knows what sorts of scary freaks lurk there, waiting to offer your children candy and a very special kind of lap ride? I can see why you'd want to be careful, and why you'd decide to haul your brood into the women's washroom with you.

But, really - 12 years old? And 10? Isn't that a little old to still be going potty with mommy? Honestly? I know they looked uncomfortable, and I know I felt it. The woman coming in behind me looked a little bit taken aback, as well. I mean, are you raising them using some kind of Woody Allen autobiography as a guide? Do you want to ensure they end up in therapy? I know that my first thought was 'gee, I sure wouldn't want to be the woman dating them in ten years time...'.

So please, for the love of all things oedipal, kindly keep your almost-teenage boys out the women's washrooms. Oh, and shut the fuck up.

Morgan

Best Streaming Webcam Software?

Fri, 08 Sep 2006 05:08:36 GMT

Anyone have any personal suggestions for good streaming webcam software? I have used webcam32 in the past, and am giving webcamXP a try, but I would like to find something even smoother, if possible. I am using the flash option on webcamxp, but I am not thrilled with it...

Last year, during Katrina, I found a webhosting company in NOLA that was running a cam. They also have an LJ, by the way... They were using technology that opened their cam almost full screen via real player. I have googled the hell out of it, but I cant find anything similar to what they were using, and I have lost the link to the original site where I saw this being used. Anyone have any ideas, or seen anything similar?

Tech specs:

currently running a cheap cam, while I wait for my new DV to arrive
Also have a back up 3Com HomeConnect cam
Windows XP
Uploading via ftp to hosted site
Cam window is embedded in html page

Oh, and no, this isnt for porn - not yet, anyways..

Morgan

Bad Client Board and Forums for Escorts

Fri, 08 Sep 2006 04:21:11 GMT

If you are a verifiable FEMALE escort based in North America who would be interested in joining a discussion forum for sharing bad client alerts north america wide, then please email me at morganellis@gmail.com

The board is not run by me, but it is run by a good friend who is comitted to making sure the board is a safe, secure place for us to share information. It's specifically designed for bad client notifications, but there's also a lot of general discussion.

Please note that you WILL need to provide her with verification info which will allow her to confirm you are a bonifide female escort, whether indie or agency. Body rub and massage providers are also welcome. I'll pass your inquiry on to her for final approval once I've heard from you.

Again, email me at morganellis@gmail.com for more details.

Morgan

Blog Meme

Sun, 27 Aug 2006 04:00:46 GMT

Here are the rules:

1. Delve into your blog archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.

Here's mine, taken from this entry:

I *meant* to say "I hope he lives a long happy life"

This is a reply to a few comments and emails I'd received complaining about this entry .

Morgan

Who am I?

Fri, 18 Aug 2006 18:28:10 GMT

"I'm a bitch, I'm a lover,
I'm a child, I'm a mother
I'm a sinner, I'm a saint
I do not feel ashamed
I'm your hell, I'm your dream
I'm nothing in between
You know you wouldn't want it any other way"

- Meredith Brooks, 'Bitch'

If who we are can be defined by what we do, then who am I? What words do I choose to define my work, and thus define myself?

I could call myself a prostitute, I suppose.

pros·ti·tute
n.

One who solicits and accepts payment for sex acts.
One who sells one's abilities, talent, or name for an unworthy purpose.

I don't really feel my purpose is unworthy, though. Is it unworthy to want to be able to pay my bills, doing work I love, and work I know I am good at? To use my body for what I choose, in the way I choose to do so?

The word prostitute echoes 'prostrate' for me, echoes lying down. God knows I spend enough time doing that, prostrating myself. Face down, on my back, on my side. I am prostrate, but not abject. So, prostitute, I suppose. A good enough word, but not the one I usually choose. Too clinical, too media chosen.

I could call myself a Sex Professional.

sex
n.

1. The property or quality by which organisms are classified as female or male on the basis of their reproductive organs and functions.
2. Either of the two divisions, designated female and male, of this classification.
Females or males considered as a group.
The condition or character of being female or male; the physiological, functional, and psychological differences that distinguish the female and the male. See Usage Note at gender.
The sexual urge or instinct as it manifests itself in behavior.
Sexual intercourse.
The genitals.

pro·fes·sion·al
adj.

1. Of, relating to, engaged in, or suitable for a profession: lawyers, doctors, and other professional people.
2. Conforming to the standards of a profession: professional behavior.
Engaging in a given activity as a source of livelihood or as a career: a professional writer.
Performed by persons receiving pay: professional football.
Having or showing great skill; expert: a professional repair job.

Well, I like parts of that. I like 'having or showing great skill' and I definately perform for pay. Somehow, though, it's just too clinical. Too Women's Studies thesis-ish. Too cold. I think I prefer my terminology to have some heat to it, some wit.

If I'm writing on one of the review boards, the approved term is 'service provider'.

Oh my. I'm not even going to bother analyzing this most politically correct of names. How vapid and dull it makes me feel to be thought of as a 'service provider'. How boring. Accurate? Of course. I do, it can't be argued, provide services. So does your banker, your plumber or your accountant. I want something that lets me stand out, that signifies who I am in a more meaningful way.

Save 'service provider' for girls who get their panties in a twist over more colorful terms, but spare me from being one.

I've been known to call myself a 'sybarite'.

Syb·a·rite
n.

often sybarite A person devoted to pleasure and luxury; a voluptuary.
A native or inhabitant of Sybaris.

A voluptuary. I do so like that term. Perhaps, though, this is a little too twee, too precious for daily usage. Too self interestedly serious. Let's skip sybarite, then, unless we're using it playfully.

Could I be a courtesan?

cour·te·san
n.

A woman prostitute, especially one whose clients are members of a royal court or men of high social standing.

Well, I'm not going to tell you if I've fucked royalty, although the 'men of high social standing' goes without saying. Courtesan, though, belongs to a time gone by, as much as I'd like to believe otherwise. No one is paying me to listen to me recite poetry, nor are they showering me with jewels and property.

So, not a courtesan, although I do insist on claiming affinity with them. Let's downscale our expectations.

As Melanie mentioned, this wouldn't be a true treatise on terms without the word 'escort'.

es·cort
n.

One or more persons accompanying another to guide, protect, or show honor.
A man who is the companion of a woman, especially on a social occasion.
A person, often a prostitute, who is hired to spend time with another as a companion.

Oh dear. How disingenous a word, the term 'escort'. Yes, I know all about how we are hired for 'time and companionship' only. Here's a test - the next time you turn a trick, don't do anything sexual - just play scrabble, or talk about politics. Was your client happy? Think he'll be returning any time soon? No? Well, so much for the 'companionship only' argument. Let's not beat around our bushes here, ladies and gentlemen - an escort provides sex, just like a 'sex professional' does.

If you want me to be your escort, buy us tickets to the theatre or the opera. Otherwise, I'm going to stick to the saltier terms.

Am I whore? I wouldn't mind being one, I must admit.

whore
n.

A prostitute.
A person considered sexually promiscuous.
A person considered as having compromised principles for personal gain.

intr.v. whored, whor·ing, whores

To associate or have sexual relations with prostitutes or a prostitute.
To accept payment in exchange for sexual relations.
To compromise one's principles for personal gain.

Accurate, yes? I am all of these things, although again, I don't believe I've ever compromised my principles. I also like that whore has traditionally been used to hurt us, to cause us shame. 'Dirty whore' or 'son of a whore'. Whore mongerer.

I claim all of those, and declaim that I am one. So, yes. Whore from time to time.

Better still, though?

Hoor - British slang for whore

I just like something about the pronunciation in this one. Hoooor, as opposed to the more sedate Ho-er. So yes, a Hoor.

Ah, here we are. Hooker. I love the word hooker.

hook·er²
n.

One that hooks.
Slang. A prostitute.

Word History: In his Personal Memoirs Ulysses S. Grant described Maj. Gen. Joseph Hooker as “a dangerous man... not subordinate to his superiors.” Hooker had his faults. He may indeed have been insubordinate; he was undoubtedly an erratic leader. But “Fighting Joe” Hooker is often accused of one thing he certainly did not do: he did not give his name to prostitutes.

According to a popular story, the men under Hooker's command during the Civil War were a particularly wild bunch, and would spend much of their time in brothels when on leave. For this reason, as the story goes, prostitutes came to be known as hookers. However attractive this theory may be, it cannot be true.

The word hooker with the sense “prostitute” is already recorded before the Civil War. As early as 1845 it is found in North Carolina, as reported in Norman Ellsworth Eliason's Tarheel Talk; an Historical Study of the English Language in North Carolina to 1860, published in 1956. It also appears in the second edition of John Russell Bartlett's Dictionary of Americanisms, published in 1859, where it is defined as “a strumpet, a sailor's trull.”

Etymologically, it is most likely that hooker is simply “one who hooks.” The term portrays a prostitute as a person who hooks, or snares, clients.

Hooker has so many interesting connotations for me. The vowels roll off my tongue - hoook-her. A female who hooks.

I can hook you in to my web, ensnare you with my charms. Use my sex magic to grab you, hook you, keep you enthralled. No pimp here - I'll pimp myself out, thank you. But oh, oh yes. Hooker is what I am, not to mention what I do.

Best of all, though? I am Morgan, and I can be all of this. I can a hoor, a hooker, a prostitute, a sex worker, a sex professional.

I'm anything you want me to be, baby. I'm Morgan, and I rent sex for the hour.

Morgan

Websites - change for the sake of change?

Thu, 17 Aug 2006 14:53:54 GMT

I'm in the midst of moving my site over from the old server, at cuteandkinky.com, to the new domain at http://www.morganellis.net . If you get a chance, take a look and let me know if you find any bugs, errors, broken links or other glitches. The galleries and calendar are still on cuteandkinky.com, and will stay there until I have the time-slash-patience to transition them over.

In the meantime, I'm contemplating doing an over all look and feel change to my site, simply because:

a. It's starting to bore me
b. I like a challenge

But, what do you think? Do you think escort sites start to get stale after a while, or does a good design stand the test of time? Is change for the sake of change necessary now and again? Does a site overhaul catch your eye?

On a final note, I'm well aware of how much almost everyone loathes Flash. Do you feel the same about Flash galleries? I'm starting to dislike the clunky look of the coppermine galleries, and I'm thinking of changing over to Flash, simply for how much more visually appealing it is.

Bad idea?

Thanks in advance,

Morgan

Related Link: The new/old site - let me know if you find any bugs or errors

"Hi - I'm just calling to say your website sucks!"

Wed, 16 Aug 2006 19:05:09 GMT

From the 'interesting phone calls' file:

Caller: "Hi!!!!!!!!!!!* Is this Morgan?"

* the number of exclamation marks is meant to convey the degree of apparently caffeine crazed enthusiasm in the caller's voice.

Me: "It is - can I help you?

I need to point out that I don't get a lot of women calling on my work phone, for obvious reasons. The ones who do call me are friends, and I have their numbers programmed into my phone. Plus, my friends are never, ever *that* fucking excited to be talking to me.

Caller: "Well, hey Morgan!!! This is Kelly!!! How *are* you?"

Huh. I only know of one Kelly, and that's Kelly from Chicago. Somehow, I never pictured her as sounding quite so cheerleader-ish and overly perky. But maybe she's had a lot of caffeine, so who knows?

Me: "Umm, hey Kelly. How are you?"

Caller: "I am just *fantastic*! Thanks *so* much for asking! Hey Morgan - do you have a website?"

Well, now I'm confused. Kelly knows full well I have a website, so this question has thrown me.

Me: "well, yeah, I do."

Caller: "Wow, that's *great*! Can I have the address?"

Me: "OK, who is this exactly?"

Caller: "I'm Kelly, and I'm calling to see if you have a website!"

Oh fuck. Great. It's another one of those 'your site sucks, get a real one' fuckers cold calling me - and I've engaged her in conversation. Marvellous.

This is a recent phenomena for me - a glut of callers all busily trying to sell me on getting a website from their scammy, fly by night, we just showed up yesterday, 'ho's are dumb and will over pay for web shit' so-called 'web designers. I don't fucking think so.

Me: "Look Kelly, I have a website, and I also have a degree in programming and ten years experience in web design, so I don't need another website."

Caller: "But, Morgan - this is not a regular website! Do you see?"

Me:"?"

What the fuck does that mean - not a regular web site? Does it do back flips? Is it written in swahili?

Me: "No, Kelly, I don't 'see'. And that's fine, because I'm not interested. I have a site."

Caller: "OK, but Morgan - this is NOT a regular website!!!! Get it? It's different!!"

Me: "Well, what is it written in? Is it some kind of super secret coding language? Is it in CSS, or PhP or Flash, or what the fuck?"

Caller: "Ummm.. it's different! It's better!"

Me: "Better than flash? Does fucking Wired know about this?"

Caller: "Ummm... I think so."

Me: "Wow, cool. So I'll call you guys after I read about it. In the meantime, kindly fuck off and die."

Jesus. These people are shameless, I tell you.

Morgan

Fun Email Du Jour

Fri, 11 Aug 2006 18:25:13 GMT

Dear Mistress:

I have a lifelong fantasy of being castrated. Can you do this for me, and how much would you charge?

My intial response:

I'm afraid that I do not offer anything that:

- causes permanent damage
- is considered assault with intent to do grievious bodily harm under the criminal code of Canada

It's my strong suggestion that you reserve this for strictly fantasy play scenarios.

His reply:

I am serious about this and willing to pay, and I will draw up a contract giving you permission to do so.

My reply:

No matter what kind of contract you draw up, castrating someone is still an offense under the criminal code. I am sure about this because I once conference called someone just like you with a desk officer at 52 Division in Toronto, so that I could confirm that they would lay charges against anyone they found doing so.

Again, I urge you to re-consider, and politely request that you stop emailing me.

His reply:

Fuck you bitch.

It's emails like this that make my job so interesting.

- Morgan

Things that suck/don't suck

Thu, 10 Aug 2006 02:21:19 GMT

Since my ass is both too lazy and too drugged up on sinus meds to write a real entry, I hereby present to you my list of things which currently suck/don't suck in my life.

Enjoy.

Sucks - Hailey retiring
Doesn't Suck - taking nude photos of Madison while she masturbates

Sucks - having to cancel my Labour Day weekend trip
Doesn't Suck - my puppy being back at home after her surgery

Sucks - Starting tattoo removal on my back ankle tats, only to learn it hurts like fuck and will take far too long to complete
Doesn't Suck - designing two rocking new designs to cover up my old, partially removed tats

Sucks - trying to grow my hair out
Doesn't Suck - deciding that I'd rather get a fauxhawk. And dye it pink.

Sucks - still not finding the right piece of property
Doesn't Suck - buying a zombie bunny painting

Sucks - being too chickenshit to start a degree it will take me seven years to complete
Doesn't Suck - discovering that I'm actually pretty happy about not going back to school

Sucks - quasi retiring, only to un retire less than a month later
Doesn't Suck - doing a super hot flogging scene with a sexy military hunk

Sucks - TTC without airconditioning
Doesn't Suck - central air at the office

Sucks - losing track of my regular clients, and feeling shitty about blowing so many of them off
Doesn't Suck - having at least twenty of them pop up out of the blue to say they've missed me.

- Morgan

I'm not dead...

Wed, 09 Aug 2006 17:39:30 GMT

...I'm just feigning it while I attempt to acheive a slight degree of coherent thought about the weirdness that has, as of late, been my life.

It's been very... odd. That's about all I'm willing to say on the topic for now, although I hope to write more before the weekend.

Oh, and I'll be in Chicago next week. Anyone up for drinks? Better still, does anyone know of any good burlesque shows in town where we can drink? Cuz, yeah.. I really need a drink. Or three. Or ten. And some nekkid wimmin would be nice, too.

Morgan

Morgan's Sexwork Quiz

Thu, 29 Jun 2006 19:32:03 GMT

What with all of the other quizzes out there, I thought I'd start one that's more sexwork related. Note that I've used the term 'sexwork' to apply to everything from phone sex to stripping to massage or escorting...

Feel free to gloss over anything you don't want to answer, of course :)

.........................................

1. How did you get started as in sexwork?

It's a fairly long story, but I was waitressing at a strip club, and another girl I worked with explained to me about 'seeing' customers one on one. I ended up not really working, per se, but rather seeing a few 'sugar daddies' as clients during University. I didn't really start working seriously until I'd been laid off of a tech industry job, and couldn't find anything similar paying to replace it with.

.........................................

2. What job title do you prefer people use when referring to you, or do you prefer to use yourself?

I'm pretty flexible - I like courtesan, as I think it sounds more all encompassing, but I also like the term 'whore', because I like the idea of reclaiming hurtful terminology for our own power. Whore, however, is like the word 'fag' - you only get to use it if you ARE one yourself ;)

.........................................

3. What have your learned about yourself from being a sexworker?

I've learned that sex can equal power, and that no matter how *I* feel about my own body on some days, there's still someone out there willing to pay to see it naked ;)

.........................................

4. What do you like most about your job?

The hours, the money, the freedom, and the occasionally mind blowing sex.

.........................................

5. What do you like least?

Answering email, being stood up, doing laundry...

.........................................

6. What do you wish more clients understood about you, or about your work?

That for most of us, we really do NOT care how you look, or how big your cock is. Manners, decency, respect and good hygiene are what really matter to me. I also wish more clients took what we do seriously. Too many people see this as a hobby, not a quote/unquote 'real' job.

.........................................

7. What's been your oddest encounter so far?

I'm using 'odd' as opposed to 'kinky', because almost all of my encounters are kinky... so... the guy who showed up dressed as what I assumed was an Elvis impersonator. When I asked him if he was going to a concert or something, he had no idea what I was talking about. Turns out he just dresses like that all the time... he also wanted to sing to me. Ack!

.........................................

8. Have you ever been intentionally harmed or assaulted by a client while working?

Yes, I had a client who bit me severely. Luckily, someone else was working in my space, and I was able to make him leave without it escalating. It was very frightening, though.

.........................................

9. Do your friends, family and partners know that you are a sexworker?

My immediate family and friends do, as does my partner. My extended family do not, as I'm not close with them, and really have never felt the need to tell them.

.........................................

10. What do you think is the most difficult part of being a sexworker?

Fear of legal repurcussions due to escorting not being 100% legal is my main concern and difficulty. I would tour the US much more frequently, if not for that. Also, financially having an entirely cash based income can make mortgages difficult, for the same reason.

- Morgan

Toronto the Overly Cheerful...

Wed, 28 Jun 2006 22:24:22 GMT

I had the strangest afternoon. I'm a big fan of happy people, honestly I am. I admit that I get a bit freaked out by people who walk down the street grinning like maniacs (don't their cheeks hurt? Is their face frozen like that? Is it some kind of chimp-like show of aggression?), but other than that, yeah - big fan of happy, as opposed to 'fuck off, asshole' type behaviour.

Today, though. Today was like being caught in some kind of Disney-esque version of Toronto, the one that the tourist bureau is always pimping to unwary visitors. Toronto the good, if by good you mean tranquilized into a state of sedated bliss.

First, I watched two homeless people happily singing out 'God bless you anyways!' when people didn't give them change. This is a rather dramatic change from the usual response I've seen from homeless people lately, which has been more on the lines of 'fuck you, you cheap fuckin' fuck!'.

Next, I saw not one, not two, but three people stop to help a woman who'd dropped her groceries. By the time guy number three stepped in to help, she had this rather dazed 'could you all leave me be, please?' look on her face. It was nice, but.. overkill, y'know?

Then came the oddly cheerful TTC drivers. Driver number one called out tourist information at every stop, including the interesting tidbit that "Cabbagetown is so named because early immigrant residents grew cabbages in their front yards!". Umm, yeah. Thanks for that. It's a nice change from the surly bastard who went half way past my stop this morning, then blamed me for 'hiding behind a pole so he couldn't see me'.

TTC driver number two sang. I mean, literally - he sang out the stop names, in a rather good baritone. No one else even seemed to notice it, and eventually I began to wonder if I might be hallucinating. As I was leaving, he cheerfully sang 'Thank yoooooooooooooooou for riding the TTCCCCCCCCCCC!'. I swear to God, he really, really did. I was expecting a chorus line of TTC dancers to appear on the roof as I was leaving.

Look, don't get me wrong - as I said, I like happy people as much as the next person, but could the city in general please tone it the fuck down for the rest of the week? Some of us are still hung over.

Morgan

10 Reasons Why Gay Marriage is Wrong

Thu, 22 Jun 2006 15:17:14 GMT

In honor of Pride Week here in Toronto...

01) Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.

02) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.

03) Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.

04) Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.

05) Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed; the sanctity of Britany Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.

06) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.

07) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.

08) Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.

09) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.

10) Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans.

Happy Pride Partying, to all of my G/L/B/T friends everywhere!

Morgan

Water, water everywhere...

Sun, 18 Jun 2006 19:14:50 GMT

In the end, it's really all my fault. I've been hearing this whoosing, water running sound coming from the wall in my bedroom since late fall, and didn't do anything about it. At first, I assumed it was the people next door - I'm in a semi detached house, and sometimes I hear the noise from their pipes when I'm downstairs. It's an old house, so this neither surprises nor disturbs me. In fact, I take it for granted most of the time. The running water sound seemed to be coming from their side of the wall, and I surmised that perhaps they had radiator heat. After all, the noise started when the weather turned cold, and it was pretty constant. Eventually, it just became background noise - something that was there, but which I didn't pay any attention to.

Come spring, I was rather worried when the sounds continued, so I mentioned it to my (admittedly rather lackadaisical) landlord. He muttered something dire about possibly tearing open the wall to look into it, then promptly forgot all about it. I, on the other hand, wasn't in a great hurry to have my bedroom wall sledgehammered open, so I didn't follow up on it. Sucks to be a procrastinator, apparently, because late Friday night I awoke to a small pond of water soaking into my bedroom carpet.

Seems that the sound I'd grown used to was actually the sound of a broken water main, buried under the front lawn. Water had been seeping into the yard, and had finally reached a saturation point where the sewer system couldn't take any more of it, at which time it backed up through the yard, and then through the wall and into my room.

So, I've been busily moving everything, including three bookcases full of books, my furniture and all of my clothing upstairs to higher ground. Not as much fun as the trip to the beach I'd been planning for the weekend, but it did give me a lovely opportunity to re-organize my bookshelves by author. What fun.

Now there's a jackhammer tearing apart the concerete floors downstairs, a pile of wet mud where my closet used to be, and a soggy grey swamp that was formerly my berber carpeting. All of this should be done in aproximately... who the fuck knows. In the meantime, I'm staying in a hotel, because all of the seeping months of damp have left the drywall infested with black mold and god only knows what else.

So, yeah. Not much time for anything else right now... including fun filled faux website creation.

Morgan, damp (and not in a good way)

It ain't easy being a smart ho'

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:49:46 GMT

The lovely and oh-so very witty Ironica Lamour just brought up a topic in her escort blog that I've always wondered about - do dumb bunny SPs get more lovin' than smart sassy sisters?

To whit:

'Boys Are Cute, Math Is Hard, Let's Fuck? Does Showing Your Smarts Online Help Or Hurt Your Business?

Something I really wonder about is the advisability of any provider really showing her smarts. I really, really, really, really hate to say this, but I think it hurts her business. I feel it has hurt mine.

Make no mistake, I get emails and pms from guys who say they love an intelligent and feisty woman. But I can't frame that quote and barter it to pay off my student loans. It makes me sad that I know, deep down, that BACMIHLF (Boys Are Cute, Math Is Hard, Let's Fuck) posts are better for my business.

Not so much for the gents who regularily post here, but for lurkers...I think more men than we think are intimidated by strong smart women, especially in a situation that is already quite intimidating. Not bitching, but rather observing; people can't help feeling how they feel, and it's not my business to question that.

I can only change how I am, and the impression I give, not how other people act. That's a fool's mission.

What do you folks think?

My initial response to this was:

"I just had the same discussion with someone - about how the 'tee hee, you boys r all soooo smart n sexy that my kitty gets all wet just thinking about all of you!' posts sometimes make me want to bang my head on the desk. And yes, like you, I **KNOW** they work. I've seen it, and the same boards you have.

I have a friend who is an incredibly smart, together woman - with a degree, a real job in a high powered industry, and more financial acumen that many women twice her age. At the same time, her 'board persona' is that of the stereotypical, gum chewing, braid twirling, empty headed bleach blond with nothing more interesting in her head than thoughts of kitty cats and blow jobs. And you know what? She RAKES in the cash. As she puts it - 'as soon as they realize you're smart, they get intimidated. Smart women scare a lot of men'.

I have anothe friend who will call her clients she hasn't seen in a while and baby talk them into booking an appointment. "Baby misses her daddy - doesn't daddy miss baby girl's pussy? Pussy is soooo lonely for daddy'. And you know what? It works - they book.

The bottom line, though, is do you WANT those clients? Do you want men who expect women to sit there, shut up, and be stupid? Do you want men who are so insecure that a woman with a brain makes them unable to function sexually? I know I don't.

So, maybe it hurts us - but at least we're getting the clients who are better suited to spending time with us. Quality over quantity."

Now, call me curious - or simply a shit disturber, as you prefer, but I've decided to try a little tiny test.

I'm going to create the world's most stupid, vapid, stereotypically empty headed escort website I can possibly dream up, and the persona to go along with. I'm then going to run a teeny, tiny, cheap little ad, and see what happens. At the same time, I'll re-run one of my other, smarter, literate ads - and then I'm going to see which one gets the most response.

So, here's what I need from you all.

First - what, to you, typifies idiocy in an escort website? Throw it all at me - I want the proverbial tri-fucking-fecta of stereotypical dumbness.

Spelling mistakes, bad site design, cheesy free hosts, bad tinny music, impossible to read colors - bring it on!
Horrid photos that show nothing - but include shots of my unmade bed and cluttered night table

Oh, and I'm also going to need the utter and absolute worst hooker name you can think of. Hit me with your worst stuff, people!

The final thing I need is a code of omertà - the promise from you that if you run into this bimbo incarnation of me, you don't run around giggling and outting me until I'm done with this little fun fest.

Let the games begin, people!

Morgan - aka TiFaNee TitZ (or maybe Bambii Boobies? Iwanna Fukya? Sandruh Snatch?)

Aight all you ho board readers and posters...

Wed, 14 Jun 2006 02:35:14 GMT

I need your input, please. I am so happy skippy overjoyed with the hate mail I received from my posting on 'top ten discussion board topics I never want to read again' that I thought I'd do a sequel. Let's call this one 'top ten discussion board euphamisms'. You know the ones I mean - things like:

What she said: 'Hey all you sexy guys I am so hot and horny I can't wait for someone to come right over and fuck me. Oooh, I am stroking my pussy just thinking about it!!!!!'

What this really means: 'I've got $2 in my purse, and I need to eat/smoke a fattie/put gas in the car/pay my kid's soccer fees before 5:00 tonight, so someone book a fucking appointment already, would you?'

What he said: 'Before she'd even undressed I'd already made her cum at least twenty times just by stroking her pussy/looking at her tits/blowing on her ear'

What this really means: This girl could win an academy award for her ability to fake an orgasm, and I could lose my shirt to the world's worst street hustler for not being able to tell the difference.

So, what are you favorites? Share, dish, tell! I'll credit you, if you want me to, or not, as you prefer.

Oh, and you bitches had better all run out and buy summer copies of $pread Magazine, and I'm not saying why. So there.

Morgan

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Tue, 13 Jun 2006 01:52:40 GMT

I am sitting in a hot tub, watching a volcano explode. To be more precise, I am sitting in a hot tub that it perched on top of a mountain, on the edge of a rainforest, watching lava flow down the side of Arenal Volcano, while lightning flashes over Monteverde Cloudforest. The water is perfect - hot and steaming in the cool mountain air, warming my skin against the night chill.

We have a perfect view of the Volcano from where we sit, and it is mesmerizing to watch. We had been told we'd be lucky to be able to see the top - that Arenal is usually shrouded in mist, even during the dry season. As we were travelling there in the rainy season, our chances of seeing her were even more slim. We didn't expect much, but what we got was spectacular.

We left from Liberia, taking the Pan American Highway into the sleepy cowboy town of Cañas.A pretty little church and a bull fighting stadium were the centerpieces of Cañas, but the local Soda makes a wicked Chicken Frita . From there, we travelled upwards to Tilaran, seeing Lake Arenal for the first time as we reached the peak of the mountains. The drive to Laguna Arenal and La Fortuna was amazing in and of itself. are lined with the windmills of the Tierras Morenas Wind Farm. They stand like sentinels on the edges of the mountain, beautiful and weird in the way they juxtapose modernity with the tangled jungles of the rainforests they overlook. They pointed towards Lake Arenal, with Volcan Arenal looming off in the mist, forbidding and grey and utterly alone on the horizon.

We stopped off at a beautiful little studio cafe, owned by German expats. The owner told me about her dogs, all of which were rescues, and about the three toed sloth she'd nursed back to health. "We released it into the forest, but it still comes out to see us at the edge of the trees. I don't pay any attention to it, because it's not good for them to believe people are their friends." Her lazy dog rolled over in the dirt, showing me her belly and waiting for a tummy rub. I was happy to oblige. She was the only dog wearing a collar that I saw my entire time in Costa Rica.

The drive to our Chalet is harrowing - not the road itself, which is indeed terrible, just as we had been promised. Swathes of broken pavement, interspersed with stretches of rocky pathway, and all of this on what is supposed to be a National Highway. No matter - it's paradise, compared with the three kilometer driveway I have to brave to get to our room. Perched precariously on the edge of a mountain, the driveway turns back on itself again and again, going almost vertical in some places, and all the while giving me terrifying views of sheer cliffside ending in tangled vegetation. At one point, I rounded a curve and looked straight down into a valley lined with rocky hillsides, on which sure footed black cattle were grazing. I wondered how they'd feel if my 4X4 suddenly came plunging down into their midst. Knowing cattle, they'd spook for two minutes then continue grazing. Sometimes I envy cows.

It was worth it, though. Worth it for this view. In front of me is Arenal, a dark grey shape so simply and perfectly Volcano shaped that it almost doesn't seem real. It's a simple, mounded cartoon version of a mountain, as drawn by a five year old. Grey and plain by day, it's nothing spectacular, other than the cloud of smoke from the crater. It's at night that Arenal shines.

Puffs of white smoke were the first signs of activity, clear through binoculars as steam which emerges from deep fissures in her sides. You need darkness to see the lava as it rolls down the face of the mountain, snaking in flows or rolling like balls of fire. As we are watching this, lightning begins to strike to the left, in the constant cloud cover above Monteverde. Mother Nature was putting on her very best dinner show, a two for one song and dance - fire and steam, clouds and lightning. Behind me, Howler monkeys screamed their deep throated dog like calls, while over head flew bats the size of pigeons.

I'm going back again next year.

Morgan

Deer on the Highway

Fri, 26 May 2006 15:15:59 GMT

Driving across the interstate outside of Flint, and, as always, I am somewhat disturbed by the number of dead deer on the road. Ever since I hit one last year, I am constantly aware of deer when I see them by the road.

In truth, I didn't really hit the deer. A transport truck hit it, and it then bounced off of the grill, and onto the hood of my rental car. It was late, and dark, and I was already road weary from lack of sleep and too many hours of non stop driving. The adrenaline shock left me shaking like a leaf for almost a full hour after wards. The state trooper who showed up wrapped me in a blanket and made me sit in the back of his car, with the heat on full blast. Now, when I see a dead deer at the side of the road, I find myself wondering about the person who hit it.

My old dog is sleeping on the passenger seat next to me. From time to time, she climbs down into the foot well, and curls up on the floor. I think she likes the heat from the engine, the way it radiates through the carpeting. She might just like the feeling of enclosed space - she's always been one to make nests, little caves and dark places. She sleeps in my closet sometimes, way in the back on a pile of old sweaters. Once, I shut the doors on her, unaware she was sleeping there. Two hours later I heard her whining, and when I let her out she was thrilled to see me. Every abscence for her is a lifetime.

When she sleeps on the seat, I can hear her snoring softly. If I look at her for too long, she will wake up, somehow aware that she is being watched. She returns my looks with an unwavering look of adoration that always leaves me slightly uneasy. I don't know what I have done to be worthy of that sort of blatant worship. I know I don't deserve it. If I did deserve it, I would be able to help her when one of her seizures comes over her. She cries in a rythmic, low fashion, a repetetive chant of pain induced moaning that I am powerless to do anything for. In spite of my ineptitude, my total lack of ability to help her, she still comes to me every time they happen, crawling onto me and waiting for me to do something, anything, to just make it stop. After each fit, she shakes so hard that I can feel her vibrations in my own seat. I put a hand on her back and stroke her softly, and promise that this won't continue for much longer. I hope I'm not lying to her, but I don't know if I really am.

When we arrive at the University, the veterinarian is helpful and kind. She is not indifferent to my dog's suffering, she doesn't see her as a clinical subject, or at least that's how it seems. She pets her, and tells her how pretty she is, rubbing her stomach in just the right way. I am pathetically grateful for the vet's attention to my dog, so much so that I have to look away for a few minutes. She explains about the tests, about what we're looking for, and what the outcomes might be. None of it is inexpensive, of course. I knew it wouldn't be. I hand over my credit card to the receptionist, and sit down outside to wait.

Later, the vet takes me into the back, where my old dog is waking up. She's groggy from anesthetic, and it's suggested that she should spend the night. Her results are unclear - we'll try more medication before surgery. I'll try anything to not have to do surgery. I can't even think about her flayed open, spinal cord exposed, nerve endings sliced. I feel nauseous, and ask if I can sit with her for a while. The vet is kind, pats my shoulder, tells me about her own dogs. She has three, has always wanted one like mine, thinks maybe next year, when there's time, she'll get a puppy. She has photos in her wallet, just like I do, and I laugh and tell her that Freud would have something to say about women who have dog photos in the purses. 'Freud was an idiot', she laughs, 'and he probably owned cats.' She offers to help me carry my old dog outside, where she can use the grassy patch at the back of the clinic. It's not out of her way, as her husband is due to arrive anytime, is likely waiting outside for her.

I pick my old girl up carefully, and the vet helps me to get her out the doors. I put her down on the grass, where she wobbles about for a few minutes, then squats to pee. 'That's good, a good sign' the vet tells me, and I thank her again for her help. She notices a truck in the parking lot, and tells me her husband is waiting for her, suggesting we get my dog back inside together. I tell her I can manage on my own, but she insists on helping me. I am grateful for her help - the dog is heavier than usual, slack in my arms, and I don't think I could have managed the doors alone. I walk back out with her, and notice her husband waiting at the side of their truck.

I recognize him immediately, have seen him as recently as last month. He sees me too, but is calm and polite, greets his wife with a kiss. I thank her again, wave at them as they drive off. He's a nice man, but I know I can't ever see him again now. I hope he doesn't do something stupid, take it into his head to 'confess'. I need his wife more than I do him, and I'm afraid she'll come tearing back, telling me to take my dog and get the hell out. This doesn't happen, though, and after another hour sitting beside my sleeping dog in her cage, I decide to head for the motel where I have arranged to stay. On the way, I count the dead deer on the highway, but stop when the number reaches five.

Morgan

(Hailey+Morgan) X NYC = trouble

Wed, 10 May 2006 23:55:08 GMT

So, we did the NYC touring thing, and it was pretty much a bust. Every single pre book that I had, with only three exceptions, cancelled on me. That's quite a few cancellations, I should add - ten in all, the equivalent of 24 hours of work. In short, the income I'd counted on to cover my entire week along with my profit margin. To top it off, the NYC gents who phoned - and there were a lot of them - were all last minute, can I come by in an hour type guys.

Now, I don't know about anyone else out there, but I don't make a habit of doing last minute appointments when I tour, or not if I can help it, at least. There's no way of screening them, for one thing (and the most important thing at that). I suppose that, in hindsight, that isn't such an issue in NYC, where I'm sure there enough indies to make individual targeting not much of an LE priority, but it's still a comfort level I'm not happy about crossing. So, Hailey and I were left with a lot of free time, and, like all red blooded women, we decided to fill that time with shopping. Specifically, we decided to fill it shopping for knock off designer bags.

It's funny, really, because neither of us are label whores. I don't know, or really care, who made my last few bags. I have a really cool one from Brooklyn Industrial, and a messenger bag I bought to support rescue, and one I scored at... Old Navy? The Gap? Something like that. Otherwise, a bag is a bag is a .. well, a bag.

And then I found LuLu Guiness bags, and I discovered what it is to crave a label. Swoon! Oh, not so much the mundane ones you see on her website, either - her couture bags, in the shape of chocolate boxes, and hats, and roses. Bags as silly, frivolous fun.

I was smitten. Smitten by everything but the £600.00 and up price tags, that is. So when I learned that you could find decent quality Lulu knock offs on Canal Street, I simply had to go see for myself, and I had to haul Hailey along for the ride.

Now, if there's one simple rule of thumb when it comes to purchasing sketchy illegal goods in a shady part of town, it is likely this:

'Do not follow the little asian lady down a side street when she says 'you come with me, get purse cheap cheap''.

Seems pretty basic, and so of course almost the first thing Hailey and I did was follow the nice little asian lady down a side street.

Block one -
Sure, why not.

Block two -
Huh. This is kinda a long walk.

Block three -
Where the fuck are we going, and who's going to kill us when we get there?

The answer to where we were going was a crowded, cramped little asian mall filled with bored massage girls peeking out of doorways. We were led to a staircase with a huge locked cage at the top, and taken into a pitch dark, dingy, empty basement.

'Whee!', said I mentally. 'I've never been murdered in Chinatown before. What fun!' Just kidding. What I was actually thinking was 'yeah, down these stairs? Not so much.' Hailey, though - she's a trooper, and she happily went down them in front of me, following our little asian tour guide from hell. We were herded into a basement storage room, where, after some muttered conversation between the two salesgirls, the door was locked shut behind us, which gives new meaning to the phrase 'high pressure sales pitch'.

'Buy bags or we sell you to white slavers!'

Just kidding, again. They never said that. Or, if they did, it was in Cantonese, and I couldn't understand them.

At any rate, there were no Lulu bags in sight, but plenty of fairly convincing (and clearly tagged) Kate Spades, Pradas, Diors and such. After some haggling, Hailey and I settled on three or four each, and were just getting ready to do the death trek back to Canal in reverse when the salesgirl's walkie talkie began to squwack.

'You hide and be quiet' she hissed. 'Police upstairs now! Sit here, no talk, turn off your phone!'

Umm, what? The fuck? She seemed to mean it, though, so we sat there, in the dark. Yeah, pitch dark, because not only were we now locked in, in a basement, behind a cage door, on a side street, in an alley, but the lights were also turned off. And did I mention the part about this being a basement?

After 10 or so minutes, during which we did indeed hear booted feet stomping around upstairs and outside in the main basement, we were hustled quickly up the stairs and back out on to the street. Frankly, we were a bit disappointed, as we'd both wanted to try out one of those quickie massage places...

In true meaning of the term 'sucker', we actually came back the next day and got massages, and a few more bags. The asian salesgirl seemed pretty stunned - I'm not thinking they get a lot of repeat clientelle. Oh, and the massages were pretty fantastic, although I'm disappointed no one offered me a happy ending.

Morgan