Jason Bigg’s wife, Jenny Mollen, wrote an article for Playboy’s The Smoking Jacket about the time she hired a hooker for Jason. Jenny thought this would be a great birthday present for Jason. If you looked up dream girl in the dictionary, you may see a picture of Jenny Mollen.
Turns out she went through a couple of hookers before fate delivered her the right one. Well, as right as hookers can get. Turns out this one wasn’t into girl-on-girl. Boo. Hiss.
“You didn’t tell them…” I started and then revised my question. “I mean, they didn’t see you come in here did they?” I said.
“No! I am really discreet! Even if they had, people never think I’m a working girl. I usually just get away with saying I’m somebody’s cousin,” she explained. “Somebody’s cousin who sucks dick for a living.” I thought to myself. The chick was wearing five-inch heels and had tits that seriously could have knocked anybody under six feet tall unconscious. There was no way she was passing for anything other than maybe Barbarella. In other words, she was hot. I took my cues from the previous day’s disaster and cut to the chase.
“We want you to go down on him for six hundred bucks,” I proclaimed. Keisha, being the professional that she was, didn’t bat an eye.
“Great,” she said plainly. In that instant I realized, I love this whore. First, she informed us that she wasn’t into girls and that if I wanted any action it would only be coming from my husband. I was fine with this at the time, but in retrospect, what the f**k? For six hundred bucks, I’ll be telling you what you’re into! She walked us through all the potential upsets: Wife gets hurt and wants to stop, husband can’t get erect; wife and husband can’t focus because they are too aware of the other’s emotions etc. I felt like I was in driver’s ed. and I loved it! This is exactly the type of information I wanted to be armed with. My husband, however, didn’t have the same reaction. With sweaty palms, clearly a bi -product of all the newly discovered potential for failure, he undressed and sat on the bed. Keisha instructed me to do the same.
By the way Jenny describes the whole experience, hiring a hooker to go down on your husband while you sit on his face isn’t as cool as it is in those pornos.
The bronzed buxom beauty climbed up on my husband, fastened a condom over his semi erect penis and went to work. This was awesome for me. I didn’t have to do anything. For a split second I got worried. “Why am I the wife who isn’t freaking out?” “Do I not love him?” “Oh my god! I am a monster!”
Luckily, her long sparkly nails distracted me from my future couple’s therapy sessions and I was back in the game.
At least this whore knew how to put a girl’s mind at ease. First rule of hooker club, compliment the guy’s wife on her bj skills.
“Do you want to go down on him a bit?” Keisha suggested. In my mind I was thinking, “No, dude, that’s why I paid you the six hundred dollars, to do the work for me! I’m going to be over here eating chips.” Of course, there was no way my husband was going to let me get away with that so I obliged.
The most exciting part of the day was Keisha complimenting me on my blowjob skills. I love approval of any kind. Sadly, however, I think it was pretty obvious that my husband and I were both bored. He quickly became flaccid and we were left with nothing to do but stare at each other.
Second rule of hooker club, don’t let the wife ruin the mood.
“I kind of feel like you are a giant baby and we are putting a diaper on you,” I blurted out.
“Umm, that’s not what I wanted to hear, Jen.” my husband laughed. The Smoking Jacket
Ugh. That’s the worst. If I had a dollar for every time a girl compared going down on me to putting a diaper on an adult baby, I’d be a thirteen-dollar-anaire. Although in their defense, I should stop shouting “goo-goo ga-ga” when they’re down there.