Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Will Robinson, Have I Told You How I Feel?


Allow me to share, for a moment, the card enclosed with my money this afternoon.

Imagine, if you will, the kind of slightly-sepia, slightly-faded, slightly-blurry faux impressionism one normally associates with pictures of a four-year-old couple in dress-up clothes, with “handpainting” on their little pink cheeks and the little girl’s hat and bouquet. Only this one has the feet of a man and a woman (he’s in casual khakis, she’s in an ankle length skirt and the kind of square-heeled pumps that middle-aged women in the Midwest think are dressy) standing symbolically on the bottom of a flight of steps.

I am stark naked. I have managed to check into my second hotel in two weeks with NO HOT WATER upon arrival. Sure, they fix it, but not in the 20 minutes I have to get ready. So Sexual Athlete knocks before I am dressed – for the record, had he turned up seven minutes later AS AGREED IN ADVANCE I would have been ready. So I let him in. I understand this is a fantasy for many men; certainly, it would save a bundle on frilly things. He hands me a gift bag, enclosing a gift box, enclosing a lovely white silk scarf in gift paper. I think it’s a Basic Instinct reference. Oh, dear. In the gift bag is also a card, in an envelope that clearly has my money in it. I leave it be, figuring I’ll count when he’s in the bathroom, but he wants me to read it. So I do.

I can’t get you out of my mind.
I keep thinking about how much
I enjoy talking with you,
How great you look


Awww…it’s a prose poem…

When you smile
And how much I like your laugh
I daydream about you off and on all day,
Replaying pieces of our conversation…
Laughing again about
Funny things you said or did


Um, yeah, like when I text you “Going to bed now!” at 9:30 so you’ll stop sending messages when I’m at home, trying to have Husband time?

I’ve memorized your face
And the way you look at me…
It melts my heart


Uh-oh.

Every time I think about it.
And I catch myself smiling
When I imagine what will
Happen the next time we’re together.


1) That’s not where I’d put that line break.
2) I know exactly what’s going to happen. We will fuck. You will pay me. You will shed body hair copiously. I will experience growing dislike of the way your mouth tastes. We will have reasonably quality conversation in which I slightly pump you for legal expertise and try hard not to be overly aggressive when you tell me things I already know. You probably won’t tip, but I have billed you for gas money this time and set a time limit I’m comfortable with, so I’m OK with that.

But wait, there’s more! Now the couple is sitting on the next couple of steps up. I bet the edge of the concrete is digging into their hips. His socks are lighter than his shoes. The edge of her hat is in her hand.

You must be something really special
Because I can’t remember
The last time


DANGER WILL ROBINSON! DANGER! EXAMINE THE FLUX CAPACITOR!

I felt so strongly about someone
Even though neither of us
Knows what the future holds
I know one thing for sure –


You won’t be tipping (yeah, it’s redundant, but that’s what I thought).

You’re one of the very best things
That’s happened to me
In a long time.


There is an author credit. I hope it’s a pseudonym.

I thank him sincerely for the scarf and tell him the card is sweet. I mentally compose part of this blog as I give him head, and get involved enough in phrasing that he comes mostly in my mouth, ick, bleah, the hazards of being an artist. Spit, Mish, fake one, Cowgirl, real one, more Cowgirl, I get bored and decide, maybe I’ll come again, at least it will be interesting. He says, as I am about to come, “Show me you love me.” Will Robinson, you don't know the half of it...

We chat about a project I’m working on for awhile, then he pushes my hand down to his cock and we go at it again. He ties my hands loosely with the scarf – they’re wide apart, it’s purely symbolic - but his unsheathed penis is too damn close for my comfort. I think he finally gets it from my thighs of iron against his pushing (he says, "I’m not going to put it in you," but I’m still not OK with it anywhere near my bits), and suits up. Comes again. More chat. Doggie and a big finish for him in about four seconds flat – have to remember that for next time.

There is indeed no tip. Am I greedy, grasping, whorish? Damn straight. It’s only money. You have more of it that I do. And it’s the one solid way I know you truly appreciate what I am, and what I do for you.

3 comments:

A. said...

That's the problem with trying to be someone's fantasy: they may want to make you their reality.

I imagine this is a common problem for service providers. You look at it as a transaction while the client may see it as real affection.

DANGER! DANGER! (robotic arms flailing pointlessly)

Gillette said...

Rule #1- the ones who want more time/energy/emotional involvement; who call more, text more, write more (and get pissy if you are not forthcoming with requested "more") are NEVER the generous ones.

Rule #2- always remember Rule #1 and act accordingly.

Tom Paine said...

Loved the reference to "Lost in Space." And as they said in "The Godfather," it's not personal, it's business. Unfortunately for you, you're in the love biz and the clients don't always understand it. Reminds me of things strippers write about clients falling for them.