Friday, March 30, 2007

Man Who Loves Stars, Part 2

Part One of this story is here.

The next time I see Man Who Loves Stars, he has again dropped off New Girlfriend who must be home by 11. He invites me to come stay over. I point out that I have a better bed and better heat and invite him to my place. He takes awhile – halfway there, he got my text, “Bring your pillow,” and had to go back for it.

We are in my tiny place – my tiny, borrowed place from a girl who isn’t here right now, with white walls that have sharpie-d on them affirmations of love from the friends of the girl who lived here before the girl who lives here now. Girl who lives here now wants to paint, but hasn’t gotten around to it. In the meantime, it’s like living in the back pages of someone else’s yearbook.

Man Who Loves Stars lies down with me and we spend nearly two hours just talking. It’s dark and cold outside and warm inside, and there’s that feeling of the first phone conversations with a new relationship. When we talk he touches me, strokes my face and hair, runs his hand down my arm. It is so unrushed, so gentle, so well-lit with a low-wattage bedside lamp. When we kiss, his lips are thin but firm, I haven’t kissed anyone but Lover in awhile and it’s strange and wonderful to be with someone new. When he takes off my clothes, he actually says “Oh my God…” It is joyful to be touched by his worshipping hands.

He spends a long time kissing me, touching me, not in any rush to get anywhere specific. We’ve talked about New Girlfriend, she lets him go down on her until she comes but won’t return the favor. This, to me, is unspeakably selfish behavior. Were she a man, no-one would respect her or want to be with her. But she’s a girl, and he’s nice, so she gets away with it. When he goes down on me, I tell him the truth – it feels wonderful, I’m not likely to come from it. He doesn’t care, he likes doing it, and as long as I’m having a good time, he’d like to keep doing it. This is the kind of oral I like. Slow, lazy, no reassurance about his prowess required. It feels lovely, the way he likes me comes through his mouth and his hands on my hips and belly. After a long while, I tell him it’s his turn and roll him over. I spend as much time as he did – kissing his ears, his neck, his throat, running my hands through his hair, working my way down his chest, his stomach, the insides of his thighs. I go down on him – I don’t remember his cock or what I did, just that it was clean and sweet and when I asked him if he wanted to come, he said “Hell yeah” in a way that was cute and not tacky and then spurted in my mouth while I swallowed and was glad to do it.

He spent the night, I slept in his arms, he slept in mine, and we woke up with the sun in our faces and the smell of breakfast. At breakfast, a public affair, I was such a good girl, spending time near him but not doing the horrible possessive girly one-step-to-the-side dance. After omelets and juice, we went back upstairs where I rode him with all our clothes on until I came in a breathless, gasping rush. He said, “I don’t know what you just did, but that was amazing.” Oh, it was nothing – it only took fifteen years to learn how to come when I want. (It was worth the wait.)

I call him Man Who Loves Stars because he gave me a book about the constellations. Inscribed in the front:

I thought you might find this book useful in your travels. I’ve taken a similar copy with me in years past and it’s brought me comfort. The stars are always there.

Perhaps it's the Black Death?

So I’ve contracted some kind of creeping throat rot that just won’t quit. I left town for two weeks straight, got sick (as chronicled here), came home, and even though my sore throat is better, I keep coughing and hacking. And I’m just so tired…all I want to do is sit in bed in my jammies, I’ve slept until noon five days in a row (until 4PM one day) and have been taking two-hour afternoon naps. And I’m even going to bed at a decent hour!

I did actually Google it, and no, I don’t have mono. Thank God for small favors.

Meanwhile, I’ve been clearing out my personal message box on the whoreboard, telling clients and potential clients, sorry, I’m sick, I’m not in a good place to be a companion, I’m not doing any bookings for April. I may make an exception for Teddy Bear, but honestly, I’m just so sick of the bulletin board culture it doesn’t make me want to participate in the hobby.

The posts are incredibly repetitive:

- Reviews – generally either written with way too much wink-wink-nudge-nudge: “We had a great time, I won’t go into detail!” or far too much tawdry Penthouse letters crap: “She x’d my long, throbbing y until I could take it no more…” Or else they just make me laugh describing how they made an SP come repeatedly. Um, yeah. Whatever.

- “Why don’t you” posts – recently someone posted that a German brothel chain is offering half-off specials to retirees in the daytime. 25 Euros for what I’m guessing is a no kissing, not completely undressing half hour. Fine. Fly your aging ass to Germany.

- Coy little wankfests where the men ask the women about their sexual practices: “Who is a daily masturbator?” or the women ask the men questions designed to promote their own business “Do you like it when a girl lets you…” “Why do guys like [girls built like me]?”

- In the private Ladies’ section, two girls are sniping at each other for plagiarizing ad text, two more are whining about who told a client what about the other one and everyone else is taking sides.

It’s like junior high. I don’t want to be part of this crowd – and since exchanging “time and companionship” for money is the defining characteristic of the crowd, it makes me not want to do that, either. Business is picking up, judging by my inbox, and I don’t want it.

Here’s what I want. I want to fly to other cities as a “luxury travel companion”. I want to charge the earth for cocktails, dinner and a night in a lovely hotel – and hey, if I have to wake up alone because the wife expects him home, I don’t have a problem with that, either. I want a separate apartment that I maintain purely to meet clients in a lovely atmosphere where I own the place and feel secure and don't have to give yet another explanation to the clerk about why I'm checking out at 6PM.

The problem is, that kind of business requires way more time and energy to develop than I really want to put in. I’d probably have to build a website.


Do I want to continue whoring at a low level to make my mad money? Cut it out entirely? Or seek the Third Way?

Regardless of the choice that gets made, I’ll reassure the lovely Gentle Readers who have expressed concern – I’m not quitting blogging anytime soon. I’ll just have to start sleeping around more in my personal life to have something to write about, right? I can certainly think of worse fates…

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Sugasm #72 - Top Three!

Sugasm #72

Mon 26th Mar, 07

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #73? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the linklist within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Big-Titted Muses (
“In the span of fifteen seconds, these two lovers instantly own the room, the camera, the cock.”

Make it happen (
“Dip two strawberries in the chocolate, eat one and feed me the other.”

Water, Water Everywhere… (
“He pauses there, feeling the weight in his hands, then soaps my breasts, rubbing the nipples between his fingers and thumb.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Nathalie Portman is Naked (

Editor’s Choice
Control (

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

NSFW Pics (& videos)
Bathtub #2 HNT (
Cockslut Column #8 (
Jamie Lynn Nude (
Nikki benz episode 6 (
Oh these college girls (
Pretty In Pink (

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Always a Junkie (
The Blind Leading the Deaf (
The Early Days of Porn (
Fears and Tears (
Female Genital Mutilation vs. Hoodectomy (
More Sex Sometimes Leads to More Sex (
Skin on Skin (

Sex Advice
Ask Evil Baby! (
Reader Says: Ack! Ex Wants To Be Friends! What Now? (

Sex Work
Sex Work and Society (
Smooth is good, Smoother is better (

BDSM & Fetish
Amber (Part Six) April Fool’s (
Big O’s (
Do as you please with me Sir, i am yours (
Exposed (
Happy HNT - Hearts and fetish (
Just Rope (
Meeboguest G confesses: “I suck his cock” (
Whispers (

Sex Reviews
A Few of My Favorite Naughty Things Part II (
Love Honey Toys Review (
Vibrating Feeldoe Review (
Web Cam Girls for Live Chat (

Erotic Writing and Experiences
After his date. (
Another moment of promise. (
Ball Games (
Catch Me Off Guard (
Country Bar Bull Pickup (
First Time pt. 4 (
Fuckmaker’s Paradise (
A Love Triangle (
The Soap Job (
Three Way (
A Tiny Bed (
Until It Was Time For More (

Sex & Politics
Living in Sin (
Real Amateur College Porn (But Not How You Think) (

Jamie Lynn pic courtesy of ErotiCandy Blog.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

What I Like About You

The best kind of money is money I made myself, on my own time, that doesn’t count. It’s not for the house or the groceries or the bills, it’s not share and share alike. It sits in my purse and buys each little caprice.

Getting off the airplane and buying a chai latte and a water right there at the airport instead of choosing one or the other and then buying it at the convenience store thirty minutes later to save 75 cents.

Going into Target and choosing five things from the travel size and sample aisle, Kleenex in a purse pack (not the store brand), lotion that I might not even like, contact lens solution, ibuprofen, handiwipes for my purse, not buying more because there’s nothing that catches my eye.

Sitting in my first choice restaurant and ordering what my body says it wants, extra side of vegetables, maybe I won’t even finish, won’t even take it home (though nothing’s great like cold steak at breakfast).

Trashy checkout magazines even though the newpaper’s cheaper.

Not driving across town to save 35 cents a pound, not caring too much if the “regular” pump is out of order, an extra pack of mints at the checkout, not worrying and saving and hoarding every last penny because good people save up for what they want for twenty-five years and bad people call home from the airport, “I’m in Reno, Atlantic City, the Bahamas, I’ll be home in a few days, honey.”

Once she packed us up and took us to her parents, two babies on the plane must have been a nightmare, God only knows what last-minute tickets cost back then. Perhaps if she’d come back after he did, something might have happened.

On my first big road trip, he gave me $100, two fifties, in case of emergency. I didn’t use them when the alternator went, when the head gasket went, when I took the bus from Cleveland to Buffalo and then hitched to Syracuse. My brother flew me home. I still have the fifties, they’re the older kind.

As long as they sit in the back of my planner, I know…something. Maybe someday I’ll know what it is.

That’s why he gambled. That’s why I whore.

Monday, March 26, 2007

History: Famous

“So what do you do?” I ask, because he already knows what I do, we’re at my work.

“I’m a musician,” he says, and we both know that’s not all, that the twelve people in the private room and the tension in the dressing room on his arrival don’t have a lot to do with music. But we pretend it is, pretend we can have a normal conversation, pretend there’s lots to find out about each other and that we both care.

He’s nearly forty now, or perhaps on the far side, it’s hard to tell grey from blond. In the poster on the wall of my rented one-bedroom, over where the funky part of Dallas becomes a bad neighborhood, he’s thirty, or maybe a drugged-out twenty-five, fronting a band that will be famous always but always a little less famous than him. He’s drinking brand name gin and tonic, three green olives on a plastic sword balanced on the edge. I’m drinking champale, which is house code for a six dollar cranberry juice and ginger ale. I’m underage, my Poloroid’s on the Do Not Serve board in the back hall, but I don’t drink anyway. He’s either a boobs man or a brains man, because if he was an ass man, I wouldn’t be here, being a little softer around the backside than the rest of the Dallas girls. My bet is on brains. I’m hoping it’s brains. I figured out pretty quickly I wasn’t a Barbie body, was never going to be the tightest girl in the bar no matter how many reps I did, my money comes from conversation and climbing – they’ll pay twenty bucks for the fun of watching me climb two stories up, wrap my high boots around one of the cage bars, lean back and slide down, squeezing my thighs to stop short when my hair brushes the platform. Sometimes thirty.

We’re supposed to do two sets in the cages after two songs on stage, but he’s had a word with the manager, or rather, his manager’s had a word with my manager, and a girl who never liked me to begin with and now is into full-blown hate is taking my sets. Lock my locker for sure tonight, or better yet, take everything home, shoes, dresses, makeup, anything that can be ripped or cut with nail scissors or smashed on the tile floor. I learned in Florida never to leave money in a locker, as fast as you can make a hundred and eighty bucks it still burns to lose it. Dallas is better, there are house mothers who police the dressing room and iron and bandage and pass out cups of liquid latex in the clubs inside the city limits, where if the cops come in, your fake nipples have to peel off in one piece and be opaque to a dollar bill. Here outside the city limits, we’re bare up top, but in the Cabaret we’re also in dresses “appropriate for street wear” when we sit with the customers and we don’t cross the invisible wall in front of their knees, the barrier between us and their groins.

I’m not even supposed to be here. I work next door, in the less-exclusive room of this two-club complex squatting beside the ring road, fronted like a mansion with pillars and a fountain and a circular drive where even the dancers use the valet. In my room, Club Concert, the girls can wear lingerie on the floor and the men don’t have to have ties. We are also less pretty. They call it “a different look,” which means we have smaller or possibly real breasts, softness in the belly, baby fat still around our cheekbones. My placement in the second room seems to me a logical extension of high school, the punchline of finally finding out I am pretty and I can be popular, as long as I leave school at 2:30 and work the 3-to-10 shift.

In Dallas, it’s 7 to 2, but there are so many girls here they check our ID cards when we come and we leave when we’ve made enough. It’s Sunday, slow, but Sundays have always been my lucky night. Tommy closed our room at midnight, told us, “Since it was so slow tonight, you can go over to the Cabaret if you want. Don’t forget, ladies—” and we chorus back, “Appropriate for street wear.” We are a mixed blessing to the girls in the other room. More girls means less time on stage, where no-one makes money, but it also means more competition for dances on the floor. I go up to the same two songs as always, and near the end while I am getting bored and cursing the lack of pole on the main stage, a man comes to the edge of the stage.

“He would like you to join him in the VIP Suite.” I know who “he” is. Even in the other room, we knew he was here. Bulletins came through the dressing room mom — he’s here, he’s in the Suite, he’s not buying dances, he’s sending people down with tips, no, they’re going on their own, no, it’s his money. The DJ finally locked his door and announced that he wasn’t going to play the song, that song, his song, for anyone, so could everyone please stop whining?

I tell the man at the edge of the stage I have to do four more songs in the cages before I can come up, and he nods and goes to arrange something because the room manager comes to me before Annie Lennox finishes her final “hey” and tells me that Dani will be covering my cage sets and would I please put on my dress and go upstairs immediately. Backstage, I struggle into my dress as Sassy waits for her music. “Good luck,” she says, because nothing is secret, and I am grateful that she’s a nice person who talks to the new girls in the dressing room and just laughs when they ask her why she’s called Miss Six-to-Eight.

The door to the VIP Suite is shut, and I don’t know whether to knock or just go in, finally deciding to knock on the grounds that servants don’t. The man who came to the stage opens the door, asks me what I want to drink, and motions to a wing chair by the window. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, the lights are lower here, so we can watch the floor through the glass window.

He leans back in the wing chair, watching the girl on stage through plate glass. The music is piped in, the DJ announces Crystal who is one more whining voice refused the song, the song we all want to dance to tonight, his song. Crystal plays to the floor crowd, refusing to look to the second level, ignoring the window we’re watching her through, you can either be starstruck or you can pretend he isn’t here. I’m with Crystal – I’d rather act like everything’s normal, as normal as the VIP Suite can be, just like oil money or software money or Cowboys money, only it’s famous money. In the end, what matters is that it’s money.

He’s telling me about his wife, he misses her, it’s hard being on tour without her, she couldn’t come this time. I have seen their wedding picture. She’s in a red dress, on horseback, the lead rope falling to his hand, both laughing. He is at this moment unfamous to me, one of many, working on Topic #2, My Significant Other, after a quick slip through Topic #1, My Job. There are only three topics. I pray for the sake of being able to listen to his music forever after this that he will not get to #3, Will You Go Home With Me. As Sassy says, why would you leave the bar for a hundred-dollar blowjob when you could stay here and make six to eight? I do not know if he would offer money or expect fame to pay, but I also do not know if I cost enough to say no.

“Would you like to dance?” he asks, and it takes a moment to realize that that means for him, not with him, because my brain is remembering the Prom and thinking, yeah, you fuckers, look at me now. “Next song, so you get a whole song?” I say, realizing, I am rationing out pleasure to the face from my poster.

The DJ is psychic, or perhaps Sierra has blown him in the booth because as she walks on stage he puts it on, the song, his song. The guitar is laying down the rhythm and every girl on the floor is up, arms overhead for good breast position or hands on the parts we want to emphasize, never bending over past the ninety degree limit set out in the training video that also showed us where the line was and how not to fellate our drinking straws.

I drop my appropriate-for-street-wear dress to the floor around my ankles and give the eye to a hanger-on, who turns away. It is just us. I would like to pretend that it is just us, that we are alone in the suite, alone in the club, alone in the world. What rock star would you like to be on a desert island with? I turn away, I arch my back, I brush him with my hair, I turn back. He is mouthing the words. His eyes are closed. So I dance for twenty bucks, and for me.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Unclear on the concept 2

Non-listening reaches new heights.

Text from Sexual Athlete: about the ice cube :)

Me: What about the ice cube?

SA: did u like the sensation?

Well, popped an ice cube into your mouth, went down on me, I shoved your head away while shrieking and jumping back and said "that's too cold!" Then I told you to go spit it out. So what do you think - did I like the sensation?

He's had his last appointment. And now I know why he has to pay for sex.

Friday, March 23, 2007

Oh, No - It's a Zonk!

It’s time to play…Let’s! Make! A Deal! (with a whore…)

Behind Door Number One: It’s a Working Vacation!

A guy from Another Big City, with whom I emailed and then phoned for nearly an hour late at night, who had missed the bit about “I’m a professional” in my ad and couldn’t bring himself to see a whore, has emailed me again. He was a sweet, naive guy – divorced, hasn’t been with a woman in three years. I was happy to talk to him at the time, I couldn’t sleep and he was curious about what I do. He’s a craftsman, a subcontractor, which is always something that fascinates me – I find the ability to make things with one’s hands pretty impressive. Now he’s emailed me:

Just letting you know that I still think about what might have been... Any plans to be in My City soon?? You are a beautiful classy lady...and even doing lunch would be fun...
let me know...
Thanks, [Craftsman]

I don’t know, Monty – the idea of traveling to another city to have lunch with a hard-up guy whose money I can’t charm out of him is pretty tempting…but I’m going to have to trade it for Door Number Two!

Which is…

Another Guy from Another Big City! The one who answered my ad, spelled and punctuated reasonably correctly, but I was waiting for confirmation on another appointment and didn’t call him back in time! He’s messaged me on my voicemail asking when I’ll be in town again…and he already knows what I cost! Hmmm…well, Monty, I’ve learned a lesson about back-up bookings, but I don’t really have time or energy to set up enough appointments in his city to make it worthwhile, nor is that the way I want to do business. I’ll trade him for Door Number Three!

It’s a Brand…New…Client!

Three, actually – one I’ve met, Teddy Bear, who wants a long appointment, likes me, and whom I don’t find horribly objectionable. He also asked what my favorite flowers are, which is a good sign. The second one I haven’t met yet, it’s Urban Designer, who sounds young and describes himself as reasonably fit. The third I also haven’t met – an older man who writes well and knows the score. I haven’t yet responded to his detailed emails with more than a quick “I’m really busy, I’ll get back to you,” but he's kept on keepin' on.

Monty, can I trade for the Big Deal?

Behind the door is a curtain.

Behind the curtain is a junked-out car. Oh, no! But...

...inside the trunk of the car is a text message, sent to my personal phone, with my whore name, in the middle of a workday. I call, demand to know who this is before revealing my name – thank God he didn’t call and get my message with my real name and company, the message I didn’t have on there when I first started whoring, then put back when I got a second phone. Turns out it’s J, my first real client. I never thought I’d hear from him again after our quick experience. He wants to hear from me when I get back into town. The next week, he texts me again, wants to see me tomorrow. No deal, I’m still away.

So is it an stop sign or a portent to keep going?

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Be Right Back

Gentle Readers, I've been a pale, green-y, wheezing sick for five days in three cities. I'm also working up a storm - a winning combination for everyone! I will be resuming regular posting tomorrow (Friday) or Saturday.

I'll probably skip the story about paying the rental car guy to drive me to the checkpoint after the shuttle pulled away and then missing my flight anyway because I forgot to put my mascara in my "quart zip-top plastic bag", which got me searched. Thoroughly. And not in a good, Penthouse-letters kind of way. Let's just say I won't be exploring my newly-discovered bisexuality with any officers of the TSA.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Why Are There... many battered women in America?

Because the bitches don't listen.

It happens that I have an affinity for sick humor, particularly anti-woman sick humor. I enjoy shocking people with the jokes I tell - childish, I know. The joke above came to mind for me during this afternoon's frolic. Sexual Athlete genuinely likes me. He sent a sappy card. He texts and emails me nearly daily. And yet, I keep liking him less and less, and today I wanted to hit him for not fucking listening. The play-by-play:

Sexual Athlete is through the door! His coat is off! Now the tie! He hands off the 50 pages of material on SEC filings, he shoots, he scores!

Or rather, he jams his tongue down my throat - again - his fingers into my pussy - again - and demands that I come after about 2.5 minutes of strictly average oral. I fake it. Twice. I go down on him, his cock is decent, a good size, smells clean, he's clean. He comes almost immediately. We chat. I make sympathetic or indignant noises, as the case may be, while trying not to drift too far into the DayQuil haze.

Cowgirl, I come for real. He tells me he wants to fuck me in the ass. I'm taken aback - I've been very clear about this - and I say "Not today." He looks astonished: "You said 'no' to me!?" I briefly become very dominant and tell him to come. He switches to mish, the moment passes, and he does. Again, he chats, I listen and fight the fog.

More oral for him, he comes again. It's a tight hour and a half, he tips me $5 (more a function of not wanting change on a twenty), he's out the door. And I blissfully waft into my other hotel room, brush my teeth, and shower until I'm pruney.

Activities with Clients, Ordered from Least to Most Off-Putting:

Back rubs from them to me
Oral on them
Oral on me
Being called by my real name
Being called by my real name while being urged to come

After - well, during - I decide this is it. I got a fat paycheck from my other job today, I have enough for what I was saving up for, Sexual Athlete's cash is going to be a lovely trip to the used bookstore and inexpensive lunches out for the next few weeks. I text Lover "Done Whoring". I tell Power Girl this is the last one.

Then tonight I get a lovely email from a client I've been phone-tagging with...

Please call me when you get back, I would still love to share some time with you and explore those things we would like to mutually consider, chew over, reflect, percolate, ponder, deliberate, mull over or ........... muse about.

I've been asking what he does, and he attaches a drawing. He's in urban design. I love urban design...


Sick Day

Picture from the lovely magnet selection at House Mouse. I'm trying to get out of the habit of randomly stealing pictures and not attributing them...

Here's where I am: 90 minutes from Husband, 20 minutes from the airport I need to fly out of tomorrow morning very early (opposite direction), sore-throaty, not really looking forward to Sexual Athlete, scheduled for 2PM in an effort to make a little extra on my day off, extra which is now un-needed due to some circumstances not worth explaining.

Husband's vehicle is "making a funny noise," therefore he cannot come to see me. I did not think far enough ahead to plan to rent a car, go to him last night, spend two nights (or one and a half) and get back to my flight.

I can't rent him a car, due to some stuff, and I'm debating whether it's worth it to drive the three hours RT to see him, which I am desparately craving. Lover once said he'd "drive five hours to have dinner" with me, and that's kind of how I'm feeling.

On top of that, I'm sick, lounging in the hotel room, waiting to be hungry enough to eat something so I can go sit in the sauna and try to sweat out the germs without passing out on an empty stomach.

I feel like I'm going to have to make a trade-off between my physical and my emotional health.

Sexual Athlete comes at 2. Let's see if I feel rich enough to solve the problem...

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Water, Water Everywhere…

Semi-public shower facility. Divided: Men, Women. Reasonably clean floor, but I still wear flip-flops. Women is often out of hot water. I stride into Men, knock-knock, “Girl!” not even bothering to check. I know three of the four guys there, anyway: a man I love in a fatherly way (if you’re the father of Electra), Lover, and Boyish Dimples, a strapping round-headed Dutchman with whom I’ve been flirting for some time. The man I don’t know is on the way out. The fatherly man is wrapping up, powdering his crevices, donning a bright flowered shirt, khakis, his own flip-flops, kissing me “Goodnight, honey,” as he heads out the door, I’m already stripping down.

Lately I’ve been eyeing Boyish Dimples. We flirted on and off, mostly as a function of showering at about the same time. He joked that I should join him sometime. When he performs (yes, yet another musician, although I don’t think drummers really count) I watch him. When I dance, he watches me.

We weren’t speaking for a day or two – I made a remark in a group that he took as more cutting than teasing. I suck at playing the girl game. Women shouldn’t be smartly mean, whatever. I made up, because I wanted him. Sent a card via a friend, “I know people usually send flowers to make up, but anything sold here would be fraught with symbolism. Have this instead as an apology,” tied to a fat soft pretzel crusted with salt. I figured if he didn’t know “fraught” the context would probably explain it. Making up without bowing down. He smiles when he gets it, signals to me across the room that things are ok, he’s finally over it.

The shower. Lover – stall number three, carefully pretending we’re no more than public friends. Boyish Dimples, stall number two. Me, stall number one. Me, stall number two.

“You promised you’d wash my back.”

Boyish Dimples is slightly astonished that I’ve made good, also that I do actually expect my back washed. His hands are huge, fingers spreading wide enough to cover my entire shoulder blade as he rubs the soap up and down, shying near the top of the cleft of my ass, then rubbing down both sides, my flesh soft in his hands. I press my ass into his cock, slide him between, then turn around.

“Now the front.” I’m speaking softly, but I know Lover knows I’m here, is stretching out his own hot water to stay as long as he can. Boyish Dimples rubs across the top of my chest, my skin tanned there, down my sides, across my stomach, until I take his hands and place them on my breasts. He pauses there, feeling the weight in his hands, then soaps my breasts, rubbing the nipples between his fingers and thumb. I reach up and kiss him, gently drawing his tongue into my mouth and sucking the tip. He’s unshaven yet, the bristles against my cheek feel like man to me.

“Your turn.” I take the soap from his hands, kiss him again, pressing the length of my body against him, breasts against chest, hips against hips, stomachs touching with the slick of soap between us. I do his back first, rubbing hard on the muscles, sliding the length of his spine, rounding over his ass, noting the clench that tells me not to pry too far. I turn him, do his arms, his armpits soft with hair (clean, freshly showered armpits are an unsung joy for me) rub over his pectoral muscles, just under eye level. He’s a big man. Used to play football. Or maybe rugby – I can’t remember, but one of those sports where guys run at each other and make piles. I take my hands down over his stomach, now softer but still decent, under the slope, take my hand beneath his testicles, soap the spot behind them, rub them carefully, then firmly take the base of his cock. He’s been hard for a while.

His eyes roll back a little and he closes them as my hand slides up and down his cock, ring my thumb and first finger around the head, slide back and forth letting the ridge pop through my fingers. He reaches for my pussy, slides a finger inside me. I enjoy it, the way he beckons inside me, but that’s not what I’m here for. I rinse his cock and sink to my knees, take him into my mouth. Lover is out of his shower, toweling off, Boyish Dimples hears a footstep and says “Ummm…?” and gestures with his head.

I smile and give the “I don’t care” headshake, difficult with my mouth full of cock. I’ve been teasing Lover about this for days, wondering if I could actually make it happen, hoping to be able to get Boyish Dimples alone, and the fact that Lover happened to be here at the same time is an unlooked-for bonus. The sound of the water has changed now that I’m kneeling, I hope Lover notices. I suck BD, his cock is medium long, medium thick, respectable but not too big to slide into my throat. I take my tongue around the head, slide my mouth down, arch the point of my tongue against the underside and slide back up. Lather, rinse, repeat. Recently Guitarist has taught me something he likes, a twisting motion with hand and mouth combined, coming all the way up and back down, each time the sensation of reentry. BD taps the back of my head, I’m confused enough to take him out of my mouth and he comes all over my face. I lick off what I can reach, suck the head to get the rest, he reaches down and wipes my face – always a sign of class. I come up and kiss him, he asks if there’s anything he can do for me.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” He persists, which I appreciate. But I don’t come from fingering, and really, it’s more powerful not to this time. I like having given the gift, not wanting in return. Besides, I’ll get mine later.

As we dry off, alone in the room, he tells me he doesn’t usually come standing up. I’ve heard this from a number of surprised men. Turns out the head-tapping was the Universal Sign for “I’m going to come.” Guess I missed that day. I tease him, asking if he’s sure he forgives me. His gratitude is exactly what I need.

We leave the showers, walk away, hug goodbye. I go to Lover, call into his room, he comes to the door and takes me in without a word. Lover kisses me, his mouth deeply in mine, his tongue searching for the other.

“I missed most of him in my mouth.”

Lover does not care, BD can still be tasted, his come distinctive in the hollows of my mouth. Lover takes me, mish, looking into my eyes while I tell what happened, telling me he could hear the sound of BD in my mouth, it was wrenching to walk away, he’s been rock-hard imagining the rest. He comes inside me, sex with condoms can never be as good as this, the sudden extra hardening, the warmth, the wet that will drip out of me for the next hour.

The next year, I see Boyish Dimples again. I’m making time with someone else, he has a new girlfriend, and we do no more than smile, chat, see each other at the fringes of groups. Our schedules are tighter this time, and the hot water’s been fixed on the women’s side. He does catch me, one day, as dusk is falling.

I say, “It’s a shame they fixed the hot water.”

He says, “That’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. I hope you’re not offended by this, but whenever I need that extra something to get me over the edge, that’s what I think of.”

I am not offended. Not at all.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Bits and Pieces

…I’m seeing Sexual Athlete, my very own Energizer Bunny, next week. He’s thrilled. He’s clean, reasonably fit, nice, gives free legal advice, and he seems to be revealing similar tastes in sex. I wish I liked him more – he’s my best client thus far, is starting to book 2-hour appointments and doesn’t ever bitch about the price – and I’m trying to judge how much to let myself go with him. On the one hand, I’ll probably enjoy our appointments a lot more if I’m real. On the other, he did send me that card…
…In a related development, Sexual Athlete emailed me detailing how complimented he was that I pulled out a Magnum (instead of regular) condom for him (he’s only slightly bigger than average, but it was the one on top). Apparently, it was a total turn-on. Who’d-a-thunk…
…Lover sends me a cryptic text message. I respond “I don’t understand.” Lover later phones and apologizes for sending a flirty message intended for another woman to my phone. I say, “I had no idea that was the case…but I do now.” Turns out he didn’t actually send me the wrong message, the one meant for me just wasn’t well-phrased. This is, I think, a lesson in recognizing Lover’s status as fellow-adventurer rather than being the dog in the manger I would like to be. Worship isn’t enough – I want exclusivity. Even though I’m fucking other people (oh, yeah, and married) and we’re in cities several states apart for the foreseeable future. Totally unreasonable of me, I know. It’s a process…
…Sign in a salon window: “Nothing Says ‘I Love You’ Like a Makeover!!!” Aw, honey, I love you. But you’re ugly…

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Sugasm #70 - Top Three!

My internet options right now are a shared high-speed cable or whisper-thin pirated wireless from the neighbors'. Thank you for your patience with my reduced posting schedule, Gentle Readers - I'll be picking up steam again next week. In the meantime, Hurrah, Sugasm(!) for counting as a post tonight!

Sugasm #70

Sugasm #70

Mon 12th Mar, 07

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #71? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
You’re So Dirty When You’re Clean. (
“The side of your hand slipping along her pussy lips. Her laugh, a mix of I-knew-it and do-that-more.”

Before (
“Condoms and lube go into the bedside drawer next to the Bible. Purse into the drawer with clothes, whore-bag into the closet with my street shoes.”

Rude Bits: Tracy Quan on the Raunch Debate (
“If someone is making money off your body, you should too.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sex Mad(ness) (

Editor’s Choice
The art of pegs (some artistic CBT) (

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

NSFW Pics (& videos)
Heart Panties HNT (
Hillary scott episode 4 (
Just Teen Site’s Latest Nude Photo and Video ( )
Light’s Out! (
Veronika Zemanova Nude (

Sexual Poetry
Free verse smut (
Keys (
Poem: “International Women’s Day” (

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Confessors and Confessions (
Fuck Me, Daddy and Other Lessons (Part Two) (
A Fuck Superlative: Coming Together (
Hello, it’s Me, Again! (
Once a Junkie… (
Release (
Well, at least I have some good sexy thoughts anyways… ( )
Why I don’t do Myspace ( )

Sex and Politics
GOPorn: Smut and the American Conservative ( Plot Thickens (
Teacher Fired over Porn Pop Ups (

BDSM & Fetish
A Confession (
Fake Spanking Filmmakers (
Fetish (
Happy HNT - Nipple clamp torture (
The Ideal Fantasy School (
Instant Replay (
Isabella’s Eyes - Part XV (
Sharing (
Y is for yes please (

Erotic Writing and Experiences
5 Questions - A house in the country - Part One ( )
Afternoon Delight (part 2) (
A Fish Story (
Just one hour to fuck (
A Little Anal (
The long tease (
Love Runs Hot (
Message Received (
My girlfriend the stripper, part 6 (
Snowbound (
A Soft Romance (
Vanilla spicy (

Veronika Zemanova pic courtesy of ErotiCandy Blog.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Slap From God

I send this to Circus Guy:

I was so flattered that you respect and like me enough to ask me to consider a regular relationship with you. Please know that I hold you in high regard – I think you're a great person, you're fun to be around, the sex is fantastic and I really enjoy our times together, but I just can't commit to another relationship in my life.

It is absolutely not you or the way I feel about you. I'm sure that we'd both have a great time! But I barely have time to maintain my marriage and my existing friendships, and I'm not open to having another person in my life right now. It's already a struggle to make time for home, family and friends. I've carved out a little bit of time for the "hobby," but it really only works for me because it's paid time.

I hope you'd still like to see me in my capacity as a paid companion – I certainly don't think of you as a "John", and you don't make me feel like a "prostitute," and I really value and enjoy our time together. Yes, the money is nice, and it's what makes me able to take the time from the rest of my life to be with you, but when I'm with you, it's truly the time that's being bought. The things we do together I genuinely enjoy, and the money isn't why I share those things with you.
(I actually mean this, as much as I can mean it with someone I've met twice) You're a very special man whom I love spending time with, and I hope we'll get to spend time together again soon.

With love,

He sends me:

...of course I was disappointed with your answer. I just cant afford to see you. Love ya but I'm a [lowpaid job] not a [highpaid job]. I wasn't trying to take up much of your time. Just hopping to see you when I could. If ever you would like just to have a date, please let me know.

Thank you
[Circus guy]

It is difficult to feel other than that this is a bit of a slap from God -

Don't try to like them for's a waste of time.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Man Who Loves Stars

So perhaps things have sounded a little joyless around here lately.

I would like to tell you about the Man Who Loves Stars. A short name for him is crucial to some comic timing later, so we’re going to temporarily call him Mike.

We were living where there was camping. There was a lot of music there, too, and Mike plays in a band distinctive enough that to tell you more would compromise his anonymity and mine both, so I will say only that the music is the sound of fog in the morning and rather a lot of drinking, and when I hear it, it makes me want to shout.

(I'm starting to notice I have a thing for musicians)

I had known Mike in passing the year before, just to say hello to and admire his music and the sound of his band, and for him to admire my part in the event we were all part of. This year, he greeted me more heartily than I expected, but he radiated so much earnest good cheer that it didn’t feel like a come-on. For a couple of days, we came across each other in the non-public areas at about the same time, and I started anticipating him and making sure I looked attractively disheveled just before we happened on each other. There was flirting, and heavy-duty hugging, and when I told someone else that I was “flirting with Mike” and they thought – they were pretty sure – Mike had a wife, I asked him flat out in a group of friends:

“How’s your wife?”

(Surprised) “I’m not married.”


“I don’t have a girlfriend right now.”


Because if you say something loudly and outrageously enough in front of enough people, you can get the message across without looking like a total slut to all your friends and colleagues. That Mandy, what a kidder.

Same day, I leave a note on the door of Mike’s trailer.

“Hey, I’m taking S to the airport tonight, but I’ll be back and starving around 8 if you’d like to grab some food. Or if you’re too tired, I totally understand! Call me –“

Around 8, I have realized Mike’s not going to call me, so I go get quality tapas at one of my favorite restaurants of all time. I have guacamole and lamb chops with stewed dried fruit and good bread and the Sunday New York Times, so I am not exactly bereft. Half-way through the arts section, the phone vibrates with a number from Mike’s state. I answer.

“Hi, this is Mike. You left a note on my door?”

“Yeah, how are you?”

“I’m good. What are you doing?”

“I’m having great Spanish food, at X’s. Fabulous place.”

“Oh. Um…I’m with Bandmate, and a couple of friends, and we’re going to Italian Chain if you want to join us.”

“That’s right across the parking lot from where I am – how ‘bout I stop by for dessert?”

And Mike finally comes out with why he’s been a little stammery and not very excited – “I’m sorry, I have to just admit it, I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m Mandy? From that group? I wear that outfit? You hugged me today?”

“Oh, yeah…I know who you are…but I’m still a little confused…”

I’m too much in a good mood, stuffed with good food, to be hurt. After all, we’ve been meeting a ton of people all day. I figure it’s worth the trek across 100 yards of asphalt to find out what the heck is going on.

At Italian Chain, they’re sitting in a booth: the bandmate, a hanger-on, Mike and a girl who’s clearly with Mike. Oops. We chat, innocuously. I say,

“So, Mike—“

And he says, “I’m Man Who Loves Stars. That’s Mike.”

And points at Bandmate - the guy I had evidently been talking to on the phone, the guy who it turns out lives behind the door I note-d, the guy who has barely met me and has no idea who I am, and is indeed, totally confused, even more so now that I have shown up and basically ignored him.

I’m in a good enough mood for it to be hilarious.

As we walk out of the restaurant, I’m momentarily with Man-who-isn’t-Mike, away from the girl. Man Who Loves Stars tells me that since we had that conversation this afternoon about him not having a girlfriend…the situation has changed. We laugh a little about me thinking he was Mike, and he says that when he found out about my leaving the note on Bandmate’s door after flirting so much with him, he thought, wow, “she has a lot of zest for life!” Ummm…I think “slutty” is the word I’d use…

In the parking lot, it is worked out that I drive Real Mike/Bandmate and the hanger-on back home, while Man Who Loves Stars and New Girlfriend have what’s clearly a Relationship Discussion in his car. Back at the ranch, I chat for awhile with Real Mike/Bandmate, while trying to decide if I should make a play for him (he is, indeed, married), return to my own bed, or go sleep with another lover, who is not exactly on pins and needles, but is wondering where I’m going to be tonight, which has been a bit of a bone of contention lately.

Man Who Loves Stars arrives. There’s chat. The New Girlfriend situation is weird, given that she’s 1) 10 years younger, though of legal age and 2) though of legal age, forbidden by her parents to stay out past 11.


I finally wind up and head for the other lover’s place. I hug Man as far to the perimeter of the group as I can for maximum intimacy. I accidentally kick over his cup of wine, of course I’m wearing white pants. Over at the lover’s – not fifty yards away – I inspect the damage, tell the lover I need to rinse them out, step outside in my underwear. (Of course on purpose, what do you take me for?) Man Who Loves Stars comes over with a bottle of Evian he thinks I might want to drink. He asks if I’ll come have a cuddle. I tell him I’m sorry, I’ve already committed to sleeping somewhere else, then go inside and make my lover’s life a misery while I debate whether to leave again or not.

I stay.

There will be more to this story.

Sunday, March 11, 2007


Here is what I love about the city I am in: sushi, Thai, shoe shopping, giant lighted television billboards, “gentlemen’s” clubs with pictures of the girls outside, ethnic neighborhoods, stores that sell only condoms, H&M.

Here is what I love about submission: not being in charge, not having to make choices, a hand on the back of my neck pushing my face into the pillows, the belt, the chain, the palm of the hand, bruises flowering on my body, red velvet chaises, the hairbrush, Lover sliding into me first thing in the morning with no foreplay, the voice in my ear saying “come now” (it doesn’t work unless I’m in pain), the kind of pain that isn’t even pleasure anymore, hands on my hips, hands around my neck.

Wish You Were Here...

Saturday, March 10, 2007


After he comes in my hand, aiming for my breasts but missing, there is no more time. We feed each other bits of fruit until I get up and start handing him his clothes, hoping it reads as sweet that I’m turning them right side out. He tells me the nipple clamps are mine to keep, but asks that I only use them with him or in my personal life, not with another client (no fear). When he walks out the door it’s goodbye to Leonard Bernstein and I put in Bif Naked and turn up the volume. I take a tub bath, hot as I can stand, watch the pale winter skin on my thighs turn red.

While I’m waiting for the bath to fill – this hotel has hot water, thank heavens, but is afflicted with low water pressure, what is it with me and hotel showers? – I enter my latest receipts in an Excel sheet, totting up what I’ve taken in from clients, spent on hotels, gas, condoms, lube, mouthwash, stockings, cell phone top-up cards. I’ve set aside about a third in cash in a little box, I’m saving up for something, and another third has gone to expenses and personal treats – massages, cashmere sweaters, nice face wash, sushi, Thai, the upscale salad bar at Nature Yuppie Foods. The remaining third has gone to the maintenance of my household. Oil changes. Groceries. Breakfast on the way to Husband and my mutual work engagements, we're working a lot but haven't had a check in awhile. Gas. Cat food.

I’m not sure where he thinks the money is coming from.

Friday, March 9, 2007


He knocks, I let him in, kiss him hello. Take his coat, shut down my laptop. Estimated Age: Mummy is thrilled to have brought me a present, hopes I’ll like it. But before the big reveal, we chat for awhile, politics, being left, being right (as you may have guessed, I’m fairly liberal). From his hello kiss, I’ve noticed a faintly objectionable odor, the decayed smell one gets when one has a fragment of meat lodged somewhere in the back teeth and hasn’t flossed in awhile. Because I notice it right off the bat, it gets gradually stronger until I first avoid breathing in when near his mouth, then move to a plan of breathing only through my mouth.

He spends the rest of the first hour and a good third of the second rubbing me with lotion while we talk – he has good hands, he works indoors, and he’s got the sense to trim his nails *and* file them smooth. Most men miss step two. It feels like he’s delaying his treat – he spends time on my back, my neck, my arms, lingers awhile on my ass while telling me (again) that he respects that I don’t do Greek (translation: when are you going to make an exception for me? but still low-key enough not to bug me), works down my legs, I still have my boots on but I’m otherwise starkers. I realize I’m getting cold – damn, it’s the “mint” in the “rosemary mint” lotion – and turn up the heat. I flip over, he spends time around my neck, his hand on my throat in a proprietary way that makes me wonder if he’s a choker. I certainly am, but not in this context.

EA:M works his way down my body, his skin on mine, this is nice, and he’s pressing hard enough to not just be about his jollies, the rub-down is actually helping my sore abs. And then the present, from a black plastic bag:

vibrating nipple clamps.

I’ve only just recently experienced nipple clamps, courtesy of Lover. I adore them. I adore pain. But for me, good pain takes me to and happens in a place where I am raw, naked, open – it’s too personal to sell. Heck, it’s too personal to do with most people.

So I crank the screws to a tightness where the clamps will barely stay on, I have to be careful not to move abruptly. He goes down, kneeling on a pillow beside the bed. I use my foot to turn the clock on the bedside table to face me. God, I’m becoming stereotypical. Only 25 minutes to go.

He wants me to talk dirty, to tell him about being with another woman. He also asks me to tell him what he’s doing while he’s dining at the Y, and how it feels. I, who can blog so eloquently that Tom wonders if I really feel what I write or if it’s merely skillful pyrotechnics, can barely figure out what to say. I like talking dirty – in the moment. But I’m not actually having a moment right now. I’m having minutes.

I fake it twice, both times because I’m coming relatively close and I don’t want to come for real, this way, with him.

“Tell me your deepest, darkest fantasy. One you never tell anybody.” No price is high enough. The pool table scene that vaguely resembles “The Accused” is right out. I make one up about getting pulled over for speeding and taken from behind by the cop, bent over the car. I do actually find the bit about the cop acoutrements on his belt banging into me pretty sexy. The hoods of cars reminds him:

Years ago, I was seeing a girl who loved the moon – we used to go out driving and go down whatever country lanes to look at the moon. You can look up the charts of when the moon’s going to rise, so I took her out one night and timed it so I went down on her laying on her back on the hood of the car and she could watch the moon rising over my head.

When I go down on him, it starts to feel wrong, to be wrong. I am within a hair’s breadth of spitting out the dick and telling him to take his money and go home. I can’t do this comes up in the back of my throat, and I push it back down, thinking of a young man who cared enough to find out when the moon rose.

Thursday, March 8, 2007


At home, I shower, shave my bits, get dressed in gym clothes, put on as much makeup as I can get away with when "leaving the house for the gym" (mascara’s the biggie, hard to do in the car), kiss Husband and pretend to still be basking in yesterday’s afterglow.

At a stoplight, I realize that I am applying lip pencil to my eyelids. Fortunately, it’s brownish. Estimated Age: Mummy calls me en route, he’s running late, which is good because I am, too. I’ve booked this one for two hours, asked right up front, do you want to book more time since it was so nice to be relaxed last time? I dash into Mega-Lo Mart and grab packets of fruit, pineapple, strawberries, raspberries cut and mixed, and at (of course) the extreme other side of the store try four lotions before settling on one that I can stand the smell and texture of, not too sweet, not too pungent, he can’t smell of it on the way out.

In the suite, I set out candles, a welcoming trio on the entrance table, two scented on the bedside table (I should start putting one in the bathroom). Put on the soundtrack to Amelie, powder my nose, fluff my hair, gym clothes off and folded and into a drawer – 7 minutes to go – sexy panties, sexy bra, little socks (my feet sweat or get cold or both), spike-heel boots, my favorite necklace (one day that’s what’s going to out me), Amelie’s starting to fucking depress me, off it goes and I agonize over Peggy Lee that I had on last time, Bif Naked, Alanis, the Killers (all totally inappropriate) and finally settle on Leonard Bernstein. Condoms and lube go into the bedside drawer next to the Bible. Purse into the drawer with clothes, whore-bag into the closet with my street shoes. He calls, another fifteen minutes that I’m thankful for. I check email.

I look up, she’s looking at me over her laptop, red hair fluffy, not the way I like it but the way men like it, pouty (isn’t there a better word?) lips, pupils dilated, they always have been, I used to constantly be asked if I was on drugs. I look at her. She’s thin. She’s pretty. Lovely, even. A little fragile. Steeling herself in a grey Urban Outfitters jersey dress, that clings to her curves, three-quarter sleeves, calf length with a slit, covering everything, hiding nothing.

Monday, March 5, 2007

Dodging Responsibility

I had a big list for today. I got through a pile of other stuff that I found while organizing my list, then just could not face recreating my lost checkbook from bank statements and paying all my (overdue) bills. So I took a little break, read, ate cake, faced the pile again...

...and then ducked out, grabbed my favorite Doc Johnson Multi-Speed Bullet Vibe (it's a fetching orange; favorite setting: Roller Coaster), my lovely red and white silicone dildo in the shape of a woman (her breasts make a bump against what I assume is my G-spot), took off my pants, fired up internet porn, and masturbated happily and somewhat compulsively to six orgasms. Might have been seven. God damn, it's good to be past thirty.

I noted that orgasms alone are almost - but not quite - as intense as orgasms with someone else, but do not achieve quite the same sensation of release afterwards. On the other hand, the lack of total release leaves me wound up enough to have another one five minutes later, so I suppose it's a tradeoff.

Should you, Gentle Readers, be of a gender or persuasion that would like more detail, I will leave you with this: midway through, I switched from lying on my back with my little blanket to kneeling, leggings and blanket around ankles, thrusting with Ms. Red-and-White, short strokes followed by deep thrusts, tilting to increase the pressure on the back wall with the tip and the front wall with the bump, while pressing and sliding the bullet on the left side of my clit, teasing with direct vibration that increases and decreases, then taking it away, and at the last minute, popping the speed to high and steady as I feel myself clench rhythmically around the toy and my breath comes hard, face flushing, backs of the knees sweating, sinking down to feel the smooth rubbery base against my body, then switching to low to sustain the feeling as long as possible...

The blanket has ducks on it.

Sunday, March 4, 2007

An Honour I Dream Not Of

I love it when the sun shines in my window in the mornings. It increases my mood exponentially to wake with light, and this morning I lay in bed with Husband for quite some time, enjoying being warm and cuddly and slowly waking up together while the cats attacked our toes. One of my favorite ways to start the day is to go over my to-do list in my head (no, really) and put in order the day’s tasks. The secret: first start an ongoing chore (like laundry), then easy job, easy job, breakfast, all the computer-related stuff, one hard one, lunch, then all the leave-the-house errands, followed by the promise of writing as a reward. It especially helps if I have something good to blog about – I can entertain myself through the other jobs by planning out what to write.

I had no idea what to blog about today. But then, like an early Easter egg in the new-mown grass of my inbox, I found this charming proposal from Circus Guy:

Hello [whorename/realname]. Hope you are well. [...] I've been thinking about you and I. I'm looking for a real relationship with someone. And I'm thinking you just might be also, I could be wrong! If I'm right, I don't want to be a John to you and I don't want to consider you to be a prostitute to me. It would be nice to date you (take you to dinner, baseball game etc.) or whatever you want to do. I'll pay for everything, and even give you gas money when you come down this way. I really love being with you. I'm hoping we can make this a long term relationship and have lots of fun together. Please just consider what I am saying here. Take a few days to think about it, don't just read this email and make a quick decision. Again I really love being with you and the love making is wonderful, my other parts are tingling as I type this :).
p.s. please think about it for a few days. If it is not what you want I'm sure you will let me know. I would really love to have a real relationship with you.

Gentle Readers, I will leave it to you to decide whether I could ever have a "real relationship" with a man who misuses “you and I.” But let us step back from mere grammatical concerns and consider, instead, the eggs already nestling in my little hand-woven basket:

Giant Hollow Chocolate Egg (Candy-Encrusted): I habitually work a 60-80 hour week for my artistic job(s) and the management thereof, with whoring as a small part of my working time.

Solid Dark Chocolate Bunny: I maintain a full-time relationship with Husband, with whom I live. I also serve somewhat as his muse, consulting on his artistic work and managing much of his career.

Mini-Box of Champagne Truffles: I have a part-time relationship with Lover, including daily emails, mostly-daily phone calls, and the associated thinking about him, as well as consulting on his artistic work and advising (when asked) on his career.

Assorted Candied Fruits: I have occasional relationships with Guitarist, Folk Rocker, Big City Lover, and Man Who Loves the Stars (not yet in the blog), and close friendships with Beautiful Girl, Power Girl, Best Friend and a few more.

I can’t afford to break even.

Sure, Circus Guy is reasonably nice. He’s clean, I find him physically attractive, and yeah, if I had met him in another context, I might fuck him once. But you know what? He’s neither intellectually challenging enough nor emotionally stimulating enough to make him part of my life for free.

Greenwoman posted a great comment in response to my ethical dilemma about developing a paid-but-real relationship with a potential client/friend:

If your massage therapist or your doctor or your art teacher became a dear friend with you, would you be asking yourself these same questions? Would you still pay them for a massage or for a class or a visit...? Even if your friendship became more than platonic?

I would expect to continue paying a platonic friend. If it became more than platonic, I might have to start seeing someone else for my professional needs, work out a system of barter that made us both comfortable, or else keep compensating them fairly for their services. I don’t expect my musician friends to play gigs for free (I wouldn't insult them by asking), and I’ve slept with some of them. I’ve contracted with Lover to commission some of his work for a project of mine, for cash – and in fact, we defined it all in a written contract, so that no-one felt taken advantage of.

What I think Circus Guy doesn’t understand – and I do think it’s a misunderstanding rather than an insult – is that relationships *cost*. If you’re married or in a long-term situation, they cost more heavily on the emotional side than on the financial side (yes, it’s arguable that the costs of matrimony are high, but let’s assume the SO financially contributes, too.) You pay the price of dealing with bad moods, owing daily allegiance and commitment, sharing household tasks, raising children. On the other end of the spectrum, hiring a whore costs relatively little emotionally – she never has a bad day, she doesn’t want you to take out the trash before bed, and surprise! she likes all the same things you like in bed! She comes every time! And if you’re tired, or an efficient ejaculator, well, hey, she doesn’t mind! Couples therapy? What’s couples therapy?

I’d rank extramarital affairs somewhere in the middle – you get some of the new-relationship smell without the high per-hour cash cost. Your emotional risk is a bit high – s/he might get tired of being second and threaten to tell – but you don’t have to put in the kind of daily maintenance necessary to a full-time relationship. And because the side-lover isn’t getting you full-time, nor are they getting your cash, there needs to be a strong payoff: they think you’re amazing, you give them serious sexual thrills, whatever sates their sweet tooth.

In the end, it boils down to this: I don’t have any more of my personal life available to trade for emotional payoff. For me to give unpaid time to anyone new, they’d better be spectacular enough to displace someone already there. I have a select amount of time I’m choosing to sell for cash, and it’s not cheap. So, sorry, Circus Guy – it’s not you (mostly). We’re out of stock on the Champagne Truffles and Candied Fruits, and it looks like you can’t afford a piece of Candy-Encrusted Egg.

Yes, they are my favorite.

Saturday, March 3, 2007

Sugasm #68 - Top Three :)

So nice to be in the top three this week! And let me highly recommend, Gentle Readers, this week's Editor's Choice.

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #69? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
First Client (
“He buries his nose in my pussy, licks me while I suck him, rubs his mouth up and down me.”

His point of view (
“Once he shut the door — urgently, impatiently, with a deft kick of his heel and a satisfying thud as the lock caught, all vestiges of decorum disappeared.”

Why is my sex ed class so sticky? (
“This game was played for NINE years, and it’s only this year that parents are writing the school board?”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Thumbnail Gallery Problems… (

Editor’s Choice
More on submissives with lists (

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Great Moments in Sex Education (
Half-Nekkid Nightie (
Hot Studs Have Feelings Too. (
I Am Greatful! (
If I Die… (
Let Me Out of Here! (
Pull my hair (
The thing about size…. (

NSFW Pics (& videos)
“26 Reasons for The Birth of This Blog” (
Belated VDay Gift from Tila Tequila (
Crystal Klein nude photos (
Happy HNT - Masturbation erotica (
I wish it was summer (
Jamaica in the Kitchen (

Sex Work
Session To Do List (

Sex News, Reviews and Interviews
Baby Bug Vibrator Review (
It keeps going and going and…dying(
Kiri or Jules? (
Taco Tuesday: Toy Review 3 “Adonis” (

Sex and Politics
Anti-Anti Pornography, Part V: How Hypocrite Can You Get? (

BDSM & Fetish
Atlanta Flight (
Contrast revisited (
Dirty laundry (
From memory (
Knowing looks (
Meeboguest G confesses: “I’ve been watching my wife get fucked” (
Quest for fire… (
What to do in a tight situation (

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Belated NYE Party @ T’s part 2 (
Do you want to share a cab (
Giving and Receiving (
Grinding it (
Indulging in a Virtual Tryst Part VII (
Lips…. (
My girlfriend the stripper, part 5 (
My idea of a love letter to SMW (
Swingers Night!! (