Friday, May 4, 2007

Whore Sex Vs. Not Whore Sex, Episode 2

Part One is here.















Be-My-Real-Friend puts on his shirt, gets off the bed, and we go for a walk and have a very meta conversation about what this time together will be like, how it’s different (we both hope) from his previous experiences with escorts and my time as a whore. We eat Greek food, he picks up the tab and I get the baklava. Conversation is still a little stilted, but I am genuinely interested in what his experiences were like with escorts – one of them used to drive him home. Ohh-kay.



I like cathedrals, and the one we duck into is especially lovely, beautiful mosaics on the walls, the canticle of St. Francis, pagan in its thanks to Brother Sun and Sister Moon. Catholic churches are where I’m closest to God, the grandeur (as intended) making me feel the Presence. I light a candle in front of a saint I don’t recognize, female with book in hand, and quite literally pray that this will all work out. (It would be dramatically great if she later turned out to be an appropriate saint, but in fact it’s Anne, Mother of Mary. There are only patrons for reformed prostitutes. We working girls can burn.)



I turn on the stereo and find the Killers. Be-My-Real-Friend comes and rubs my feet (not pretty – I’ve been walking in new shoes), then sits behind me and kisses me. It’s slower. He seems to be listening. How much do I get to say what I want? He’s still paying, even if he does want real. Kissing, lots and throughout and gradually more real and fun – kissing is the hardest of all actions for me to get into in this context.



We don’t get under covers, which I like, I like that being clean space. I take off his underwear and his cock is indeed large, but shaved smooth and pink and no smell but clean skin. It’s a pleasure to go down on him. I’ve already warned him I don’t come from oral, and he spends a long time on my pussy.



Perhaps I will teach it to my Lover



















I suck him hard again, he licks me for a long time, I have to remember to keep letting him know it feels good, it’s so nice to just lie back and enjoy it. It slides from really good to too intense in a flash, and I pull him up and roll him over, suit up and lower onto him. His cock is long, long enough to slightly bruise my cervix every stroke. It’s a good, good feeling. I’m selfish in the way I am “at home,” guiding his hands to where I like to be pulled onto him, moving the pointy ends of his fingers off my clit (not helping, only distracting), telling him I like rubbing on his skin. I start to come, medium intense, and he goes to sit up and hold me. I push him down again and have what I want. A few minutes later, I come again and so does he, thrusting deeply into me with my legs around his ears.

Somewhere in there, there’s a nap. Somewhere there’s laptop time. Somewhere in there he looks a lot like George Clooney if you see him from lying down and slightly above and at an oblique angle.



I realize my favorite spike heels are not walking-on-cobblestones shoes and hold his arm while buying and changing into flip-flops. He carries the bag with my shoes the rest of the night. We walk, he tells me about the canal, the city, his friend in Paris. It feels like a second date. At one point, we come around a corner, into a cheesy area with overpriced drinks and bland restaurants but the terrace is lit with trees full of fairy lights and the tables overlook the water and there are columns and a biggish tower and tons of people having a nice time and it feels like Venice. We go into the used-and-good-music CD store and get Nina Simone.



Again and from behind, I don’t come and that’s what whoring’s all about. But it’s not. I don’t come every time with friends, and it was good sex. I am not unsatisfied when he departs, though I like sleeping alone. After he leaves, I go to brush my teeth and notice that my dehydrated skin has developed huge flakes across my cheeks. I look like I’ve been devotedly nursing in the colony of Face Lepers and finally been myself stricken. Also, my hair is flat. And I’m having kind of a fat day. And that’s the flip side of “please me *and* pay me” – that it matters to me if he doesn’t like me, if I’m not good enough in bed, not pretty enough, not enough.



He comes at 8 and so do I.

I rest and write, he goes to work. We meet for lunch, Malaysian, tender, spicy mango chicken, and in a discussion about coaching his son’s sport, it finally clicks. I’m no longer making an effort to be interested or interesting. I pick up the lunch tab – with Lover, I try to pay for something when we’re together, with Husband I carry the cash. I ask Be-My-Real-Friend if he wants to go to the hotel or if he has to be back at work.









He comes in to the room, a unisex single, slightly grubby near the end of the lunch rush. I’ve left the door unlocked and turn from the sink where I’m washing my hands. I squat on the dark red tile floor, undo his belt, his zipper, take down his briefs, take his cock – still pink and smooth and sweet, he works in air conditioning – into my mouth and suck him until the spit runs down my arms.

I’d like to do it again.

I hope he will, too.



15 comments:

Gillette said...

What a fun adventure you're making this!! Cool. Thanks.

Anonymous said...

nice- glad there was a turnaround, my dear. i might try it, but there is something that wouldn't wash away, though i appreciate you thinking that i could. i am too essentially hippy, too uninterested in modifying my righteous me. i live on a sailboat, fergoodness sake. normal boys think twice about it. boys who pay... same as being paid to make music. there is a large sense of control that is lost. which is why i make art music now, eh? *grin*

i am sitting on the porch of a cabin in the mountains in the rain, just ate dark chocolate and drank (perhaps too much) good strong beer, spent the evening discussing the traveler's life with people you know and like. i miss you. i wish you were here to share in the night and the moon and the simpler things which do not involve boys and caring what they want and don't want. don't forget, dear one. you are more than the sum of these experiences, though they are heady and draw the attention like an exotic city seen first by night, with its lights and its music and its rhythm.

you are more.

bg

Anonymous Girl On The Verge said...

Hi Mandy. I started reading you a few days ago while looking for inspiration and courage. I'm happy to say I found both, though perhaps not as much as the latter as I might need. May I ask you about something you touched on only briefly in a very early post?

At what point in your initial contacts with prospective clients do you first send them photos of yourself? How identifying are the pics you send? Is your face clearly visible? Is anything less than that acceptable to clients? How nekkid are the pics? What are your concerns about being recognized, and about losing control over your pics, for ex by someone posting them elsewhere, whether or not they're accompanied by other identifying details?

These privacy concerns are all that keep me from following a comparable course as yours.

As a writer and artist (struggling, of course), I anticipate receiving some publicity at some point, hopefully some success. I intend to be very selective, taking the 'courtesan' route from the start. And although I would have no shame about any whoring or other sex work I do in the interim, I'd nevertheless prefer to keep those activities separate from my public work -- at least until I'm ready to connect the dots myself, which in fact I look forward to doing, but on my terms.

Any insight you can offer on all this would be much appreciated.

Your writing has been a revelation.

Thank you!

Blissfully Wed said...

I've had three sips too many to fully delve into your words. The frames however prepare me appropriately for the continued knowledge that this might be one of the strongest posts I've read in days.

Tom Waits, Bukowski, and red wine are on tonights agenda for me. I'll come back tomorrow and read you in a more sober fashion.

Be well.

~Him

Z said...

Loved it. Everything: the writing, the pics, the honesty.

Z said...

...and I came back to copy your URL to link to you, and saw that you had linked to me and Smart Girls. Great and dirty minds think alike, obviously. Thanks!

The English Courtesan said...

Brilliant - I absolutely can't wait for the next installment! In the meantime 'he comes at 8 and so do I' will go down (ahem!) in history as one of the best written lines I've ever read... :-)

Livvy xxx

A. Reader, Esq. said...

Fucking brilliant! That's an old saying I just made up. No wait, sorry, Bono already said that. Dammit anyway.


But an "A" for creativity to Mandy for weaving a marvelous story along with the pictures. I can see the makings of a newly minted "courtesan" in the works.

(Psssstttt: Btw, could I get you to be my interior decorator?)


Now Livvy, I agree that "he comes at 8 and so do I" is an udderly marvelous line.

But the truly cryptic reference (in the vein of The Da Vinci code (since there was a stopover in the Catholic church)) was ". . . . he works in air conditioning . . . .".

Is this a clue? And does it have anything to do with all those 20s? Hmmmmmm!



A. Reader, Esq.

Ps: And will we ever know what Citizen Kane meant when he uttered "Rosebud" with his dying breath?

The English Courtesan said...

Language, A Readerrrrrr Esquire - there are lay-dees present! :-)

Are you really the neighbour (note proper English spelling) of someone from Scotland and do I know them?

Livvy xxx

SRB said...

This is fantastic post. I read it a few times, and will probably read it a few more before bedtime. Love it.

Mandy said...

Gillette - you're welcome. I wanted to post this the day before but was getting into the style and it took forever!

Anonymous Girl - more soon, I'm really tired but haven't forgotten you.

BW, Z, Livvy, A Reader, SRB - thank you :)

And Livvy - I don't think so, though I wish I was as Scottish boys are hot hot hot and you put me in mind of another story I'd forgotten, so thank you!

dexplorer said...

Bravo for the experience. For what you managed to make of it, and pick for it to become. Despite the bad start.

As well, just quite fabulous evocation of the what’s that movie, The Train Wreck or something, one of or actually the first widely distributed (silent) motion pictures - in all its high melodrama?

Quite delicious all around!

Al Laddin said...

I Love "How It Turned Out". Thanks for taking us along!

Ptr_leeds said...

Mandy,

This is brilliant stuff. I regret only finding it now (need to browse more...).

I'm sure you dont mind I link to this ?

Mandy said...

Ptr - I would be delighted if you linked - may I link back? (Your profile is private :) ) I'm glad you found me and thank you!