Whore Sex Vs. Not Whore Sex, Episode 3

Art by Yummei

(before the breakup)

All of the political world has descended, so instead of the funky boutique hotel I want, I get the Embassy Suites. It’s fine, it’s Hotwire, the linens are nice, but it’s not as special as I want it to be and so I already feel guilty going in. Last night I lay with Lover, just lying there together, because when you’re booked, the merch has to stay in good shape. I told him I was conflicted, that had Be-My-Real-Friend not given me a deposit, I might have continued to delay, defer, not go through with it. The money is yet unspent in the zippy pocket of my red suitcase.

Give the money back, says Lover. It would be a great ending for the book.

Something in me knows it’s not that easy. The whore wants the money. The writer wants a better climax before the denouement. And the selfish, selfish girl inside me, the one who knows she thinks only of herself, of what’s easy, convenient, wants to show her dad she can so think of other people. Be-My-Real-Friend has laid an alibi, arranged time off. It would be selfish to waste it, and waste is bad, let alone selfishness.

Lover sleeps and I lie awake and stare at the too-close ceiling. I don’t know how I’ll fill the hours tomorrow, what to talk about, how to be with my real friend. A cold is creeping into my throat, up the back of my neck, and Lover has been handing me glasses of Emergen-C morning and night for two days.

The next morning, an idea comes, and I book tickets to – of course – the circus. I debate a limo there and back as well, but it’s more than I expect, and ya gotta watch the net. Be-My-Real-Friend meets me at the hotel, 23 floors up around the noisy atrium, a banquet of black professionals trickling in through the revolving doors. There is less constraint this time, we’ve had lunch last week, we’ve spoken on the phone. We kiss, he undresses me, I undress him, marveling as always that there is a whole class of people for whom undershirts are a way of life. He goes down on me, it’s pleasant but not as dreamy-dreamy as the last time – of course, it is only three in the afternoon. I go down on him, and then we fuck. With me on top, he reaches around to touch my ass and I shoo his hand away.

“I thought you liked buttplay.”

“I do, but it’s one of my few areas of fidelity.” This is saved for Lover, and I feel badly denying Be-My-Real-Friend his desire to please me, make it good for me, make it real. I come for real, solid but muted, and marvel over the careful balance of letting go into the personal and staying present in this moment. I err on the side of personal to make up for the rebuff. He comes, too. We go again. We dress, depart, and sit in traffic for awhile. This is a surprise for him, I hope he likes it, I’m nervous, it’s taking longer than I thought to get there, I am wasting valuable horizontal time.

We arrive as some acrobats are moving into their finale. There is a hula-hooper, in white harem garb. Her body is beautiful, elegant, hard. Clowns, some actually funny. The first half finishes with a juggler who is so good, so classy and sharp and self-deprecating that I mentally compose a fan letter offering him a freebie. (Turns out he’s married to the hula-hooper. Perhaps just a nice note.) All the while, my attention is divided, wanting him to enjoy it, lose track of time, lose track of being in public. I think I’ve made a mistake, it’s too public, it’s too much time out of the date. We leave at intermission and suffer the drive back to the city. When we reach the hotel room, he has to go home. I am a terrible whore, I think. And this is it, this is why I can’t be his Real Friend. Because in the end, he’s paying me for sex. He’s there for that reason, and no matter how much we enjoy chatting on subjects of mutual interest and musing on the stupidity of elected others, there is one thing that must happen, that must be the focus of our time. Real means the possibility of dislike, unfriend, differed tastes in time-spending.

Lover comes with more Emergen-C. I feel unethical about even letting him into the room. But the bitter, grainy tea calms my throat enough to make tomorrow morning a possibility rather than an obligation. We sit and watch TV while I drink tea, not touching, not talking much, just being. In less than an hour, I’m alone.

Be-My-Real-Friend returns the next morning, and we have a lovely romp, but three more goes and I’m terribly sore. I want to make him come with my mouth, but it doesn’t always happen, for him, for many men. Once more he slides into me, I change positions to rub less on the soreness of my pussy. I’ve been up for awhile - have to rise, change into cute jammies, brush my hair and teeth, put on just enough makeup to look like I wake up beautiful, and move into the other bed before the phone rings to say he’s on his way up. I realize before he gets there that there’s an envelope on the TV, I hadn’t even noticed the night before. I don’t touch it yet, not before, not while he’s there, he may yet want it back, it can’t be mine until I did a good job.

When he departs, I am sorry. Sorry to have wasted some of his time, to have been unable to receive, less than perfect. There is then a hot shower, last minute internet, the claiming of the car from the valet, and the hope to do better, to be worth it, unwasteful, unselfish.