Friday, December 28, 2007


It’s been exactly a year since I began writing here.

In that time, I’ve discovered something about being a whore:

I’m not one.

Not to say that I’m stopping exchanging money for sex, when it really boils down to it. I have an assignation planned with Be-My-Real-Friend. I’m being sweetly and aggressively courted by a Mystery Man who has recently entered my professional sex life.

Not that I’m any less slutty. I’d like to see Fucked-Up Guy again when I get the chance, my path will be crossing quite soon with Secret Scientist and Zurich (in the same room, no less…what a shame they’re both solidly straight), Big City Lover has been back in touch, and I’m contemplating changing my social networking profile photo to decrease the frequent expressions of interest, so time-consuming to sort through (never know when you’ll find a pony).

And not that I’m resigning my role as muse. In the past two weeks, I’ve read quite a bit of poetry, part of a novel, consulted on an album or two and given writing assignments to some stuck writers.

But just as hourly dropped away as I discovered it felt icky, so, too, is whoring in general fading from my life. Case in point: Tourist has been texting me and leaving messages for months. Finally, I pick up the phone out of pity on Christmas Eve. I agree to meet for coffee, which suddenly becomes lunch and then how much would it be to eat your pussy in the car afterwards? I tell him I’ll email him. I mull it over, I use the calculator, I figure I’d ask $750-900 for the three hours of getting there, lunching, and, er, dining, a bargain considering his normal rate. And then I email him lies on Christmas Day: My mother has come in from out of town, don’t you hate surprises? I send him a naughty picture to “tide him over”. And I realize:

There is no amount of money worth feeling icky and bored with this man.

- Would you have sex with me for ten thousand dollars?
- Yes
- How about for fifty dollars?
- What do you think I am?
- We know what you are, now we’re just haggling over the price…

I don’t want to see any man whose only attraction is that he can afford me. I would see Be-My-Real-Friend for less. I talk to him on the phone because he’s the person I feel like talking to at the moment. I don’t know if I’ll ever actually fuck Mystery Man – I’m still waiting to see if I like him like that. I won’t see them for free, because I don’t have enough room in my life to add another thing to do without being compensated for my time (I don’t, in fact, want a social life and friends). Their gifts overcome my lack of time, not lack of desire. Am I burning with the need to fuck them? Not at this point. But they don’t have to buy their way past revulsion.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Oh, Grammar, How I Love Thee

I receive a missive, from a non-friend whose profile picture depicts him clad in a shiny g-string and cape. For one quick moment I think it's Secret Scientist, whose name this person shares, and because Secret Scientist once appeared publicly in a shiny g-string, though I don't think there was a cape.

Myspacer writes:

hey u ever think about hookin up with a young stud

Mandy responds:

Not one who can't spell or punctuate properly, thanks.

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Fourth Base

The apartment is cold, I cradle the coffee cup in my hands, my girly mix of half milk and lots of sugar coursing through me while we make small talk about our job. He’s funny, he’s honest, he doesn’t have a deal with his on-again girlfriend and he makes sure I know that.

I like knowing where I stand.

And where I stand right now is on the brink. The Dread’s been coursing through me for some days now, I step to the edge of the dock and step back, step to the edge of the icy water and let it lap my toes. This is what I need.

He says, “So I was hoping maybe we could hook up.”

I say, “That’s why I’m here.”

“Come over here.”

I cross to the other couch, he kisses me, first with the firmness of a confident often-lover (though he’s not, this is the first time he hasn’t fucked it up, if he was more than ten minutes off the highway I’d have thought twice) then wrapping his arms around me and placing my body under him on the couch, kissing my face, my neck, my hair, sometimes my mouth, I use my hands in his hair and he groans and sweeps me up, standing, carrying me to the bedroom, so tall and strong and fit that for once I don’t care how much I weigh in his arms.

The bed is made. Points, I think, and then I’m on my back and he’s on me like a wolf, his hands on my neck, my back, my breasts, under my shirt, my shirt is off and his mouth is on my nipples, sucking hard, biting softly, his other hand squeezing not too hard and then he’s reaching for my zipper. Jeans off, he pauses for a moment to admire my panties (yes, chosen). “Nice,” and then they’re off and his mouth is on my pussy, his fingers fucking me hard in a way that walks up to the edge of pain and observes there, though he’s not trying to hurt me, not like…

And then his fingers are in my ass and this accelerates oral to a whole new place, a place where if I wasn’t shy with new people, wasn’t worried about taking too long, I could come. I nearly do. I can’t ask for more, I’m not in that place, and this is so overwhelming my senses almost shut down. He comes back to kiss me and that taste is me on his lips, so familiar and yet so foreign on a different mouth. His fingers are in me again and if this keeps up the pain will be the wrong pain, the wrong person, so I push him back and take off his shirt, take down his pants, and good grief, new record, his cock nearly as thick as my wrist rising from clean shaven skin, sweet-smelling, sweet-tasting, and I suck him with all my desire to please him. Tongue around the head, wet mouth around him, draw him into my mouth, my throat, only able to go halfway before I gag, draw back, force down again. He’s loud, he likes it, I slide one hand up and down his cock, gently pinch his scrotum, press into his perineum with the other. He pulls me off, rolls me over, slides into me I brought condoms, I’d really prefer… and fucks me hard, the feeling is not pain but intensity so hard tears well up, coming from release of tension, release of waiting, release of The Dread. His sweat drips onto my breasts, I’m loud, he’s loud, high and low-pitched grunts and moans, I can’t tell whose voice.

I roll him over and slow down a little, rubbing my clit on his body in the way that makes me come, knowing I have to come, and when I do – the slow build, the burning in my thighs, the burning in my belly, the burn that starts in the center and spreads out, pushing back for that little pain, forward for the drag of pleasure, back for stretching and spreading around his cock, forward to release a little, catching like a rachet, never slipping back completely – the tears flow down my face, I come hard, opening and burning, shaking and weeping.

He is not freaked out by this. Or at least does not tell me if he is.

We roll over again, back to mish, he pulls my legs over his shoulders and starts to fuck me so hard I know I can only take it for a little while, he’s too big for this to be easy. He comes in me, almost as loud as me, and we roll over and laugh, lie together, warm enough.

He says, “Your body is so young. So smooth and white. I feel like a teenager again.” I’m pleased to be thin and pale, pleased to not worry about a flattering angle when I get up and walk to the bathroom and back. I pinch his nipples, suck on one, move down to his cock and start again, feeling him harden in my mouth. He takes me from behind, first on hands and knees and then pushing me down into the pillows, my legs together, thrusting into me so hard my body checks out to observe for a moment, noting how intense this is, and yet it does not right now register as pain. He pulls out, he’s soft, it’s been awhile for him, too. He’s rueful, wants to fuck me with his fingers, but I’m fine, this is enough. We lie on the bed and tell each other one-liners. We talk about doing this again sometime. The phone rings, his son’s Christmas pageant starts in a few minutes, and I need to get back on the road. We shower. We dress. I am sore, I am content, I am Dread-free for a little while.

Home run, no. But a respectable fourth base.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Catching Up

I've been buried in a huge work project this week, Gentle Readers, and I beg your indulgence...I'm also sick as a dog and waiting for it to pass. And while I know there's nothing sexier than snot sculpture in the morning and a hacking cough before bed, there's just not much happening around here, adventure-wise.

I will say that recently I have:

...decided that life is too short and forgiven ex-Lover (more later) while being somewhat mystified by where the new boundaries are...

...had many deep and lovely conversations with Beautiful Girl...

...attended another Meet-and-Greet where I still felt like meat but not nearly so much, and the quality of the conversation was much better...

...pondered how while I feel tremendously slutty, I have not actually managed to have any sex in several weeks, and in fact was totting up and realized that other than clients (who just don't count) I have only had four partners this year. I must be slipping.

I'll don my thinking cap tomorrow and see what I can devise for your amusement.

Sunday, December 9, 2007

Unclear on the Concept

I’ve been engaged in a minor email exchange for nearly a year with a non-potential client who found me through one of the whoreboards. It’s gone on for some months, and I keep thinking, maybe he’ll get the hint? But…

In February, Idiot Boy writes:
Hi. I am 37 MWM 6'1 185#. The post by [this client] inspired me to contact you. I would love to correspond by email more.

Said client posted that I was a nice person, prettier than my pictures, and following my stated plan of meeting gentlemen for coffee before committing to an appointment.

I respond, about a month later because I’m new to my anonymous email and have lost track of the emails lower on the page:

Yes, I'd love to correspond more by email - I'm not seeing very many people, and it is really important to me to get to know each other first :)

A little bit about me - I just finished my graduate degree in [Big City], in [my field], and am resting and recuperating in [Midwestern State] until I move out to [Another Big City], where I hope to live and work.

(This is my basic cover story, because it gives me a reason to stop returning their calls later.)

I've read a lot of books about this hobby, and it always seemed attractive to me, and this felt like my chance to try out something new in my life. I'm a bit of an internet junkie - I'm really getting into reading blogs - and I also love to read. I used to teach yoga and am kind of getting back into practicing it, but it's a physical rather than a philosophical pursuit (though it does make me calmer :)).

Physically, I'm a 33-y-o redhead, and I'd call my build athletic with curves - I'm not a hardbody, but I'm strong, fit and flexible. I have the little tummy that goes with having breasts (36C) and a round behind. I'm 5'8" and 130 pounds.

I was actually 155, but so many women lie about their weight that if you admit your actual weight, you sound like a cow, and if you drop off 20 pounds you look exactly as they expect. Now I'm 140 (thank you Break-Up Diet) so I should start saying I'm 125...

My only real taboo is that I don't speak Greek, so if that's a big one for you, don't let me disappoint you :) As far as the technical details go, I don't keep track of time - I prefer to just have a pleasant meeting and let it last as long as it feels right for both people. My student loan payment is $275,

Ah, my old rate…

and I know that the type of gentleman I'd like to spend time with will certainly take care of me if we do end up spending more than an unrushed hour and a half together.

I'd love to know more about you - what are your hobbies, what interests you about the world? Looking forward to chatting -


There are 322 words in that email.

Idiot Boy responds, about a month later:
are you still in town?

I send back:
Yes, I am, but I'm involved in a work project and I’m not making any appointments this month :) I hope you're well!

He responds the *same day*:
wife is gone until tues and i am free anytime. would to love to see you?

And I figure he’s just stupid:
I'm sorry, I'm involved in a work project and not making any appointments this month. Thanks for your interest, though!

Nothing for awhile. Then this week:
Are you free this month?

And you know, I should just stop answering. Or tell him I never want to see him. But I was raised to never say no, so I think, perhaps this moron will get it:

Hi there - I'm flattered that you've stayed in touch, but I try to develop a more personal relationship with the very few people that I see. I'd love to know more about your interests and what we might have in common - you might scroll down to my original email to you and see if there's anything that strikes a chord. I generally don't see people who aren't interested in a closer connection, because there are so many wonderful ladies focusing on shorter appointments who do a much better job at that type of friendship!

Also, I no longer see people on an hourly basis - I prefer to spend time that feels more like a date with special private time, and that may not be what you're looking for.

I'd love to get to know you better and see if we might hit it off, but I understand if this is not your style.

Have a lovely day!


Five dollars says I get another ten-word email in two weeks…

Friday, December 7, 2007


This is the end of the story: I walk back to the hotel alone, the snow now a fine, driving crystalline miasma that pierces through my jeans, my leggings, hunches me down to the narrow vision of the sidewalk of the next six feet, the hurried glance at the crossing signal, the white man still flashing go-go-go as I cautiously run the last fifty yards, all grace gone in the effort to achieve, at least, the door.


Kieran is the most enthusiastic dancer in the room. His hands on my waist, on my ass, draw me into the leg-straddling grind that passes for dancing these days (old enough to say “these days,” old enough to not recognize most of the songs) but also twirl me in and out of his arms, speak to me with his fingers that sing along, mouthing money and booty and all my ho’s as well as I love you and you’re so fucking beautiful you’re so hot. He buys me a ginger ale, he asks me repeatedly if I’m a cop, because I don’t drink. He’s a Native, I am the only light-skinned, thin-featured, light-haired person in the room of “you wanna see some wagonburners?” asked the Iranian doorman as he ushered me past frisking and metal detectors and a $25 cover. Turns out it’s the after-party for the Pow-Wow Gathering, everyone here played lacrosse all day, shook their tailfeathers on the stadium floor, shared stories and beading techniques while I drove through snow to get to the Big City, checked in, went out, passing the first two clubs (long, huddled lines of thick coats over bare legs, the last smoke in line before getting in), thankful the hotel is only two blocks away. I followed the Power Girl list, I crunched and pushed up to all of Behind The Music: America’s Next Top Model until I glowed, I showered, I changed pants three times and settled on jeans, I bought my own first ginger ale, and I am going to get laid.

Kieran takes a break, joins his friends, dances with other girls, dances with me again after I dance alone and with another man, an ironworker who abandons me when it turns out I don’t smoke anything, either. I am beautiful tonight, I am wearing my favorite top (turns out there’s a hook that keeps it closed in front, didn’t find that out until I got back to the hotel), I have good hair, I am made up the right amount, and according to Kieran I am fucking sexy. If nothing else, I will have had two hours of cardio, interrupted only by a wait in the bathroom to take off the leggings beneath my jeans, I am finally warm enough.

We talk, as much as one can in a club. He says, You are so beautiful. I thank him. He says, Where are you staying? I tell him my hotel. I tell him, You should come home with me. He says, I would never let a girl like you slip through my fingers. He asks when I want to leave. Maybe half an hour? I say. He asks what I do. I tell him he won’t believe me, but he touches my arms, my waist, my thighs with both his hands, and believes me. Kieran kisses me, and his lips are as strong and soft as his hands on me, I cannot wait to have him in me and on me and under me, and then he asks,

How come a girl like you is single?

And that’s the part of the story where no matter how literary I can be with telling what may not have happened but is the truth, no matter how I can bend the world with words, fingerpaint the pretty picture from the primary details, I cannot fail to tell the fact.

I’m married. I’m in an open relationship.

And Kieran, who describes himself as a bad, bad boy, who claims to do bad things, turns out to have a strong moral conviction that it’s wrong to mess with another man’s wife.


The next morning, I lie in bed, waking after four hours of fitful sleep, waking again and again to check the clock, the phone, the clock again, make sure I have not missed the call from Fucked-Up Guy, my early breakfast date. Last night we would have met, but when you have custody, you’re subject to the vagaries of your sixteen-year-old sitter’s social life. After two weeks of Facebook poking and subtle messaging (does the girlfriend still have the passwords or doesn’t she?) we have finally made a date, which he breaks without calling.

The ex is still the last man I fucked. This is not OK.

This is not OK.

This is not OK.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

I keep feeling like maybe I'd have more good days if I could sleep...

Monday, December 3, 2007


I have left the big TO and am now happily ensconced at the home of a fellow writer and longtime friend, for our semi-annual writing retreat. Sounds a mite fancy, means we meet at one of our houses, curl up in a warm room, and write for three days. Blog posts will likely be part of this, but if there is a little silence, that's why.

For those of you interested in "Process" (a lofty title for the painfulpleasurework of writing), here's the morning's schedule:

- Slept until 10, lay on my back in bed thinking and noticing the grey quality of the light until 11, mentally planned the day's attack.
- Morning toothbrushing, etc.
- Wrote a few pages in my notebook about a realization I had, one that has been directly prompted by available mental space I've gained by honoring my promise to self and the Girls (Power and Beautiful) to stay back and not call, text, message or poke ex-Lover (not since Wednesday, and believe me, every day is a victory, not a little one, but a full scale lap-around-the-track, gilded laurel wreath, hoist-me-to-your-shoulders-boys-and-trot-me-round-the-goals triumph), pages that will end up refined and tightened and show up here later this week.
- Yoga with Fellow Writer.
- Yogurt, internet (have to ration it so it doesn't eat the writing time), posting here.

There are four projects on my plate for this three-day span. Finishing the first draft of a medium-length project in another genre; writing out from my scribbled notes in the margins of the map balanced precariously on the wheel and with the occasional accidental honk (but I can't pull over because forward motion lets the words come), a poem that came to me last night on the dark, rainy drive here, radio alternating between Philip Glass and new Canadian pop/rock I've never heard, thank you Canadian Content; a very short piece in still another genre; and sitting with the printed out pages of How About Now? and organizing them in a few ways - likely, chronology, topic, ?? - and seeing where additional material needs to be written to answer questions, clarify, fill in backstory, make it flow like a book and not a diary. I'm planning to start with the poem, because it will hopefully be something I can knock out reasonably quickly and feel accomplished. (And hey, this post counts, too, because I say so).

A side note: Thank you, very, very much, Gentle Readers who have contributed to my Amazon Honor System box (to your right). I randomly checked it this morning and my contributions have tripled since last week. So thank you, not only for thinking of me during the holiday season, but for letting me know that you like and appreciate my work, and value it as something that adds to your life and is worth paying for. I've also had several recent emails from people saying they enjoyed reading, and that means a great deal to me, too. Both of these gestures are truly helpful to me as I work on rebuilding my self-worth lately, and I thank you so very much for visting that construction site. Hard hats required. And of course, this offer (see section marked 'Gratification') is still open - perhaps a little holiday pressie to yourself?

Now I'm off to the warm room...