Things That We Have Carried Here

(beautiful muffins from Foodbeam, where the recipe also lives)

Sunday morning, lazy Sunday, and Husband and I have brunch at a local foodie place. We nibble muffin samples, I observe the price of cheese, and we sit at the breakfast bar to miss some of the wait. A happy hippie artist sits down next to me (Later, “Well, yeah, I have a name, that my parents gave me, but I just think names are so limiting so I don’t really use it.” I think, you’ll have to use it if you want to apply for that grant I just told you about for your sustainable housing project, Rainbow.

When he first sits down, though, he smiles big and says, “Is your bag over here so far so I can look in it?”

“Sure is,” I say and push it towards him on the counter.

“It’s open, that must mean you’re a very open person.” But he bails out before actually poking around. I wouldn’t have minded, but the gesture was really to see how big his balls were. I poke through his sketchbook, he’s pretty good with pen and ink in an anime/Banksy way, but my slouchy just-big-enough bag remains inviolate.

And for you, Gentle Reader – a list.

ipod (red), earbuds, itrip, charging cord
Dark chocolate raspberry lemon biscotti bar, ¼ eaten by Power Girl and I on the way to see Folk Rocker in Midwestern City
Purse pack of Kleenex
Smart phone, which has to go into the case the same way every time or it turns itself on and then it’s dead when I need it.
Camera (digital) in case, camera a present to me from me, case a present from Husband
Brown kraft notebook with red spine, for ideas relating to a specific project
Blue and green spiral notebook for writing ideas
Pink Japanese notebook that I’m trying out to see if it’s the right size to carry around in Europe next month (it’s not, sadly)
Card from Be-My-Real-Friend, with notes for a contract on the envelope
Pen from a city I visited in Austria
Utility pen
2 passports
Receipt for the Mac
Contract to be faxed when I get to it
Corner of a condom wrapper that fell into my purse during a visit with Big City Lover and can’t be thrown away at home
Black Swiss Army pouch with chapstick, ibprofen, gum, enough hair ties to do pigtails, flash drive, token from Sex Addicts Anonymous (one day), lipstick in a color called Stained that I shoplifted from a not-as-good-as-Sephora cosmetics place in Atlanta, pin of Southern City’s crest and accompanying card thanking me for service to said city, vitamins, 2-inch origami paper and set of small folded sheets of paper for a conversation game called Oracle that I made up.
Wallet (black leather outside, hot pink silk inside, lately I’ve started liking pink which is a first, don’t worry, I’ll never buy underwear in pink) with ID, bank cards for two countries, debit card, ancient student ID (still works at the movies!), AAA card, Barnes and Noble gift card from Power Girl, business cards, frequent bagel, coffee, taco and smoothie cards and $268 in bills only.

What does your hippie-spider-sense tell you?

Mandy's Mailbag

I write:

B____,

Because your sig says "newbie", I'm answering a message I normally would delete without reading. I'm going to be a little harsh here because I think you will have a better time on this [hobbyist]board if you put slightly more thought into your communications.

I'm not interested in making friends with anyone who can't write a complete sentence. It pretty much specifically says that in the bottom of my profile/sig line. I don't know what kind of experience you are hoping to have, but do you really want to meet a lady who is so un-choosy that she is willing to meet up with a gentleman whose first message reads in its entirety:

“[city name]?"

Do you really want to share your gift, your time and your person with someone willing to just dive right in there with so little information?

You don't have to write a novel. But you might find it worthwhile to start off with something more along the lines of "Hey, I saw your profile/post/you-at-a-meet-n-greet and would love to chat more/meet you. I'm in [city name], are you near me?"

Good luck, happy hunting, and a friendly smile and hug your way -

[Whorename]

art by Nick Bantock

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 -

[Whorename]

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!

[Whorename]

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

Sweet. And Uncomplicated. And Pirates.

Sweet and uncomplicated. That’s all I need. No owning, no taking, no teasing, no hurting. Just sweet. And uncomplicated.

I go to a party. Flat-iron my hair, new black top in which my breasts look smashing (thanks again, Be-My-Real-Friend), the one pair of jeans I own ($10, resale store, Yonge Street, 10 years ago), black spike heel boots, pretty bra and panties just in case. Power Girl is my wingman. She will keep me from choices of desperation. I have consulted her, I have consulted Beautiful Girl, what I need is “something sweet and uncomplicated” (and oh god the terror, what I need is a man who will not want to touch me there, so that I do not have to text or worse call Lover and ask, may I? because the answer may be no, or worse, yes, or worst, it’s not my decision to make).

It is a pirate party.

There are skulls and glow necklaces and black flags and hats with plumes and for some reason, plastic Viking hats. There is a pirate trivia contest and games involving whoever has an animal on their drink bottle or is holding a face card or is wearing something red. There is, of course, booty. And an hors d’ouevres table with grown-up pate and salmon mousse and tiny circles of ham with Dijon and my favorite, devilled eggs. It is dork-tastic. Geek-a-licious. Spectacu-nerd. And it is sweet and uncomplicated. The hostess is incredibly nice. The host is an ex-lover (and then I walked away from the club where we all shot pool and you had to walk the other way with your friends who didn’t know and I ended up on my knees for the man now hosting, in the alcove of a public building, within sight of the window where Husband awaited my return and never looked out, and oh how you held my throat with your hands while I told you how I spent that time kneeling). I tell the host that, were it not for his obviously happy relationship, I would be making a play, and he concurs. Sweet and uncomplicated.

I talk to an engineer. I make him tell Power Girl the story of the iron ring that engineers wear, made first from the Twin Rivers Bridge and then from the Mauritania and now from stainless steel, the ring that rubs against the paper on the working hand and reminds them all that human lives depend on doing the job well. The engineer is cute, talkative, nervously dorky, fun. Sweet. Uncomplicated. While he talks I scan the room, Attached, Attached, NotGoingToBeGame, NotMyType, Attached, AlrightGoodEnough is standing in front of me finishing the story of the ring.

I don’t win the trivia contest. But Good Enough and I flirt throughout, sharing answers (I’m still competitive enough to start hiding my paper when the questions get tougher), moving towards and away. I catch him eyeing my cleavage, and I stand too close to write my name on my quiz paper while holding it against his chest. He plops a plastic Viking helmet on my head and I warble a few bars of "spear and magic helmet!". I'm pretty sure that counts as a pass.

At midnight, lasagna comes out, and there is a renewed rush to the buffet. I talk to a girl who lost her beloved pet rat. She has a tattoo of the rat, she was born in the year of the rat, twelve years before me. I don’t have the heart to tell her that as a February baby, she was probably born in the previous (Chinese) year, rather than the one she thinks. Later I’ll look it up for my own curiosity, and in the meantime, she is happy. I drift by Power Girl, who is trapped between two Francophones who haven’t showered. She gives me the eye, I give her the eyebrow, she gives me the shrug, might as well, nothing better and he’s clean and cute and a not-stupid. Good Enough turns into a pumpkin, and when he hugs me goodbye, I whisper in his ear, “any chance of a shag?” He asks me to call him next time I’m in town. I know it’s over, but I give him my card anyway.

When Power Girl and I head downstairs, he is waiting in the lobby. I know he is waiting for me, so we drive him home. Two streetwalkers cross in front of the car, and I observe that this part of town is full-service girls, short skirts and no tights. The ones further down are head and handjobs, and they wear leggings and high boots. Good Enough says he doesn’t connect with it, and I ask, paying or selling? Neither. He has friends who are “polyamorous,” and he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to do that, either. I feel Power Girl’s psychic signals in my head: don’t tell don’t tell and are you really sure you want to do this babe in the woods? She's pled sick, we drop her at the hotel, I already know it’s not going to happen, that the level of honest I have to be I can’t not be will cause him to run screaming, possibly literally, now I’m only deciding whether to bother enlarging his world.

I stop at his corner, he tells me he’d like to get to know me better, he’s ruined two relationships in a row by moving too fast. I think:

I cost $1500 and you could have had me for free.

There are a dozen people at least who’d love to see my face, let alone fuck me.

I can give pleasure like you wouldn’t believe possible, even without the extra whore/porn touches I often throw in.

He says: “Thanks for the ride.”

I say:

“I’m married.

I’m polyamorous, though I hate that word and wouldn’t choose it.

There’s a reason for the “one” in “one-night-stand.”

You’re welcome. Sleep well.”

The Middle-Aged and the Misguided

(I haven't forgotten Tourist, we'll get back to him...)

Oh, Circus Guy...

In my inbox, after I responded to a mass forward from him (why would you include your whore of choice on your visible cc list?) and told him to check Snopes:

Hello [Whorename]. How have you been? I bet your doing good--you have a lot going on with your [real job] and things. Ive been well keeping busy at work and playing golf when I can. I miss you but cant afford your donation. Would love to see you again. If you are out my way and have a little time for me please let me know.Maybe you can be generous and let me go for 250kisses.
Love ya,and hope to see you soon.
[Circus Guy}

When I last saw him, my rate was $275, and after I had a really enjoyable time with him in which I overstayed more than an hour at no charge, he whined about the price and criticized how I deal with money.

I really don't have the heart to tell him I now cost two grand...

The Necklace

I find myself in a funky, artsy southern town, with a quilt shop on every corner and cobbled streets. Shining like a lost koruna in the street (and about as out of place) is one sleek, minimalist, polished-concrete-floored gallery of stainless steel jewelry, handcrafted by the gay couple behind the counter. I think, perhaps I will buy Lover something from here. We’ve been a bit disconnected, challenged by distance and lack of coordinating schedules, and I’d like to give him something heavy and expensive and permanent, but not intended to be worn all the time (see gold earrings). I choose a necklace, but intend to come back later and pay cash following a time of agony about whether or not I want to a) buy a meaningful present for him at all and b) spend that much money outside my household.

I return shortly before closing…except that they are already closed. There is no phone number on the window, or on the front of the business cards face up on the display table inside the window. They are not listed, as a business or as proprietors (their names are in the window). Myspace to the rescue, and later that night, I reach them at home and they agree to open up the shop for me. Gotta love small towns.

This time, I have Husband with me, as he has come along on this primarily business trip. We have also been rocky, and I add to my purchase a heavy bracelet as well as the necklace I claim is for me, or possibly for a girlfriend if I can bear to give it up. The bracelet has a dull sheen, and I tell him, I will get it engraved inside, I will have them put, I would marry you again in a minute. Husband is moved, we are both connected. Lately, it has been a very clear connection. I wear the necklace out of the store, and am indeed half in love with it myself.

* * *

Lover has a new friend. That kind of friend. I call her the Hershey’s Kiss. You know, like when you really, really want chocolate, and you’ve promised yourself that you won’t burn calories on crap, you’ll hold out for Belgian dark chocolate, not that sugary crap that gives you a headache and a weird feeling in your mouth, but then you find that bag of leftover Halloween candy or maybe there’s a bowl on the receptionist’s desk and it’s just…soooo…easy…

This is demeaning to her and unworthy of me.

I’m supposed to be this liberated free spirit, fucking my way around the world and far, far too busy and happy to be jealous and irritable that Lover is FUCKING SOMEONE ELSE.

I meet Lover in another town, one of our last private meetings for months. He has driven a long way to see me. I have told a lot of lies to see him. The necklace burns in its tissue in my bag, and at first, I think, well, no. The hello kiss is nice, we take it slow, he’s very respectful and supportive of my numerous conversations via cell with Husband, who is having a rough night/week/marriage. Good food, a good walk, good conversation. Caution.

It’s not that something’s missing. It’s that something’s there. Focus is divided. He is only with me, yes, but I am also with her. When his cock slides into me, I wonder how tight her pussy is. When he kisses me, I think about how she’s an easy come, it strokes his ego that he got her off with kissing. When he goes down on me, I worry that I take too long, it’s unfulfilling, the few times – very few – I actually come this way aren’t enough.

I sleep all night in his arms, thinking only a few times, do you do this with her? We have already decided that the boundary is no anal, that’s saved, and he tells me fancy dates are also only for me, TGI Fridays is fine for her. I feel a prickling of female solidarity. If I’m truly out for maximum happiness for others and not solely my own selfish gratification, it would be nice if other people had nice things, too, and not just what they’ll settle for, machined corn syrup lowers him and me both.

In the morning, he is actually fucking me when I ask when he’ll see her again. This is not as stupid a question as you might think, given that they live in different states, she has a full-time not-traveling job and he is not due back in her state for quite some time.

She’s coming to see him in three weeks.

He blathers on about how she’s not up for a relationship, he natters about how they’re both only into this part time thing, he whinges about how it’s not a big deal but it would be rude to back out now, and I’m weeping in the shower, washing him off me, packing my things, blind with pain and fury and the realization that men are utterly, utterly stupid. Then I put my contacts in.

A brief note to my Male Gentle Readers: GIRLS WHO TRAVEL TO ANOTHER STATE TO SEE YOU ARE INTERESTED IN MORE THAN A QUICK FUCK. No matter how “busy” or “not into commitment” she is, no matter how many “other people she’s seeing” or “doesn’t have time to see,” NO GIRL NEEDS TO LEAVE HER CITY, LET ALONE HER STATE, FOR A QUICK FUCK. Your friendship isn’t that good. If she doesn’t have another reason to be there (and “my girlfriend was coming up anyway to see her boyfriend in your city” sure doesn’t count – who the hell wants to be a third wheel on a fuck trip?), this is not a no-strings-attached fun time. They may not be the strings you’re expecting to dodge, but trust me, they’re there.

I round up my things in the hotel room, I can’t bear to have him touch me. He says, “I’m terrified that I’m going to lose you.” I say, “you already are.”

Somehow, we achieve détente. And I arrive at a solution. We will break up. I’m not sure if it will be only nominal, if the convention will be enough to relieve the sick, burning jealousy in my stomach, but I have to do something. I will see him one more time this month, and then we’re done. If we want to get back together after he sees her, perhaps. But I can’t be his if he’s with someone else. And the thing I value most about Lover is being utterly, completely his.

A brief note on hypocrites. I AM ONE. I’d like to be able to fuck whomever I like and have them only fuck me.

Breaking up seems, thus far, to be working. I don’t think about Lover fucking the Hershey’s Kiss. In fact, I don’t think about him much at all. I’m certain this is a compartment of some kind, but really, I’m a bit busy for pain right now. And hey, if subpar chocolate is worth using up the calories you’d spend on the good stuff, well, at least it was easy, cheap and available when you needed it.

I gave him the necklace. I told him I hoped it would be something he’d like wearing, and that he could never wear it around Husband.

(“It was worth, at most, five hundred francs…”)

Signals

My mother’s mother said to her and then she said to me:

Never call a boy, let him call you.

What I received: Boys are never friends. The only reason to talk to a boy is if you’re going to play the game. The only reason to call one is to tell him you’re available

Sexual Athlete calls and calls and texts and texts. I finally send him an email to tide him over, tell him I’m not generally seeing people but have a new way of doing things. The grasping fingers in me want his money, his legal advice, and very little else. Nothing else. Especially not his grasping fingers in me.

I finally call him. How’s his life, how’s his business, he just got out of a meeting and has a charming little anecdote about Navy aircraft carrier landings and the signs and gestures involved, including a slang gesture for “get your head out of your –“. Sexual Athlete uses this sign in meetings to indicate his displeasure with the speaker. Bet working with him’s as fun as fucking him for money. I’m sure the checks clear. I tell him about having seen a gentleman in another city, and how much more fun it was to spend real time, human time instead of rental time. Sadly, he’s interested. Guess it’s a better deal than I thought. I tell him I’ll send him financial information and quickly formulate a plan of delaying that as long as possible, ‘cause you know, it’s my body, I can’t stand fucking him, hate his rough hands, his spit that gradually smells worse and worse, his bad oral, and so the logical conclusion is to (as a liberated woman) take ownership of my body and deny him access by...stalling.

While I follow this train of thought through the murky Tunnel of Indecision, Sexual Athlete is critiquing my blowjob skills, he prefers less hand action and more mouth. I imagine giving him the Navy sign for “Well, tell me at the time, dumbass, you’re paying” Or better yet, the sign for “Secretly, I’m not interested at all, can we wind this up?” I tell him flat out, partly as revenge, but still nicely enough that I’m sure it doesn’t penetrate, that I don’t come from oral and I won’t be faking it. Now he’s babbling on about ice cubes again – I jumped back and said no in person, I answered his email question with no, too cold, and now he’s suggesting putting them on my nipples instead. Not a listener, our Sexual Athlete.

Why, LFM? Why do we keep going when it so clearly sucks, why do we give them another chance, another ten minutes, hoping it will get better or feeling obligated to see it through? He’s not attractive to me, though as far as clients go, he’s Brad Pitt on a bad day (some baby spit-up and a hopefully growing realization that he’s not having quite the same experience as his partner, but still hot) compared to the usual rank of pasty guys in pants with a partially-elastic waist. He’s not good in bed, he makes me sore, I don’t like his attitude or the way he sheds bodily hair, I feel like a service provider.

My mother’s mother said to her and then she said to me:

Always go out with a boy at least once if he asks you, he might have a nice friend.

What I received: don’t say no.

Whore Sex vs Not Whore Sex, Part I

I start the day by breaking my glasses, missing the airport exit, and getting charged extra to standby for a later flight. I fly into National, which I refuse to call Ronald Reagan Airport. My skin is a mess – I’m already dehydrated from working all weekend, the flight made it worse. I powder my nose again as we taxi in, turn on my cell…and get a message that no, my hotel is not booked. Turns out that on Last Minute Travel some of the deals aren’t actually assured until they call you back. Spit. Dirty Drawers. Garbage. But I pull out my guidebook and book the swanky boutique hotel I’ve been eyeing for the past two weeks, figuring, ok, the extra $100 will be worth it if I’m having a lousy time and need somewhere nice to lick my wounds.

I see him on the other side of the security doors, he’s short with the stocky but not fat build that bespeaks a good-sized cock. As I come through the doors, he:

1) Ignores my outstretched hand and lunges over to kiss me on the mouth, open-mouthed, repeatedly, taking off the top third of my left big toenail with his giant clunky shoes;
2) Reeks of some godawful cologne;
3) Does not take my suitcase.

In my head, the robot starts flailing his arms…

We get to the car. He gets out something about “can’t wait to taste those-” (eewww!) and goes for the lips again. The robot has his hand on his forehead, shaking his head. This is worse than less-expensive whoring because it’s going to last twelve hours and it’s just starting.

A momentary digression on cologne:

Anteus

“Anteus is the God of Fire and Earth. He appears to his followers as a short, stout man with a bulbous nose, a long cap and he is often seen carrying a pickaxe or hammer.”

Rrrow! Bringin' sexy back!

scent strength: intense (I’ll say)
scent life: 6-10 hours (Oh dear God make it quit)
recommended use: evening (or never)
recommended age: mature (Estimated Age: Mummy, anyone?)
classification: woods (They crept through the woods, the sickly-sweet stench leading inevitably to the rotting corpse. “Some whore’s sorry she shagged that,” mused Constable Wexford.)

We make awkward small talk, me asking about his job in my time-honored technique of “You talk, I’ll think about what the heck to do about this.” The robot in my head waves a printout of flight times, damn the standby fee, get out while you can! Be-My-Real-Friend reaches across me to the glove compartment and points to a greeting-card envelope inside. “That’s for you.” The envelope is fat. Inside, there’s a card, clearly stuffed with money. “I’ll read this later.” I’ll count this later.

I check into the hotel, it’s delightful. The robot does a little Saturday Night Fever spin and pose. The clerk is from my home state and gives me a complimentary late checkout. We get to the room and Be-My-Real-Friend lunges again. The robot’s still dancing downstairs in the psychedelic lobby, I’m on my own now. I work up my guts and tell Be-My-Real-Friend that I’m so sorry, his cologne is one an ex-boyfriend used to wear and would he mind washing it off? He takes it with good grace, and while he ducks into the bathroom I check the money. All 20’s, too much to count right now, so I stuff it in my purse. Be-My-Real-Friend comes out of the bathroom, warp speed ahead, over to the bed. More kissing – he’s not a bad kisser, but the timing and pace are so wrong I’m ready to cry.

(maybe if I kiss you you’ll like me maybe if I suck your cock you’ll like me maybe if I’m available, I do whatever you want, I don’t expect dating or calling or thinking of me first you’ll like me and smile at me when you pass my locker and I’ll have a secret no-one else knows and all I have to do is give up all of me)

And there’s the rub. If I’m a whore, I show up, we fuck, you pay, that’s cool. I don’t care if you like me, except for liking me enough to pay me again. But when the personal element enters in *at all*, I can’t just be a fuck. I have to be wanted, and that means taking a fucking minute to court me, however informally, before the cock slides in. I don’t want to have whore sex any more, it kills my soul. And so far, this feels just like whore sex.

I duck down and suck his nipples to avoid the floodgates, then sit up and look him in the face.

“So you want to have the real me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you want me to really like you.”

“I hope so.”

“Well the real me with my real friends doesn’t fuck until we’ve hung out for awhile.”

It gets much better from here.

Upgrading the Product Line

So I’m noticing on the bulletin boards around Midwestern State that a lot of guys are bitching and moaning about girls who want to switch to condom blowjobs only, since right now there’s a bit of an STD scare going around. (Girl posts that she’s the owner of a brand new, turbo-charged STD, everyone panics, I’m just grateful I haven’t seen many guys, and they haven’t seen many girls (so they claim)). The big observation is - imagine whiny pasty middle-aged guy typing petulantly on company time - “Well I notice they’re still letting us do oral on them for their pleasure!!”

Oh, those selfish, overpriced girls! Letting you pleasure them without protection because it feels so nice, and then refusing to return the favor! Ummmm, whiners? News bulletin:

I’m not. Getting pleasure. From you.

When I come with a lover, I’m with them. I’m with them. I’m enjoying how their body feels, their hands on me. I can tell them, touch me here, do it softer, try it another way, without worrying about offending them or turning them off – even with a new person, I presumably have a personal connection that led us into bed, and I don’t have a vested interest in them coming back to spend more money. If they find me bossy in bed, fine, fuck off, there are lots of less-complicated girls out there if they don’t want to put the effort in.

When I’m with a client, I can’t say, “grab my ass like this, not like that” or the equivalent in nicer language, because that’s not my job. It’s not my role to discover together how they can please me. It’s my role to please them, in whatever way they overtly or covertly ask for. Overtly, they tell me they don’t want me to fake it. Covertly, they clearly expect their skills to make me come nearly instantly. In a way, I think playing this role makes me a lousy whore - or at least, not the kind of whore I want to be. Judging from comments on bulletin boards, I think there are guys who want (or think they want) to be treated like they are really someone I want to be with. Like I care about how they please me, rather than just hoping it will be less-unpleasant than it could be.

More often than not, I come with clients. They like me on top (less work) and that happens to be the position I come relatively easily in. Rub the space below my clit enough, there it goes. But even in the throes of orgasm, part of my brain is ticking off the clock. I’m thinking: How much should I give away in my face? Am I loud enough? Too loud? Crank up the volume a little. No, bring in the lower register, that always sounds good. Close your eyes. OK, throw in a couple extra spasms. Stretch it out a little. Breathy voice. “Mmmm…thank you…that was great…you make me feel so good!” It’s like eating something very nice when you’re just not hungry. You can appreciate the taste, and maybe you paid a lot for it, or maybe someone you care about made it for you and took some trouble, but it’s not the same as sitting down to the table with the sauce of appetite.

I’m thinking more and more about this – how perhaps the whole point of moving into upscale whoring is that I can be me, I can be a lover whose time is purchased rather than a whore whose services are the product. What’s valuable about me is real me – Mandy is a lot more interesting and worth a lot more money for her time than the person I have pretended to be for my clients so far. I also suspect that men with more money have more to lose. I’d rather be able to tell my real name, and what I do, to someone who will enjoy talking with me about it…and will lose his wife, kids, and standing in the community if he tells.

So here’s what I think. I think that if I charge ten times what I charged before, only do long dates and overnights, and put up a cute little website, perhaps 100 men (who are genuinely potential clients) will find me. Of them, 90 will not be able to afford me. Five will not find me attractive and will get a girl with a Barbie body instead. Of the last five, I will not like three. But at ten times the price, I only need two in six months to make the money I want. If I’m lucky, maybe only one and see him twice.

I notice there are fewer seats in First Class...

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, SA...you 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.

Why Are There...

...so 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:

Intercourse
Back rubs from them to me
Oral on them
Cuddling
Oral on me
Kissing
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...

Merde.

Notes on the Way Out the Door

Off to the gym, as I definitely need to work physically and hard today -yesterday was jaw-clenchingly full of paperwork. It's also another two-client day, so Gentle Readers, I look forward to considering your entertainment pleasure as I make it through "the moment".

Sexual Athlete today - he's been sending me texts about how he wants to "make me squirt." Um, buddy? 1) Jury's still out on squirting, but the one thing that is largely agreed is that it's rare and the woman has little to no control over it, let alone the man. 2) In the words of some immortal porn star, "Do I squirt? Well, I can pee, and I can make noises like I'm coming, so yeah, I squirt." And of course, 3) You have to make me come first. Which would involve, oh I don't know, listening. Though in the long run, he'd like to be a regular, so I probably should let him know some of this - gently - if I'm going to see him again.

Also NRA who is taking me to dinner prior, off the clock - although I agree with Compartments about my time is my time, I'd eat between appointments anyway, and this way it's paid for.

More to come...

The Morning Post

So I’m visiting another city soon, and I thought, hey, why not do some business while I’m there? I put up a post, emphasizing my ability to make conversation and indicating that prospective clients should contact me with some information about themselves.

Fortunately, the very first response was articulate and in complete sentences, with an understanding of how this all works, a real name, a phone number and a location, as well as some comments on his employment and interests. I phoned to verify and aside from it being a bit of a drive, I’m good to go.

But I also get:

hey how's it going,
I am a very good looking male that is interested into getting to know someone like you not as just me paying for your services but having you and I be more then that. I am a very good looking male. I have a lot going for me the only reason I am sending you this is because I saw your ad and was so turned on that I would love to meet you for a drink some time or dinner...etc something like that. I know this is really forward if you are not interested its ok you do not have to reply but if you would like to meet sometime unprofessionally I would love to.

(I have already specified in the post that I will be available for one day only and I am coming from out of town.) Attached to this charming missive, he has sent me a picture of himself...

...with a young lady in his arms. They look so happy...

Next!

I need a face pic..............

My response: I need more information about you before we get to that point. Thanks!

Like?????

Me: I think you will be happier with a different young lady.

And finally:

Are you in need of some pics for you posts? I have taken pictures for various escorts that post on [website], [alternative paper], and [bulletin board]. I will not disclose any names, as I am discreet about all I've taken pics for, and I expect that you would do the same courtesy for me. I take 100 pics with 3 costume/outfit changes for an hour of your services.

There’s more, and he’s very polite. I send back a little “thanks but no thanks” before I realize...trade for services? What? If this guy’s photography was worth $300 an hour, would he really be trolling the internet for whores who need better pictures?

Awww....

Through my personal Myspace, I get a message from a boy I spent one reasonably lovely night with, and who is hoping to come again, so to speak. We keep missing each other in various cities, plus once I refused to travel an hour on a worknight to sleep with him on a futon in someone else's not-quite-converted garage, and I keep hearing from my friends that he's socially repellent. I have thus far defended him. Then I get:

Subject Line: scheduale
I am hoping to be around from the 23-28th...so lets say monday or
tuesday...you could get a motel room... and I'll bring
wine and bubblebath.

make me come to [your town].

--K

Awww....it's just like whoring, only for free.

Did I mention that the two things I hated most on Craigslist were bad spelling/incomplete sentences and challenges from the gentlemen indicating that the ladies should prove their worth? It reminds me of Mistress Matisse posting about her irritation with clients who assume she is at their beck and call...