Whore Sex Vs. Not Whore Sex, Episode 3

Be My Real Friend calls, or I call him, I don’t remember, it was a month ago, we talk about the election, about the weather, about his sons, about sports. He has an idea – we’ll meet in another city, get some sun, avoid the pressures of time and being recognized – even in a city as big as his, he was asked the morning after our first meeting, “Who was that redhaired woman you were walking with last night?” I call him to set dates, I get the voice mail.

He emails:
I'm sorry I missed your call yesterday because I wanted to talk to you about my latest thoughts regarding our rendezvous. I know it won't happen soon enough for me, but I'm very excited by the prospect. I think it takes our relationship to another level; one I hope you're looking forward to as much as I am.

I think, I should charge him more, overnight is more time than evening and morning, and then I think, greedy bitch, let it go. This man is nice, this man is good to you. He calls me back, says he’ll get the hotel, he wants to take me shopping. This is a little message from God – calm down, you will be taken care of, the net will be okay. Trust. Even this “another level” shit, let’s see what he really means and if it’s as scary-real-relationship as it sounds before you freak.

We decide on Southeastern City. It’s the city where I found out about Lover and Cute Girl. I have to go back through contracts, daysheets, find out what hotel we were in, warn Be My Real Friend not to book it, Motel 6, Super 8, Crack Whore Arms, anywhere else. I price plane tickets, rental cars, think of things to do. He visits Asia. I spend time in the Southeast, hang out with Power Girl, reconnect with Husband. I tell Be My Real Friend about what I’m going through.

He emails:
I know it's odd that I would get cold feet while I'm half a world away, but that's what's happened. I can't believe I'm writing this, but I think it's best we call things off. I did a lot of thinking on the flight, and something you said and wrote has me thinking that I need to focus my energies on my wife. Although I've really enjoyed our adventure, I realize that it can't compensate for everything, and I need to figure out what I want/need in my life. I hope you understand.

It catches me, unexpectedly, in the gut. But I write:

I understand and it's totally OK. I'll be disappointed not to see you, but we're still friends, I hope, and feel free to call when you get back - love to talk to you and know more about what you're going through and thinking about! (And if you need to not talk to me as part of this process, that's OK, too - just let me know) Have a safe and wonderful journey.

He answers:
Thanks for being understanding…The main thing I got from our last conversation, is that cheaters like us need to be honest, with ourselves if no one else, about what we're doing. In your case there's more room to be open with your husband, but I felt that we're both is similar situations. Cheating comes from being selfish enough to put our own sexual needs ahead of our respective marriages. Like you, at one level I'm ok with that. After all, it's not like we're withholding ourselves from meeting our spouses' needs in that department. If it's selfish to want our (greater) needs met as well, then so be it.

The downside comes from letting that turn into something through which we would also fail to meet other, broader, needs that contribute to having a successful marriage (aside from the cheating)…My concern is that I not lose what I have in order to get what I want. I hope it's possible because when you told me what you wanted in a lover, I knew that it was also what I want. Fucking you has been one of the true joys I've experienced this past year, and I ache to be the man next to you who wants to wake you with his cock sliding into you…

I haven't actually canceled my reservations yet. If you're interested in talking about whether we can be cheaters together, maybe we can still talk through this process.

I tell him yes, I’m interested in talking.

I’m not completely sure what I’m signing up for.

Anniversary

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.

Tourism, Wrapping Up

Part One is here.
Part Two is here.

Tourist, freed from his gentle bonds (just in case you need to know, even stockings loosely tied around wrists eventually start to hurt), goes down on me for...well...eternity. It’s actually about 45 minutes, during which I plan and furnish a Mandy Dream House in my head. Like a Barbie Dream House – cute well-endowed girl, no visible means of support, boyfriend who isn’t around a lot – only not pink and with a bathroom. Picturing a stone Japanese soaking tub on a slate floor with runnels between 12-inch square tiles so that the bath overflows on purpose and a separate shower with rain faucet and body spray jets makes me put a little more heart into my faux moans. I calculate: 4 hours down, only a few more to go... I don’t technically keep track of time, but he must depart by 8 as the business reception alibi-ing him will be done by then.

I’m still hoping that tease and denial will be enough, but we do end up adjourning to the bed. I spend a long time with oral, licking the head of his cock, sucking up and down the shaft, running my hands over his thighs, rubbing his cock on my breasts, every minute or so looking up and ordering him not to come. He has silent, shaking, come-less orgasms three or four times, each time is still not much less startling. This is a fetish slave – to what fetish, I don’t know yet – waiting to happen. It’s a damn shame this man is only at 50 discovering what he likes.

I suit him up and he asks for me on top. I’m able to come, which he likes, and it’s a midlevel orgasm, and I allow myself to be as vocally free as I can. Not the best ever, but again, Auntie Mame is in the house, apparently. I ask him to beg to come, and he does, very sweetly, so I let him know it’s ok to go ahead. Epilepsy’s got nothing on Tourist when he finally lets go. He nearly squirms out from under me while slamming his head repeatedly into the pillow.

There is a nap. Paid to sleep, that’s a new one…

There is one more go.

And then Tourist takes his leave. He ruefully refuses my panties, which might get him caught, and gives me a fat envelope. Over the course of 8 hours, this man has gone from “I have to be honest, when you told me your fee, I gasped” to “Is this enough?” From the hotel room window I watch him walk, still a little shaky, to his car, and then I count his money.

Not bad. A little boring, but not actively icky. Worth $2000? I’ll try to be...

Adventures in Tourism

It’s all about the shoes. Lurking in the clearance rack, waiting for me to try on other pairs, Shelli Segal, Chinese Laundry, don’t try the ones you want first, it scares them into being the wrong size (that’s how I found my wedding dress, antique silk-satin bias-cut, in a Goodwill in upstate New York).

Patent. Tortoise-shell. Slight platform, four-inch heel. They are beyond fantastic, they are sexy superkeen doubleclearance, and with my birthday month frequent shopper coupon, they are…wait for it…ten dollars and fifty-seven cents.

The shoes come home and get packed into my whorebag, under the new panties bought so the client can keep them, new bustier bra, tan stay-up lace-top stockings and The Plan. Action One: Pit stop at the adult toy store on the way (since the local Satin Dolls is dimly lit, understocked with cheap jelly product and charges a dollar to go in). Action Two: Swoop by Target for sparkling Italian soda and Chessmen cookies. Action Three: Check into the Sheraton, reserve a conference room, put on the shoes, head for the sidewalk.

Tourist’s fantasy is that I’m a businesswoman on a break from a meeting, getting some fresh air. He’s used the word “classy” about five times to describe what I should look like, so it’s grey Miss Sixty just-enough-spandex-to-hip-hug pencil skirt to the knee, white tailored blouse curving in at the waist, low ponytail, tan stockings and the shoes. Which…

…I can’t walk in. In the store, they stayed on bare feet just fine. With Hanes thigh-highs coming between us, it’s a no-go. Every step and they slide off my heels, I walk out of them three times on the way to the elevator. Out the lobby door, drunkenly swaying, pigeon toed and shuffling in an effort not to lose them. Pit stop at the car and I masking tape the insides, which helps a little but not a lot. Off to the sidewalk in front of the hotel. I stagger as gracefully as possible down the block, turn and come back, a car pulls up beside me.

“Can I give you a ride?”

He’s new to this “acting” thing and it takes him a minute to process that yes, I am thankful for the ride, no, I do not want to really go to the drug store for shoe-related supplies, yes, he should offer to take me to lunch as per our agreed-in-advance plan. I don’t actually find him all that attractive, though he’s not a dog by any means, just not my type, and I’m a little trepidatious when he parks far from the restaurant entrance, thinking, 1) oh dear, is it blowjob time already? and 2) I’m not sure how I’m going to make it all the way to the front door. He leans in to kiss me, and I have learned by now it’s up to me to control tongue and penetration from the first kiss or it’s just trouble later. LFK, they call it on the whoreboards, a little bit of tongue, not so much desperate high school sophomore who practiced on the couch cushions and big sis’ Beauty Barbie head.

“May I see your foot?” he says, and I swivel sideways in the leather-seated Audi, ice-cold air blowing up my skirt. He takes my leg reverently into his hands, kisses my calf, massages gently up and down my lower leg. His mouth moves lower, kissing my instep through the stockings. And then…well, I feel like a babe in the woods. Because I’ve heard about it and seen pictures and sure, feet and shoes are probably one of the most common fetishes, but I’ve never actually had someone lick my shoes before. Which he does. Quite a bit. Soft little pink tongue lapping away at my tortoiseshell peeptoes. He leans back for a moment and sighs, and I take my foot out of his hands, rub the side of my shoe against his penis through his businessman’s slacks. “Don’t you dare come yet,” I hiss at him, remembering his penchant for tease-and-denial. “I won’t,” he whispers, leaning back in his seat. When I take my shoe away, he shakes. For a moment, I think he’s having an epileptic fit. He tells me that it’s like orgasm, but without ejaculating. For a Midwestern boy from a family so morally conservative he doesn’t speak to them any more, he’s certainly got an affinity for Tantra…



Tomorrow, Part Two.

Dispatches From the Front

Found in Translation

In my inbox, a missive from a man I had exchanged emails with earlier in the year, smart, claims to be in good shape (runs), articulate, well-spelled.

I promptly confuse him with someone else. Fortunately, my comment to him about thinking he had quit the hobby (the someone else had posted a little board drama about focusing on his personal life, especially after the STD scare ) wasn’t a big deal.

In the spirit of the Third Way, I reply that I am no longer seeing gentlemen on an hourly basis, only long dates. Back he comes – he has just last week flown in a young lady from Minneapolis, dinner, dessert (points off for “desert”), breakfast.

Now we’re both speaking the same language. Call it Whoredu. Like Urdu, but spoken by mostly aspirational ladies, a couple of native ladies and a few select men mostly living in urban centers. I had honestly not expected to encounter it in Midwestern Region, and here I am confronted with, not a native, but an earnest student, showing off his ability to locate the pencil of my aunt. (Here’s what I speak – English, French, Japanese, ASL, well enough to discuss the weather but not well enough to talk about God. Whoredu is coming slowly but I think I’m a natural.) Doctor-fucking-Livingstone, I presume?

I ring him, speeding along through Indiana as is my wont, putting on the cruise to avoid racking up another $200 a year on the insurance. His voice is an orange, round and heavy and a little rough. I tell him very clearly and in small words that I am only looking for men I genuinely want to be with, where the gift is genuinely to compensate for time lost from my other life. Il comprend, wakarismashita, forefinger flicking upward. He mentions that part of what he enjoys about ladies on the side is exploration and fantasy. My mental robot indicates that an untranslatable sign has been given. For once, I catch it the first time instead of realizing later that I have, somewhere back at the beginning of the conversation, missed something vital to comprehension.

“You sound like you might have something specific in mind when you say “fantasies”…?

His tongue unlocks, suddenly he is fluent, there are naughty nurses giving private exams while the doctor has stepped out and hot teachers making students stay after class to rewrite essays and slutty business women coming back from the ladies’ room one more button undone than they started with, panties in their hand for him.

“Do I get a ruler?” I giggle engagingly and listen.

A grammatical misstep from lack of familiarity, he tells me he’s getting hard just thinking about the role-playing, native Whores know this is crass, don’t touch the fruit in a British market stall. I let it slide, tourist, and then there’s a bing! on the magic words

tease

and

denial.

Do I want to set up an elaborate role-play with emails and phone calls in character, meet my little tourist, chaperone him through the fun of roleplay (no-one’s played this particular type of game with him yet), quietly mention the etchings in the back room, very rare, sir, but some scholars like to… Feel the way down the passage where I think he’s heading, mild D/s and perhaps the intercourse is adjectives, complex-compound sentences, the subjunctive clause, not the topical noun in the present tense at all?

Damn right I do.

I have grown powerful through conceptual mastery, and I tell him I want a picture of him. I let him know at the last minute (mostly unintentionally) that no, sorry, tomorrow won’t work but how about another day? We settle on a day for a get-to-know-you lunch. I raise the price 25% from Be-My-Real-Friend because Tourist is not cute in his picture, he wants a lot of time and planning, and I will have to be both responsible and creative. I am ready to walk away at the slightest provocation, Gillette, Z, Juno, C, LFM, Beautiful Girl holding a seat at their table, Gentle Readers waving phrasebooks, travel essays, a magazine for the train, these great pills that totally did the trick.



I hope he will be as nice as he was on the phone, better-looking than his picture--it’s truly awful, he can’t possibly be worse...knock wood, merde, gambatta kudasai, fingers touching lips L-U-C-K.

Theory (On Whoring, Privacy and Choice)

Part One is here.

A Gentle Reader, Anonymous Girl on the Verge, continues:

These privacy concerns [about sending out possibly identifying pictures] 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.

Damn straight.

As far as starting with the courtesan route, The Accidental Hooker has a lovely post on “Prostitution: The New Temp Job” on the difference between aspirational marketing and reality, and of course Gillette as referenced in Part One.

As far as doing this at all, well...I cannot advise. But I can offer both my response, and Jenna Jameson’s.

Jenna, on becoming a porn star: Porn is not a career, or even an option, for most women. But if you are seriously interested, consider what you will be doing with the rest of your life, because even if you become a nun afterwards, you will always be known as having done porn.

When you come out, on your own terms or otherwise, some of your friends will be upset that you did this, and some of them will be pissed you didn’t trust them enough to tell them about it at the time. I’m walking a fine line with Power Girl right now where I don’t know how much is right to tell her for her own peace of mind – she’s great at keeping secrets, I trust her judgment and value her input in this as in other things, but how much does one really want to know about one’s good friend’s sex life? Am I doing enough for her in return? How fair is it to put her in the position of Secret-Keeper? (We all know what happened to Peter Pettigrew)

...



Walking through the airport on the way back from seeing Be-My-Real-Friend, I’m craving something. Walk and look. Starbucks? Juice? A book? No, what I really want is to be writing. For the first time in my life I’m experiencing drive and compulsion to write every day. My days write themselves in my head in realtime, I’m one of those awful people at Disney, video camera strapped to face, I’ll watch my vacation at home later.

In the long run, this blog will be a book. Daily readers are the kick in the ass I need to write every day instead of when it’s convenient and inspired (almost never). Gentle Readers who ask if I’m OK when I haven’t posted – you help me be the writer I need to be.

But there’s a catch. If the blog becomes a book, a good book, sells lots of copies in the airport, someone will out me. It is, in this day and age, almost unavoidable. I don’t know enough about internet anonymity, and honestly, part of me must be willing to stand up and own what I write, or I’d have done more research. Fear for me is not fear of being outed, it’s fear of being insignificant. Unknown. If the book isn’t successful enough and good enough for someone to want to out me (and get paid a great deal for the information), then I will have failed.

And when I’m outed, when the book is huge and I’m on Oprah or probably someone more open-minded’s chat show, I will have made a choice.

I have based a lot of my life on not choosing.

Husband and Lover. And more.
Wife and worker.
Home and travel.
Writer and other job and other job and yes, one more job, to the point where I wonder, if I cut out the rest and focused on one, would I go up like a rocket, energy condensed?

In high school, my [one subject] teacher told me, you’re wasting yourself, you should go into [my field]. Another told me I was wasting myself if I didn’t major in English and become a writer. My graduate mentor told me eventually I’d have to focus on one aspect of my field. My writing mentor tells me I should write more, perhaps only. So far, I haven’t made a choice.

What happens if I’m Mandy the Whore instead of Me? If all I can get is another book deal instead of my life?

Right now, I am shrapnel. Will I be a missile? Or just explode at launch?

...

Good luck, Anonymous Girl. Let us know how it goes. And you’ll forgive me if I hope you don’t become competition.

Thank You, George Bernard

Lack of money is the root of all evil. - Shaw

So I’m participating in Problogger’s Top Five Group Writing Project contest , which is really more of a lottery (hurray, no hurt feelings if I lose!) and mostly a way to connect with other blogs and bloggers and boost traffic for all. Thanks, Always Aroused Girl for posting Orgy Invitation: Top 5 Ways to Get One, which is how I found out.

In honor of my brand-new Amazon Honor Box (look right) and my surprise first donation ($25! The first day! Cool! Thank you!), I present…

The Top Five Reasons to Give Me Money

Adventure. You can claim the experience of hiring a whore without risking robbery, AIDS, herpes or a boring and/or icky time. Plus, you don’t have to guess which cologne I will find least objectionable. (Trick Question! The answer is None!)

Philanthropy. You may consider yourself a patron of the arts, without having to pretend to see deep meaning in plain blue panels, elephant dung, chainlink fencing, re-creations of the artist’s bedroom, spatter painting or anything by Jasper Johns. You need not wear black, Imitation of Christ or Vivienne Tam, and on days when the creative juices aren’t flowing for you, you may consider it an offering to the muse. (Hsnar, hsnar)

Gratification. Give $50 or more* and I will custom write a post featuring your favorite sexual acts (as performed in my head, or possibly in life, I’ve been around). Or a topic of special interest, if you’re feeling extra classy. There will be an associated picture…which you may choose to share with the Gentle Readers or keep to your greedy little self. Remember, though – even work to order must serve the dictates of this Muse.

Superiority. After contributing, you may look down on other, Less-Gentle Readers, secure in the knowledge that you have done your bit and may relax while they enjoy your sloppy seconds.

Seriously. It takes 1-2 hours to write a solid post, plus thinking time. As Be-My-Real-Friend aptly summarized, “I’m actually not paying you for sex, though it’s nice that it’s a sure thing – I’m paying for the time you would otherwise spend making a living, focused on your personal life, or having fun of your choice.” This is not a threat – I don’t plan to stop writing anytime soon (see here, here, and here). But I write better and more often if it’s putting cock in my mouth food on the table and cashmere sweaters on my back.

A little crass? Perhaps. But then again – you already know what I am. Now we’re just haggling over the price.

(thank you, Power Girl for the idea and Tom Paine for help with the box)

*if you wish to follow this plan, comment or drop a line and I will tell you how to donate anonymously and yet so I will know it’s you.

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.

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.