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?

Zurich (again)

(there would be photos, except that there is mac.)

I take a plane to Midwestern City, a place of ice and ugliness, where I am going to see Zurich. Lately he has been unusually unguarded. I find myself hoping, hoping that we will connect, that he will say he likes me, that I will feel worthwhile. He is handsome, and when he wishes to be, charming. He looks like Michael Keaton. I want to curl into his arms, I want him curled into mine, I want to touch his skin, and see him breathe more slowly. I want, I want, I want most of all to be what he wants.

He is finishing some work when I arrive, surrounded by people who adore him, are impressed by him. I watch him work, watch him reassure, lead, goad, coax. I am silly, I am proud to leave with him, leaving the girl who wants to walk with him behind. The cold makes us both gasp, his car follows mine, we run to the door of the hotel.

“You know, you could have parked farther.” He’s deadpan as always.

“I didn’t think you could run it.” Two can play bitter and acerbic.

We walk in, Hotwire has graced me with a four-star glass tower, the last time I was here was with Ex-Lover, not the best surprise but at least I know my way.

“This is way nicer than anywhere I would have taken you.” He’s right, but in fairness, the last two beds we shared were booked by his clients. Elevators whoosh us softly to the twelfth floor. Going down the hall, he texts his wife.

“How are things going?” I ask.

“We’re allowing each other space. Mostly by not talking to each other.”

The room is well-lit and warm. He starts the shower while I call Husband, check in, share the day. I get in the shower and Zurich’s touch surprises me, I am always slightly astonished when he reaches out, volunteers anything. His hands soap my back, the curve of my neck, my ass. He kisses me, the water on my back, his tongue in my mouth. His skin is soft, his hands callused, I love his hands.

We go to bed, good sheets, good mattress, Zurich flips channels, “Should we fuck to Home Shopping or Crossfire?” then turns it off. We kiss for a long time, his mouth gentle on my face, my ears, the side of my neck. He moves down my body, licks my nipples, takes them in his mouth, pinches with his fingers don’t worry it can never be hard enough runs his hands along the sides of my body, kisses the inside of my thighs where they meet my body, moves his mouth over my pussy, his tongue wide and soft. He’s good, he’s always good, but it’s so hard to come this way without feeling I’m asking for too much, taking too long. I pull his head up, he kisses up my body, I sometimes wonder if men do this to take away the taste, but I like tasting me on you. I roll him over and take his cock in my mouth, so sweet and hard. Suck him, lick him up and down until he laughs, “Sex, please!” Roll on the condom (always a little sad, but he has more to fear from me than I do from him) and slide on, his cock rising into me, filling me, hurting just a little as it connects with my cervix. I come almost immediately, the velvet of his skin against my breasts, my thighs, my belly as I lean in. Shaking, crying a little, release is still immense in my heart, in my head, almost more so than my body. He sits up, gathers me into his lap, I fold my legs around his back and we rock eye to eye, pelvis to pelvis, his favorite position. Roll over for mish, he tucks my legs over his shoulders, thrusts into me, I can’t remember how he came, what it was like, the look on his face, just that I was still trying not to cry, to make a scene.

He gets up to toss the condom, comes back and lunges for his underwear, he can’t stand to be naked in front of anyone else. I tear them away from his hands, “No! I like you naked!” He dives for them, we wrestle, I pull away and hide them in the bathroom. In the night, he finds them when he gets up to pee, puts them on, holds me in his arms.

I mumble in my sleep, “wake me before 7 and I’ll kick your ass.”

He waits until 7:15.

Da-dum...da-dum...

I whip into the drug store with my mother, who needs milk, and my intern, who needs hair gel. What I need is condoms. Magnum XL, thank you very much. And I *know*...I just *know* that this will be the only convenient time and place between now and when I need to actually have the condoms in my little hand ready to go.

So as Mum debates 1% vs 2%, I nip down the aisle towards family planning, located right by the pharmacy so they can watch for shoplifters and embarrassment, grab the black and gold box, dart towards the cash.

The shelving in the aisles is all just about eye level. And I can't resist.

I catch my intern's eye in the next aisle, hold the box of condoms to my head like a fin, and hum the theme from Jaws all the way to the cash register, the box seeming to float above the shelves, something big and hopefully-not-grey on the way...

I do in fact manage to get them rung up, bagged and into my purse before Mum comes up behind me. But only just.

* * *

CD's just went into the mail box yesterday. Sorry about the delay, so I tried to make them extra special. Holler if it doesn't show up in a week or so!

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.

Betrayal

Cartoon from Gaping Void.

You know a guy likes you when he also sends flowers to the three other girls in your working social group so no-one will notice that he likes you…or at least, that’s how things work in Lying Cheating Slut – I mean “Open Relationship” Land. Deutschefuck. Yemeneverywhere. Ivory and Lots of Other Colors Coast. Secret Scientist tells me later that he felt his original impulse to send me flowers would be noticed. I did, in fact, notice the subterfuge, and was stroked that he effectively bought me some damn expensive roses.

It’s the last night he’s along on our sort-of-tour, and for the past three nights I’ve been sleeping in his bed, nothing dirty or even naughty, no touching of bits, waking to his gentle hands smoothing my hair away from my face, sneaking back to my own room past The Gossip’s room between us. The lack of solid sleep – every rollover is a new surprise, there’s a man next to me? where am I? I didn’t pick these awful sheets did I? – is a trade off. Back on the other side of the hall, the spider crack in the ceiling mocks me until exhaustion claims me as a bedfellow, sleep mask tight across my eyes to keep from waking at first light, generally unsuccessfully. At least in bed with Secret Scientist, I can sleep by two, wake at six, and avoid both calling ex-Lover and agonizing over whether to call him.

Group dinner tonight, a nice local place, local specialties, local waitress waiting past kitchen close and waiting again as we sort out a seven hundred dollar check between three cashes and five cards. Sometimes sharing a table with rock stars is more trouble than the comps are worth. We go home. We narrowly evade a game of Never-Have-I-Ever that starts with “Never have I ever had a (slang for member of my work team) in my bed,” and go for a walk on the shore. A pang – ex-Lover’s probably doing the same five hundred miles away, bet he’s not alone either. Another pang – I’m still in my best suede boots and I’m not sure wet sand is doing them any good.

Secret Scientist tells me how he ended up here, the journey from a European sport to sociological research to music. (No, Tom, he does not play the guitar. It’s a bass.) We admire the moon on the water, we comment on the stars and light pollution and projects our respective teams should work on together. And then we go home.

I’ve told him I want to feel his skin on mine, no tshirt and shorts between us. When I come to his room (my roommate finally snoring) his dark skin glows in the low light, the curve of his ass into the lines of his thighs a sculpture for my patronage. I have condoms in my pillowcase. He comes to me and gently takes off my shirt, drawing it over my head, kissing my bare breasts. His hands on my back pull me towards his mouth, warm and wet, his lips firm on my nipples. He slides his fingers into my waistband, taking down the thin jersey of my jammie pants, and as I step out of them, he gathers me in his arms, sets me on the bed. It’s cold, and that focuses my attention on his mouth on my pussy, his tongue broad and flat and taking me back to a moment in line at the theatre bar I want to lick your pussy until you scream…. He must remember, too, and his hand slides up my body to cover my mouth. There is wet and heat and soft tongue pushing slightly too far while my body catches up and my brain checks out. I don’t come, I rarely come from oral, but I come damn close, mouth open under his hand, the taste of his fingers in my mouth.

I pull his face to mine and lick his mouth, tasting myself and him on his lips, sucking me off his tongue. He kneels close to my side and I see his cock in the dim light, thick and black and long enough that at dinner one of my workmates looked down at his jeans with no underwear and said half-shocked-half-amazed, “Well! There it is!” I cannot take him fully in my mouth, I lick and suck the head, no taste but clean skin and salty arousal. I wrap my hand around the base and urge him further into my mouth, pulsing my tongue along the bottom, feeling him lean into me, his cock in my throat, gagging me as he gently thrusts. “Sorry, carried away,” he says into my ear, and I take him from my lips long enough to tell him, “Fuck my mouth.”

My hands cup his ass as he leans over me, twisting his hips as he slides in and out, over my tongue, back in my throat, me sucking as best I can while he takes my mouth. He pulls my hair harder than he means but not as hard as I like, pulls me off him so as not to come yet. There’s more he wants, more I want. I roll the condom on him, it’s from my whorebag, I’m thankful to always buy extra-large, the clients like it. He’s over me and though I seldom come from mish, I want this, I want to look into his eyes, watch his face watch mine as he slides in. He is the second-biggest cock I’ve ever felt, and when the head is in me it’s already pushing me apart. He gently swivels, opening me, making room for him, and with each turn he thrusts gently a little deeper, pain following pleasure following pain following pleasure, and when he’s nearly halfway in I grab his hips and thrust onto him, feeling his skin catch mine on the way in, feeling the rawness of having come, having closed up again, the delicious forcing of the gates. The size of him pushes against my cervix I’ll be bruised there tomorrow, but right now that tiny trigger of pain is enough to bring me to the edge again. I am open and raw and needy and vulnerable and it is easy for him, even unknowing, to touch the right place to make it happen, hard and often.

He slides in and out, we watch each other’s eyes, I recall holding off on missionary with ex-Lover, too intimate, too personal, wait and see. But now that part of me has been split open and I think, once a cheater always a cheater, how’s this for cheating now? Each time he thrusts I feel my cervix yield, my insides lengthen to hold him, push my clit against his body until I have to hold him to me, circle on him, rub and rub and rub until I come, the warmth rising through the little pain, my head arching back then forward to put my lips on his, murmuring into his mouth, so good, so very good..

He hasn’t come yet, and he eases out and rolls me over. I come halfway to my knees, lift my pussy for him, feel him part my flesh and bring his mouth to my rear end. He kisses me there, on each cheek, then brings his mouth to my ass. Panic shoots through me, this is cheating and then I think of what ex-Lover is probably doing now and still the urgent voice that tells me, “this isn’t yours to give.” It is now. Secret Scientist licks my ass, probes his tongue around and around and then inside, licks his own finger and presses gently. I press back, push, push out to let him in, feel the gentle suction draw his finger forward. A second finger slides into my pussy and there is that feeling of full, doubled, pinched, possessed. He takes the finger from my pussy and adds it to my ass, my own wetness easing him in. Do I want this? Perhaps, perhaps, and then the third finger slides into me and makes the answer yes.

Secret Scientist and I have talked about anal, he knows I love it, he knows it’s not been mine to give before. Maybe he also knows more than I do about what I need right now. This flashes through my brain and at the end of thought there is the tip of his cock against my pussy, pushing into me again as his fingers still stretch my ass. For a few thrusts, I am full to oblivion, unable to do anything more than try not to cry out, wake the house with this sharp joy. And then I’m empty, disappointment succeeded in an instant by the feeling of his cock gently set against my ass. I reach my hand back, pull my ass open for him. His hand on my wrist, he leans over my body and whispers in my ear, “Are you sure?” I do not say yes, I only push back on him, trying to make an involuntary muscle draw him in by choice. The tip passes into me, that first gasp of what am I doing? This doesn’t go here! and then he slides and swivels, slides and swivels and I am more full than I have ever felt, his cock so large inside me that all the pain is pushed away with pain and there is no room for ex-Lover in this inn. He can’t fuck me quickly here, there is barely enough room for him to be there at all, and I pull his hand to my head to push my face into the pillow so I do not scream. Six long slow thrusts, every one a sacrifice I never thought I’d make to another, and then I feel him shudder, silently, and the condom fills.

He pulls out, unwraps, and we lie together, his hand on my breast, his arm around me, his other shoulder under the pillow and under my neck in the way I always worry makes their arm fall asleep. He kisses my hair, my ear, my cheek, and I think about what we might have done, what I imagine we did instead of his voice in my ear, “I’m not ready.” Well, I am ready. Ready for his mouth on me, his hands on me, his cock in any part of me he wants to take. But he is right, that is wrong, and too big a burden for any man, even one whose lineage was bred to bear.

I call him the next week. “Thank you. I know it’s hard to turn down a naked girl. I wasn’t offended.”

“Yeah, I was hoping I wouldn’t upset you.”

“You were right. We’re not ready, and I wasn’t in a good place to make that choice. It was wonderful just sleeping naked together. Thank you for being my friend first.”

“I’m glad it’s ok.”

“We’ll get there someday.”

“Yes.”

Yes.



***
Photo from Hectik.com.

Madeleines

Hotel room. Nice hotel room. Cable, though we're not going to turn the TV on. I've booked it, like always. I'm wearing: nothing as nice as I'd like to be.

He takes off his jacket, folds the tie into the pocket. The tie was a gift (my gift).

He does not leave the money on the dresser.

He does not check the closet or the bathroom or put on the chain lock or draw the blackout drapes. He likes how I look in sunlight, I love light coming softly through thin white curtains.

(I said on the phone, please don't urge me to come)

I’m shy, my tummy feels big, my lips feel clumsy, I don’t know what to do with my hands and then I remember I don’t do anything with my hands. There is talk, unrushed, unhurried, funny, all the time in the world, the clock unwatched, minutes uncounted.

His body is strong and sit-upped and nearly hairless, the flats of my hands on his chest, his hands on my back, my waist, my hips. Shyness rises in my throat to choke me and we look at pictures for awhile. It’s been some time, he’s been gone since March, two months making his living, finally not “the support,” finally the act. And then in the middle of the West Coast, San Fran harbor, LA skyline, Sonoma curving away in yellow-green swathes, he takes out his cock and takes me by the hair. The smell of him and I’m back in our time, he does not hold too hard, it takes time to remember.

My mouth on his cock, he never hardens immediately, with new girls sometimes not at all. I like this, I like taking his length into me, pressing down until I gag, his hand holding me a fraction long enough, his half-erection strong enough to cradle with my lips around the base, my tongue pressing rhythmically against the underside of his cock, them sliding up to have him enter and re-enter my lips. His hand is harder on my head, tighter on my hair, the ones who pay are gentle, reluctant to take and that’s best. But this is nursing at his cock and being forced to what I want and having pleasure taken, taken from my mouth and hands gently pinching his flesh, nails softly digging his scrotum.

He pulls me over him, kisses my breasts, pinches my nipples hard. I ride him in my panties, his pants still up but open, pressing into him, the edge of rawness starting from the seams rubbing into the insides of my labia, and just when I think I’ll have to stop or I’ll be too sore to go on, orgasm comes in waves, starting from my bent knees, from the vise grip of his thumb and finger on my nipple, meeting in the middle of my spine, sacrum, sacred in a way I haven’t had in months.

(I’ll pay for the hotel, I say, since you’re flying out here. Are you sure, he asks? I insist, he tells me later he gave in because it seemed less like a client. Clients always pay for the hotel, I book it and they pay me back.)

He rolls me over, his shirt open, I slide it down his arms and toss it to the chair. He takes my shirt over my head, pulls my panties to the side. His cock is in his hand, he holds it to enter me, leaning over me, he gasps and ducks his head, it feels like genuflection every time.

We fuck.

There is clean sweat. There is missionary, cowgirl and me coming again at medium intensity as he watches intently, refamiliarizing with my face, mouth stretched wide, eyes closed tight. He rotates me firmly and I come again in reverse cowgirl, the flesh of his scrotum rubbing into my clit, squishy and nice to press, the short stubble of his shaved pubic hair rubbing my perineum, a winning combination. I’ll have one from Column A, one from Column B and oh yes, off the menu, some anal penetration please, pushing back, the double feeling of one hole pulling out the other pushing in and back the other way.

He hardens right before he comes in mish again, as always so hard that I am grateful it’s only in those ten strokes. I’d never do anal otherwise. The feeling of his come inside me, the feeling of no latex no reservoir tip no painfully rubbing ring at the base of his cock, well, I’d pay for that. Pay in love and kisses.

We rest.

I ask him to fist me, perhaps a bit much for a first time back, but he already knows I’m on my period (I forgot to mention, the bleeding when he took me from behind alarmed him, possibly turned him on, too, I didn’t ask but he was awfully hard, blood and my filthy fuck-me mouth usually do the trick) and it makes me want. His fingers inside me, farther than before, I’ve been fucking all afternoon, it greases the wheels, so to speak. I push against him, bullet on my clit, writhing at rollercoaster speed and trying, trying, trying to have the release, I’ve come three times already plus a half when easing past his knuckles, and each time I’ve stayed up, tight, E-string tuned high and not unwinding, the kite line stuck on the paper towel tube.

I push, I will never reach his wrist, I’m too tight for his fingers to curl inside, his hands too long, but there’s another quarter inch that makes me think “How bad can childbirth be?” and then there is release from knees, thighs, the vibrations from Doc Johnson spreading through my chest, the top of my head, my face goes numb and red and unpretty, shrieking and gasping. Blood is everywhere, pooled on the bed below me, under his nails, his hand leaves a print on my leg.

He kisses me.

(It’s not different because of who pays for the hotel, it’s different because it’s you.)

We leave $10 for the maid.

Water, Water Everywhere…

Semi-public shower facility. Divided: Men, Women. Reasonably clean floor, but I still wear flip-flops. Women is often out of hot water. I stride into Men, knock-knock, “Girl!” not even bothering to check. I know three of the four guys there, anyway: a man I love in a fatherly way (if you’re the father of Electra), Lover, and Boyish Dimples, a strapping round-headed Dutchman with whom I’ve been flirting for some time. The man I don’t know is on the way out. The fatherly man is wrapping up, powdering his crevices, donning a bright flowered shirt, khakis, his own flip-flops, kissing me “Goodnight, honey,” as he heads out the door, I’m already stripping down.

Lately I’ve been eyeing Boyish Dimples. We flirted on and off, mostly as a function of showering at about the same time. He joked that I should join him sometime. When he performs (yes, yet another musician, although I don’t think drummers really count) I watch him. When I dance, he watches me.

We weren’t speaking for a day or two – I made a remark in a group that he took as more cutting than teasing. I suck at playing the girl game. Women shouldn’t be smartly mean, whatever. I made up, because I wanted him. Sent a card via a friend, “I know people usually send flowers to make up, but anything sold here would be fraught with symbolism. Have this instead as an apology,” tied to a fat soft pretzel crusted with salt. I figured if he didn’t know “fraught” the context would probably explain it. Making up without bowing down. He smiles when he gets it, signals to me across the room that things are ok, he’s finally over it.

The shower. Lover – stall number three, carefully pretending we’re no more than public friends. Boyish Dimples, stall number two. Me, stall number one. Me, stall number two.

“You promised you’d wash my back.”

Boyish Dimples is slightly astonished that I’ve made good, also that I do actually expect my back washed. His hands are huge, fingers spreading wide enough to cover my entire shoulder blade as he rubs the soap up and down, shying near the top of the cleft of my ass, then rubbing down both sides, my flesh soft in his hands. I press my ass into his cock, slide him between, then turn around.

“Now the front.” I’m speaking softly, but I know Lover knows I’m here, is stretching out his own hot water to stay as long as he can. Boyish Dimples rubs across the top of my chest, my skin tanned there, down my sides, across my stomach, until I take his hands and place them on my breasts. He pauses there, feeling the weight in his hands, then soaps my breasts, rubbing the nipples between his fingers and thumb. I reach up and kiss him, gently drawing his tongue into my mouth and sucking the tip. He’s unshaven yet, the bristles against my cheek feel like man to me.

“Your turn.” I take the soap from his hands, kiss him again, pressing the length of my body against him, breasts against chest, hips against hips, stomachs touching with the slick of soap between us. I do his back first, rubbing hard on the muscles, sliding the length of his spine, rounding over his ass, noting the clench that tells me not to pry too far. I turn him, do his arms, his armpits soft with hair (clean, freshly showered armpits are an unsung joy for me) rub over his pectoral muscles, just under eye level. He’s a big man. Used to play football. Or maybe rugby – I can’t remember, but one of those sports where guys run at each other and make piles. I take my hands down over his stomach, now softer but still decent, under the slope, take my hand beneath his testicles, soap the spot behind them, rub them carefully, then firmly take the base of his cock. He’s been hard for a while.

His eyes roll back a little and he closes them as my hand slides up and down his cock, ring my thumb and first finger around the head, slide back and forth letting the ridge pop through my fingers. He reaches for my pussy, slides a finger inside me. I enjoy it, the way he beckons inside me, but that’s not what I’m here for. I rinse his cock and sink to my knees, take him into my mouth. Lover is out of his shower, toweling off, Boyish Dimples hears a footstep and says “Ummm…?” and gestures with his head.

I smile and give the “I don’t care” headshake, difficult with my mouth full of cock. I’ve been teasing Lover about this for days, wondering if I could actually make it happen, hoping to be able to get Boyish Dimples alone, and the fact that Lover happened to be here at the same time is an unlooked-for bonus. The sound of the water has changed now that I’m kneeling, I hope Lover notices. I suck BD, his cock is medium long, medium thick, respectable but not too big to slide into my throat. I take my tongue around the head, slide my mouth down, arch the point of my tongue against the underside and slide back up. Lather, rinse, repeat. Recently Guitarist has taught me something he likes, a twisting motion with hand and mouth combined, coming all the way up and back down, each time the sensation of reentry. BD taps the back of my head, I’m confused enough to take him out of my mouth and he comes all over my face. I lick off what I can reach, suck the head to get the rest, he reaches down and wipes my face – always a sign of class. I come up and kiss him, he asks if there’s anything he can do for me.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” He persists, which I appreciate. But I don’t come from fingering, and really, it’s more powerful not to this time. I like having given the gift, not wanting in return. Besides, I’ll get mine later.

As we dry off, alone in the room, he tells me he doesn’t usually come standing up. I’ve heard this from a number of surprised men. Turns out the head-tapping was the Universal Sign for “I’m going to come.” Guess I missed that day. I tease him, asking if he’s sure he forgives me. His gratitude is exactly what I need.

We leave the showers, walk away, hug goodbye. I go to Lover, call into his room, he comes to the door and takes me in without a word. Lover kisses me, his mouth deeply in mine, his tongue searching for the other.

“I missed most of him in my mouth.”

Lover does not care, BD can still be tasted, his come distinctive in the hollows of my mouth. Lover takes me, mish, looking into my eyes while I tell what happened, telling me he could hear the sound of BD in my mouth, it was wrenching to walk away, he’s been rock-hard imagining the rest. He comes inside me, sex with condoms can never be as good as this, the sudden extra hardening, the warmth, the wet that will drip out of me for the next hour.

The next year, I see Boyish Dimples again. I’m making time with someone else, he has a new girlfriend, and we do no more than smile, chat, see each other at the fringes of groups. Our schedules are tighter this time, and the hot water’s been fixed on the women’s side. He does catch me, one day, as dusk is falling.

I say, “It’s a shame they fixed the hot water.”

He says, “That’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. I hope you’re not offended by this, but whenever I need that extra something to get me over the edge, that’s what I think of.”

I am not offended. Not at all.

Bits and Pieces

…I’m seeing Sexual Athlete, my very own Energizer Bunny, next week. He’s thrilled. He’s clean, reasonably fit, nice, gives free legal advice, and he seems to be revealing similar tastes in sex. I wish I liked him more – he’s my best client thus far, is starting to book 2-hour appointments and doesn’t ever bitch about the price – and I’m trying to judge how much to let myself go with him. On the one hand, I’ll probably enjoy our appointments a lot more if I’m real. On the other, he did send me that card…
…In a related development, Sexual Athlete emailed me detailing how complimented he was that I pulled out a Magnum (instead of regular) condom for him (he’s only slightly bigger than average, but it was the one on top). Apparently, it was a total turn-on. Who’d-a-thunk…
…Lover sends me a cryptic text message. I respond “I don’t understand.” Lover later phones and apologizes for sending a flirty message intended for another woman to my phone. I say, “I had no idea that was the case…but I do now.” Turns out he didn’t actually send me the wrong message, the one meant for me just wasn’t well-phrased. This is, I think, a lesson in recognizing Lover’s status as fellow-adventurer rather than being the dog in the manger I would like to be. Worship isn’t enough – I want exclusivity. Even though I’m fucking other people (oh, yeah, and married) and we’re in cities several states apart for the foreseeable future. Totally unreasonable of me, I know. It’s a process…
…Sign in a salon window: “Nothing Says ‘I Love You’ Like a Makeover!!!” Aw, honey, I love you. But you’re ugly…

Will Robinson, Have I Told You How I Feel?

Allow me to share, for a moment, the card enclosed with my money this afternoon.

Imagine, if you will, the kind of slightly-sepia, slightly-faded, slightly-blurry faux impressionism one normally associates with pictures of a four-year-old couple in dress-up clothes, with “handpainting” on their little pink cheeks and the little girl’s hat and bouquet. Only this one has the feet of a man and a woman (he’s in casual khakis, she’s in an ankle length skirt and the kind of square-heeled pumps that middle-aged women in the Midwest think are dressy) standing symbolically on the bottom of a flight of steps.

I am stark naked. I have managed to check into my second hotel in two weeks with NO HOT WATER upon arrival. Sure, they fix it, but not in the 20 minutes I have to get ready. So Sexual Athlete knocks before I am dressed – for the record, had he turned up seven minutes later AS AGREED IN ADVANCE I would have been ready. So I let him in. I understand this is a fantasy for many men; certainly, it would save a bundle on frilly things. He hands me a gift bag, enclosing a gift box, enclosing a lovely white silk scarf in gift paper. I think it’s a Basic Instinct reference. Oh, dear. In the gift bag is also a card, in an envelope that clearly has my money in it. I leave it be, figuring I’ll count when he’s in the bathroom, but he wants me to read it. So I do.

I can’t get you out of my mind.
I keep thinking about how much
I enjoy talking with you,
How great you look

Awww…it’s a prose poem…

When you smile
And how much I like your laugh
I daydream about you off and on all day,
Replaying pieces of our conversation…
Laughing again about
Funny things you said or did

Um, yeah, like when I text you “Going to bed now!” at 9:30 so you’ll stop sending messages when I’m at home, trying to have Husband time?

I’ve memorized your face
And the way you look at me…
It melts my heart

Uh-oh.

Every time I think about it.
And I catch myself smiling
When I imagine what will
Happen the next time we’re together.

1) That’s not where I’d put that line break.
2) I know exactly what’s going to happen. We will fuck. You will pay me. You will shed body hair copiously. I will experience growing dislike of the way your mouth tastes. We will have reasonably quality conversation in which I slightly pump you for legal expertise and try hard not to be overly aggressive when you tell me things I already know. You probably won’t tip, but I have billed you for gas money this time and set a time limit I’m comfortable with, so I’m OK with that.

But wait, there’s more! Now the couple is sitting on the next couple of steps up. I bet the edge of the concrete is digging into their hips. His socks are lighter than his shoes. The edge of her hat is in her hand.

You must be something really special
Because I can’t remember
The last time

DANGER WILL ROBINSON! DANGER! EXAMINE THE FLUX CAPACITOR!

I felt so strongly about someone
Even though neither of us
Knows what the future holds
I know one thing for sure –

You won’t be tipping (yeah, it’s redundant, but that’s what I thought).

You’re one of the very best things
That’s happened to me
In a long time.

There is an author credit. I hope it’s a pseudonym.

I thank him sincerely for the scarf and tell him the card is sweet. I mentally compose part of this blog as I give him head, and get involved enough in phrasing that he comes mostly in my mouth, ick, bleah, the hazards of being an artist. Spit, Mish, fake one, Cowgirl, real one, more Cowgirl, I get bored and decide, maybe I’ll come again, at least it will be interesting. He says, as I am about to come, “Show me you love me.” Will Robinson, you don't know the half of it...

We chat about a project I’m working on for awhile, then he pushes my hand down to his cock and we go at it again. He ties my hands loosely with the scarf – they’re wide apart, it’s purely symbolic - but his unsheathed penis is too damn close for my comfort. I think he finally gets it from my thighs of iron against his pushing (he says, "I’m not going to put it in you," but I’m still not OK with it anywhere near my bits), and suits up. Comes again. More chat. Doggie and a big finish for him in about four seconds flat – have to remember that for next time.

There is indeed no tip. Am I greedy, grasping, whorish? Damn straight. It’s only money. You have more of it that I do. And it’s the one solid way I know you truly appreciate what I am, and what I do for you.

Bubblegum/Peppermint

Wow. Girls. They’re just so soft.

I spent the time before my second appointment in a state of mild agony. All the myths and fears about the vagina came up. Would it smell funny? Would it taste bad? Would it reach out with horrible tentacle teeth and suck me in like the Sarlac monster? (I freak out my gay friend S. by making my hands into a jaw with finger-claw teeth and making biting motions). I call Lover and a male friend for advice.

“You know what feels good to you, which is a huge head start. All girls are different, but it tends to be variations on a theme. And you pay attention to your lovers, which is the rest of the battle. If she makes a noise when you touch her that way, do it again. Then do it harder, softer, and in circles, then on to a different part but coming back later.”

And

“Just let her know that you love being with her and want to make her feel good. Really love her before you ever go down there. The more she feels like you really enjoy being with her, the better it will be.”

My day of mild mishaps continues as I drive to meet Shortish Guy and Hot Bi Chick. I leave a little late, my phone is still out of minutes, I get off at the wrong exit and have to turn around. But I do, eventually, make it to the Midprice Hotel, and there they are. Room 234. King-size bed, Jacuzzi tub, Shortish Guy smiling nervously as he opens the door, and Hot Bi Chick lying on her stomach on the bed, tight jeans, tight low-cut t-shirt, bronze spike heels with thin chains along the instep.


She is, in fact, hot. A little heavily made-up for my taste – I’ve heard Pam Anderson is gently lovely minus a few layers of spackle – but tall, shapely, pouty-lipped, multiply pierced and visibly tattooed. When there's ink on your wrists, it’s a pretty solid “f--- you” to Corporate America. I think, I’m sure she’s got more piercings…and I’m about to find out exactly where they are.

I stay focused on her, wary of any jealousy issues. I’ve taken off my leggings from under my long brown suede skirt, taken off my shoes, and I sit by the bed, resting my arm on the spread, my head near hers. We talk about shoes – always safe. They give me a glass of wine. I don’t drink, at all, but it’s clearly special to them, her favorite wine, and I wet my lips with it and hold the bowl in my hand. She complains that it “needs to open up,” which gives me an excuse to wait.

Hot Bi Chick takes the lead.

“I’m wearing too many clothes,” and with that, we all get naked. I try to step in and help her take off her shirt, but we all just shuck. She’s lovely. Completely shaven, soft little tummy, gorgeous breasts in a boring white bra – after all, she doesn’t have to impress, I’m here for her pleasure. She wants implants. I think she’s crazy. “I want them to be more like each other, and more in the middle.” Symmetrical and centered, says the writer in my head, realizing that no, honey, you don’t want implants, you want $10,000 of corrective surgery, Lindsay Lohan style, “$10,000 breasts are worth $10,000 because they look free.” Nevertheless, they are lovely. And the other piercing is clitoral hood. At least it will be easy to locate.

I kneel between them on the bed, him I could take or leave, she’s looking more appetizing by the minute. I lean in and kiss her lips, soft, gloss-coated, her tongue darts into my mouth and I gently suck it. I kiss her eyes, the corners of her forehead, the tips of her ears, licking the outer folds, her earlobes, moving down her neck and smelling her perfume, something I recognize but I can’t put my finger on. She’s responsive, enough that I wonder if she’s faking, but I’m the hired help, why should she bother? We’ve already talked about hey, if it’s not working, let’s laugh and do something else. I move between her breasts, the valley smells of more perfume, she says she put it on since it’s a special occasion. They are so soft. They overflow my hands, the nipples small for her size and gently pointed, very pinky-brown. I do the thing that men do to me (some women must like it or they wouldn’t keep doing it, right?), holding her breasts together and moving my mouth from nipple to nipple, sucking, licking, biting the amount I suspect a pierced girl would like. She moans. Shortish Guy talks dirty – he has checked in advance, can he talk dirty, can he slap her ass, my answer was yes, just don’t call me c--- or whore. She leans up and sucks my nipples, dark red-brown lip gloss rings my nipples. I kiss her neck again, licking with the tip of my tongue up one side and under the curve of her jaw. And I can feel it’s time to head south…

Her belly yields under my hands, I hold her hips and lick her navel, there’s a hole where she used to wear a 2-gauge ring. It’s a big hole. I kiss the inside of her thighs and lick her hip creases, she’s moaning and wiggling under my hands. She tastes, first, of deodorant – girls who shave completely use it to keep down razor burn. I make my tongue a point and slip it between her labia, first sliding upward, then returning to my starting point and using my tongue flat. She tastes like me, that slightly sharp taste from inside, and like nothing – like skin that’s been washed. Once I lick away the sharp, there’s no taste at all, just the slight sense that it’s not the inside of my mouth I’m licking. I think of all the times I’ve lain on my back and wished for a broad tongue doing something repetitive, firmly, and aim for below the piercing.

“Oh, God, she’s so good…” Hot Bi Chick moans. “Guys just want to eat the whole thing, girls know you have to stay on the clit…” Shortish Guy talks dirty some more. He’s not really relevant at this point, but I look up from her pussy and smile with my eyes so he won’t feel left out. She comes remarkably fast. I wonder if she’s faking, but she’s shaking and moaning. Feeling her legs convulse around my head is incredible, it’s one thing to bring off a man, but this is like discovering fire, so far minus the liver-eating bird part. We rest.

“Think there’s another one in there?” looking up at her, my head resting on her thigh. Shortish Guy says, “You want her to eat that hot little pussy again? You want that, don’t you?” Hot Bi Chick nods. I’m thrilled. It’s like Christmas morning the year I finally got a bike instead of a letter from Santa explaining how many older boys and girls were ahead of me on the list, thanks for the cookies, see you next year.

This time, I slow down a little, if I’ve made her come (or care enough to fake it), it’s ok, I didn’t suck. I toy with her clit ring in my teeth, gently tugging it while sucking softly. When I slide my finger inside her, she’s tighter than I expect, and I make a mental note to compare at home. I make the beckoning motion to hit the front wall, if the G-spot exists, I’m there for it. Her eyes half-close, she starts to moan again, and she spasms around my finger, she’s definitely not faking. (I realize as I write this, I want to fist her.)

We turn to him. Either they use condoms for everything, or her “I make him by non-lubricated, they taste better” is to make me feel less like the help. She sucks him while I lick his nipple. I suck him while she kisses him. We both lick his cock, kissing each other around it, I make a mental note to tell this to Guitarist, whose number-one fantasy is two mouths, one cock (his). Shortish Guy talks dirty some more. He’d be fine but for the money on his own. With her, I’m having a great time. It’s fun! It’s sensual! It’s hot! Go Team! She mounts him and rides until she comes again, I kiss her and hold her from behind, “you’re so hot, so beautiful.” I change places with her, I hope I’m close to as tight. She kisses my neck, she rubs my back, she kisses him. “You know,” I say after a few minutes, “Normally I’d just fake it at this point, but I really do want to come.” Shortish Guy talks dirty, Hot Bi Chick kisses me and holds my breasts from behind, it’s a lot like the thus-far-all-male scenario involving a pool table that is my sure-fire ‘come now’ fantasy. I do. Loudly. It’s a big one. They like it, they are only mildly surprised.

“Let’s let her rest a little,” he says about me. She straddles him again in reverse cowgirl and I watch her ride him, tell her how hot it is, how beautiful she is. She says she was watching the same thing while he fucked me. “Your turn to do the work,” she tells him, and he folds her in half and takes her on her back, fucks her hard while I whisper in her ear, hold them both. We end up finishing him by hand, Hot Bi Chick kissing him while I stroke him hard, minus condom. “That's the most I've ever seen you come” she says.

She runs the shower for me, I leave it running for them, my money’s on the TV, it was easy to earn, almost a bonus. They talk together in the shower. I muse on how it’s better to get my money at the end, then I’m not as worried about hiding it. Before I leave, she asks if I would ever do an overnight with them.

Damn straight.

Outcall

I’m seeing Circus Guy again. Fidgeting in the hotel room, using the internet, already set up with candles on the bedside table, little cookies (last time he hadn’t eaten), condoms size XL and wearing my nifty beaded net chemise. I’ve got Peggy Lee on the CD player and spoke enough Arabic to the desk clerk for him to upgrade the room to a Deluxe King. (For the record, “Shukran” is enough.)

I’ve tried on four outfits, different permutations of bra and panties and cover-up, it’s the first time I’ve met a client without being fully dressed. He’s a little shy at the door, I’m right by the elevator, there’s a woman going up. Unlike me.

The outfit ends up off in a flash – I join him in the shower and scrub his back, using the soapsuds to massage him in long, even strokes. I kneel in the shower and take him into my mouth, remembering that he likes slow, lazy head, firm but tender, just mouth, no hands blocking the view of his rather large cock. More than halfway on him gags me, normally I’d use my hand around the base, but hey, different strokes…

We go to the bed, the spread still on (I always remember J. throwing the bedspreads off first thing into the room, “They’re covered in hooker juice!”) and I spend more time on his cock, first sideways, his hand stroking my ass, then kneeling between his legs, his hands in my hair, his hands gently on either side of my face, definitely there but not pressing, guiding me to hold still as he slowly fucks my mouth.

“Your turn,” and he guides me to kneel over his face, adjusting the pillows. The headboard is exactly the right height to rest my forehead on my folded arms, look down at his face, eyes closed, thatch of thick silver hair, smooth skin the color of the café au lait in Madrid, where I kissed Beautiful Girl and fear stopped me from so much more. I’m over him, he’s very good, his tongue on me as slow and firm and tender as his cock was in my mouth. He reaches up behind me and rubs my back, his hands are strong and soft, it’s beautiful, I can’t believe no-one’s thought of it before. There is a moment, perhaps fifteen minutes along, when the sensation is building and it’s just the right amount of intense and he slides his lips around me and gently sucks my clit and I realize, oh! This is what all the fuss is about! This is why guys are so into head, this is what they feel, why the ultimate fantasy is me or her or Britney Spears on the first album cover, looking 14 and looking up.

I almost came.

I put the condom on him, XL the right size, last time it was awkward. I ask him how he wants me and we roll over, he slides into me slowly in mish. I tease him, ask him if he wants my legs by my ears, he’s surprised I really can but it’s only a novelty for him. Roll over to cowgirl, I’m feeling very, very good, not insane-crazy-intense but slow and soft and brimming over.

I say, “I think I can come, and I’d like to, if that’s ok.”

“You come away,” he says, and the familiar motion, rubbing my clit on his pubic bone, the feeling of his wide cock slightly scraping the front of the entrance, the tip pressing hard into my cervix on the backstroke, his legs a little too bent but all right all the same, and then the soft shouts of release, trying to be moderate, trying not to frighten him, and he still says, “Wow, you’re crazy.” Maybe porn is all a lie and the rest of the women in the world are arriving in silence, their bags bumping gently in the porters’ hands, their heels clicking softly on checkerboard marble, not even echoing in the vaults of the station ceiling, while I alone am Auntie Mame stepping out of the open touring car, flinging back a boa of dead and glass-eyed animals, hollering, “I’m here, boys, get the gin!”

He swivels in me again in mish, we’ve done the complicated rollover without separating twice now, and God, he swivels like Big City Lover (My racist brain: maybe it’s a black thing, this swiveling, how would one research that? And if it is a black thing, where do they learn it? Standing on corners in hoodie shirts, “yo, man, you got to swivel in the bitch”? Shut up, dumb white girl brain, shut up, your privilege is showing). I feel him pulse in me and he comes, silently – perhaps he’s the maroon-suited porter, gold braiding and a little cap, but no, it’s his time, his money, his privilege to have the white woman on her knees, over, under, tell me again I remind him of his red-haired mother and no empty tree limbs in sight, nothing ready to bear fruit.

We lie together for a long time after he teaches me how to gently remove a condom with a warm wet “washrag”. My (monthly) blood is rusty on the cloth, if he was all white it would show. I don’t think he notices as I sponge him off.

My head on his chest, we talk – the first time he saw me it was cold and I wore layers and a hat with a feather and rushed him to the circus, and he thought I looked like Cyndi Lauper, that I was a little crazy. I tell him, I have lots of crazy, and I’m here to give him some, he needs some crazy in his life. He asks me:

“Why don’t you have a boyfriend, why don’t you get married?”

Pause. I should have a line here...

Pause. I like this guy, I like seeing him, I’d like to tell him...

Pause. Yeah, but I’m a whore.

“Well, how much about me do you really want to know?”

I don’t remember his response.

“Actually, I’ve been married for twelve years.”

His look asks the next questions.

“No, he doesn’t know. We have an open relationship. I’m not monogamous. It’s not in me.” We talk about people having different levels of sexual need.

He says, “Maybe if my wife paid more attention to me, I’d...do this less.”

He had a girlfriend for five of the first seven years. She lived in the same building, he’d call her at 3AM, go downstairs, “she’d answer the door butt-naked and we just went at it…she had a foldout sofa, we fell down between the couch and the head of the bed and just kept going. Took me about a month to get used to how tight her, (pause, uses same word I used as least offensive choice), pussy was, used to come just like that. My wife was upstairs asleep, didn’t even know I’d gone out, thought I was in the other room watching TV the whole time. Only time she wanted to have sex was when she wanted to get pregnant, go-go-go for a month or so, then back to once a month. Same thing again, all the time ‘til she get pregnant again, then back to once a month.”

I went two years once, I think but don’t say. It’s not my turn to reveal.

He likes that I’m low-profile, I don’t see many people, I don’t get into petty spats on the board (arguing on the internet, Special Olympics, we’ve all been there). He jokes that if I’d ever like to see him for free, he’s up for it. I tell him I’ll never see him for free, but we’ll always have a nice long appointment and I’ll never charge him more. We’re at two hours from the time he arrived, nearly three from when we thought we’d start, it ends up at two and a half.

I want to be open, to tell him more of the truth, to truly connect, but I still count the money he lays down. He is slightly offended. We kiss, I tell him I’m eager to see him again, to spread some more crazy around. He wants to see me again, when he can afford it. And then he’s out the door and I’m in the mirror, touching up the lipstick so the girl I see can walk across the parking lot to the restaurant where Ramen Guy is waiting.

Sure, Yeah, I Own This Body...Don't I?

Big City Lover is in town. He has fetched up about 90 minutes distant, in for a week while Husband is gone (pure coincidence). He would like me to come and see him.

If I see him, we will probably fuck.

I we fuck, I will have to tell him I am a whore. BCL and I generally have condom-less sex, he knows I have another lover with whom I also have condom-less sex (they have met, warily) and occasional lovers with whom I have covered-sex and I have promised to tell BCL if that situation ever changes. You see, BCL has a child. So it is not just his own well-being at stake, but also that of a charming young lady only recently un-grounded for her forbidden forays into Myspace.

I don't want to fuck. I especially don't want to drive 90 minutes in sleet, arrive after dinner-time having bolted something in the car, show up at his hotel room, and fuck. Or worse yet, have a scene about me being a whore, supportive or otherwise.

I agonize about this. He is in town all week, I do want to see him but I don't want to fuck him - he unintentionally burned me rather badly regarding a place to stay the last time I was in Big City. And I'm sort of 'off' him, having burned him right back by not turning up the next arranged time to see him. And I don't want to do it without at least dinner and chat. And, and, and.

What is the problem here? Why do I not feel I have the right to say, "by the way, I'm happy to spend time with you but I'm not up for sex tonight/this week/ever"? Why do I feel - as I have felt my whole life - that if you show up, you fuck? Why do I feel like I am being a Bad Sport if I don't want to put out? That I have some how assumed the obligation to provide Premium Access to any man who provides me with more than one dinner, access that cannot be revoked for Any Damn Reason I Want?

During high school, I had more Good Sport Sex than sex I wanted to have. And half the sex I wanted to have was really just I'd Like To Be Held Sex. But now I'm an adult. I've learned how to come, pretty much on my own demand, I have negotiated with myself and my husband and my lover to get to the relationships I feel comfortable with, I have gone down some amazing pathways (more next week! stay tuned!) to the sex that blows my mind and makes me feel adored, worshipped, blessed. In my 'real' life, I'm known as a shark negotiator you don't want to mess with, a girl whose Super Power is "No-One Says No." I've even set up a little business providing Premium Access.

So I summon up all my will and courage, call BCL, tell him I've been in a minor car accident and reschedule for tomorrow.

I am woman, hear me roar.

Lessons 101

One of the other things I do is teach. And often, I am asked to teach a watered-down, fun-and-frolic version of what I do to under-10's. I'm good at it. They love me. But it's not really my thing.

On the outside, I'm saying, "Go, honey! You can do it! That's great! Good job! Wow!" but on the inside, I'm counting the minutes until my time there is up. They hug me, and they can't wait to come back next week, and I'm just glad to collect my pay and go home.

It's a lot like having sex for money.

Today's take - $400 out of which I paid hotel and it only took an hour. Wonder if that might be a marketing tactic - I charge with the idea that they can stay as long as they like, then make out well because they just want to get fully dressed and leave. In fact, one of the big differences so far is that when I have sex for fun, there's a lot of laying around naked that happens afterwards. When I'm a service provider, he can't wait to get dressed.

Went to Vicki's the other day and bought a bunch of new lingerie - Lover came with me and we also hit Macy's, where the dressing rooms were so deserted we practically fucked in the room. I lost my balls about going the whole way, but there was a lot of grinding with me in panties only.

I'm sitting in my hotel room, watching TV and using the wireless. I've made some discoveries:

1) I need to buy separate clothes as my instinct is to wash everything and when I mouthwashed, which I've never done before, I wanted to mouthwash my pussy.

So I think one or two dates a month will probably be sufficient, and I may not even do that. However, it is already fading into unreality - I'm still in the room and it's like he was never here.

2) It's been so long since I've had protected sex that I forgot that the wrapped-up part of the condom near the bottom of the penis pinches! Note to self - a little more lubricant wouldn't hurt, either.

I was definitely his fantasy girl. He had some bumps down there that I found a little freaky and I'm hoping it's benign as he claimed. When I discovered them during 69, I stayed calm but was totally freaked out and so ready to be done.

3) I'm normally a wild screaming orgasm-er. I yell "oh my God" and sometimes if I am feeling warmly, "I love you!". Today I faked two orgasms during oral (which never ever ever gets me off) and realized as I was getting into the first one that I have to tone it way down to be believeable. The after-orgasm voice is breathy and comes from my chest resonater. Gee, voice lessons *did* come in useful!

4) Having someone I'm not into lick my breasts makes me nauseous, which maybe I shouldn't place too much credence in as Lover is about the only person who can mouth my nipples and not make me nauseous. It's never been a great thing for me.

Have signed up at another escort board and am now getting PM's through that one, too. I don't think I'm ever going to advertise - I have another client scheduled for later in the month, and am likely to line up one more, and I just don't really want to see that many people. Again, it's like teaching 7-year-olds. The money is nice, and it's not actively repellent, but as a job I'd put it somewhere between grouting tile and cleaning the back of the stove. It doesn't actively disgust me, but having it done is better than doing it.