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.

Bits and Pieces

...I've just been interviewed by my lovely namesake Mandy Hardy, over at Sexy Blog Reviews. If you'd like to check it out (and see a fun picture that hasn't been posted here) it's here...

...San Francisco is lovely - a bit dark early for my taste, but the architecture is like nothing I've ever seen before and the activities I'm here for are challenging and fun. I'm debating whether a one night stand with some cute local boy might cure the last of my broken heart...

...I text Tourist that I'm thinking of him. He texts back, "What made you think of me?" Since "I thought of another client and that made me remember you, too, since I'll be in your state soon and I'd like to score an appointment with you, O deep-pocketed-but-boring-one," is not really the best answer, I respond with "I saw some super-high sexy heels in a shop window!" He texts back, "can i see a pic?" Fortunately, I took a photo of some shoes a few weeks ago for the boy-who-was-Lover's approval...

Rape Fantasies

Jeans, work boots, stubble. I’m naked. I’m on a pool table. Green felt rubbing my knees raw, unflattering fluorescent tubes in the over-table light. A man under me, his cock slick with the semen already in me, his hands below my hipbones, grabbing the place where legs and body meet, sliding me back and forth on his body, his belly rubbing my clit. Another man stands at the table edge, impatient for his turn. There are other men, their faces in shadow, their hands rough and eager on my breasts, my ankles, pinching my nipples, pulling my legs apart. Some of them are betting on how many times I’ll come, how soon I’ll come again. “Fuck her with this,” says one, light flecking in his eyes and on the beer bottle in his hand, “This’ll make her come.”

That’s what makes me come, what pushes me over the edge if I’m almost there. Sometimes Lover is there watching. Sometimes he’s the one who’s given me to the group. Sometimes it’s more subtle, Jodie Foster on the table in my place, surrounded by chanting low-rent rednecks.

When I babysat, I always hunted for the porn. The Bechtels kept theirs in the bathroom – the main bathroom! Right there under the counter next to the hot rollers! – and Hustler was much, much better than Playboy if you didn’t really care about Norman Mailer. The picture in my head still: a blond prison guard, breasts falling out of her ripped bluegrey institutional-yet-flattering jump suit, the men holding her down careful not to obscure the shot. Later I found Brit porn better still, actual penetration instead of the thick black cock frozen inches from her pussy. She asked for it…


On my knees again, a tavern this time, straight out of Blackadder. The worn-smooth wood of the table under my hands while I suck at the cocks thrusting into my face, my hair already sticky with come, sweating, face a mess of tears and spit and everything else, the men are laughing and shouting. The youngest one is the leader, he takes his sword and thrusts the hilt into my pussy. “Let’s see you fuck that, slut.”

I mentioned the commonality of “rape fantasies” in the hearing of a puzzled friend of Powergirl’s.

“Why would anyone want to be raped?”

“Not by a stranger with a knife, but being overpowered, or someone wanting you so badly they have to have you no matter what.”

I played rape with my ex-lover Writer, I play it with Lover, even with new men there is power and gratified hunger in teasing them until they snap, grab my arms, pin me against the wall or the bed or the hood of the truck, wrists above my head while the other hand slides up my skirt, inside my panties, inside my pussy to see how they make me feel, thrust their wet fingers into my mouth, the pressure that says suck for me.

Rollercoasters do it for me, too – the metal frame shaking, did some old guy assemble this on the weekend with a ratchet set? – sandals and water bottle in the cubby, safety bar down hard, the floor drops away, bare feet dangling and the cars whip around, never screaming, just breathing hard. Maybe this is the day that makes headlines.

First bent over the dirty white sink, then on the floor of the theme park bathroom right after closing, I’ve gone back for something forgotten, a purse, a bag, it doesn’t matter but that it’s something the ride attendant makes me beg for, first playfully and then in earnest as he roughly lifts my skirt, sets me on the counter, his fingers leaving red marks on the inside of my knees, a red mark across my cheek, “Shut up bitch. I’ve been thinking about this all day…”

Will met me in a Laundromat. I’d like to think I was wearing my tight black spandex crotch-length minidress, horizontal slits from bottom of breast to collarbone, because it was the only thing clean, but more likely I was just being eighteen. I sat on the sidewalk, legs out, back against the window while he chatted me up. That night his fingers in me hard, his sister turning the TV up louder and louder and the neighbors calling over to find out if she was OK. The next night Taco Bell, and in the tall weeds between that parking lot and the next we made out, me play-resisting and Will pushing back my hands, prying open my mouth, holding down my shoulders until suddenly I was fighting for real in panic and terror, trying to keep my legs closed while he pulled back my hair, opened my thighs and took me, his excitement enough to come in a quick minute, then adjusting our clothes, back to the car, and me quiet for a long time, realizing, this could really happen to me.

Will raped me twice more, both times in the context of our relationship, anally, and with the memories lasting longer and more pleasantly than the acts. The first time was among my first anal, no lube other than what came out of my pussy, no condom, thrusting in with me on my stomach, protesting until he finally said, “You can have it in your ass or I’ll put it in your mouth.” I couldn’t sit for days without the memory. The second time, the front seat of his car (bench seat, older car) we were making out before breaking up, parked in a field in the woods where kids in upstate Eastern states go to do that sort of thing. Later, “I thought you wanted it, you turned over so easily.”

He’s still in my top three lovers of all time. None of your business. 90th percentile or better.

I’ve never been raped by a stranger, but I’ve felt coerced or badgered or worn down quite a few times and escaped date rape once, I think before penetration but the memory is distant and all that remains is cold terror in the front seat, parked at the end of the runway to watch the planes, a tan and muscled body holding me down. My rapes are fantasies, men I liked and wanted to fuck, just maybe not right that minute. No-one holds a weapon to my head, and their whispered “hold still” comes from longing and not contempt.

Emma Kelly and her husband Scott write about cuckolding, his “tiny” penis, the way she fucks other men while he watches. The photo of her white body wrapped around Don the Marine carved from wood, his brown skin playing half my rape fantasies and every stereotype in the book, made me wet when it first flashed on my screen. The first man I cheated on Lover with was black, we played that fantasy for weeks afterwards, going in the space of days from,don’t ever fuck anyone else again, that’s my pussy to describe it for me while he came.

He doesn’t have to be black. He doesn’t have to be better endowed. He only has to be there, and the fear of being replaced by something bigger, better hung, just better, becomes an erotic plaything, something to wank to rawness over, just as the fear of strange cock, strange skin, strange hands, the unthinkable and constantly present unreality of me-and-a-gun-and-a-man-on-my-back every time I walk home from the station alone becomes rape fantasies, multiple solos, the shove over the brink of pleasure.

Motorcycle gangs who offer me a ride and waylay me to the hideout. The Hispanic guys at the carwash, covered in soap and water, bodies sliding over each other and me. Brit boys on a stag who find me lost in the alleys of Prague. Malkovich as Valmont, Rickman as anything. Force, dirt, darkness and power. Lust overpowering all.

Now I remember. The Southern Town Girls Club. After the fair, the leader of the volunteers, a man I crushed on for months, sleeping in his shirt long after it stopped smelling of him. The women who lived with him wore collars, I aped them with a homemade necklace, a blue bead on a leather thong. After the fair, dressing up and playing and finally having friends because they were from different high schools and friends because they were older than me. After the fair, in the room where the punch cups lived, the last of the red bug juice poured down the drain, the yellow barrel coolers hosed out and turned over to dry. After the fair, a man to whom I owe a major life skill and thus can never purge. After the fair, on my back bent onto the table, “that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

Thank you for the skill. Bought and paid for, Dan.

Thank you, don’t come again.

Phone Sex

‘Cause I heard that you got you a lover,
And lovers you’ve got one or two.
But you can’t tell one from the other,
Now Mama, now you’re nothing to you
- Two Gallants

We’re in a hotel room. We’re always in a hotel room. (Except for that one time I violated the sanctity of my home in the guest room, but I was crazy, it was a one time thing, I swear.) Anyway. Hotel. Motel. Cheap but clean, grey-green stain-hiding carpet, blue bedspreads patterned with faux Wedgewood. On the edge of a failing city, now a grimy town – it’s hard to avoid them in the Midwest. Lover’s inside me, cowgirl. Yeah, yeah, cutting to the chase, but we’d be here all day if I rambled through the nuances of his hand at the nape of my hair, pulling my head back, his other hand on my breast while I watch him standing behind my shoulder in the mirror, etc, etc.

So Lover’s inside me. It’s been stop and start, talking and fucking, talking and fucking. The phone rings. Mine. His is off, his is always off when we’re here. Mine is never off. I will usually ignore the old-fashioned ring if there is a cock actually inside me, but otherwise I always look to see if it’s Husband, and if it is I pick up. Primary partner first, and if boyo doesn’t like it, they can move to less-complicated pastures, at least my cow pats are right there in the open, no squelchy surprises later on.

It’s not Husband.

I pick up anyway. Shift my weight, press my clit on Lover’s pubic bone, he’s mildly surprised. “Hello…” lower register fully engaged during Monday morning sex. It’s Actor, we’ve been flirting for years at a low simmer. I don’t know if I’ll ever fuck him, but he’s got pretty eyes and smooth strong fingers and a willpower about his person that I admire even while I deplore his ability to commit wholeheartedly to his girlfriend or wholeheartedly move on.

“You always sound so sexy in the mornings.” I thank him. He asks if I’m busy.

“I’m not busy, no, I’d love to talk.” Lover, still beneath and inside, is trying to decide whether or not to be offended. I lift a little, then slide his cock back in more deeply. He’s that wonderful mostly-hard that means I can go forever without getting sore.

“In fact, I was thinking about you,” I tell Actor. “Thinking about your cock sliding into me.” I lift and settle again, rising up until the tip is nearly falling out of me, then pressing back down slowly, tensing in my kneeling thighs.

“I like that thought.” Actor has himself in his hand, I hear his breathing. “I like thinking about you bent over in front of me…”

“I want to be there in front of you, heels high enough so I’m just the right height, feel you slide into me…”

Actor makes a noise in his throat. I hand Lover a toy, red and white and shaped a bit like a woman with arms raised overhead but mostly like a penis. The bumps of her breasts are great. “I want to feel your cock in my ass, I’m putting a toy in my ass right now…”

Lover presses it into me, not enough lubricant which is the way I like it, the friction of dry silicone catching at my skin inside on the way in, that bit of drag telling me how deep, exactly where, and later reminding where it’s been.

“God, I want to fuck your ass, I want to thrust into you and fuck you hard…”
“Yes, please fuck me hard, take my ass…”

I’m pushing back onto the toy, then forward again, one way relief, one way pain and the pleasure of my clit sliding on Lover’s skin, the stubble where he trims emphasizing the best bits. Several of us are on the edge.

Actor comes, heaving. I come, shrieking. Lover observes, earnestly, his eyes on me through the last gasping breath, his practiced hand on the toy, silent and unheard.

(painting by Rodger Casier)

"I Never" Without the Drinking Part

Lover says I don’t cheat on my wife and defines cheating as putting his fingers inside me, instead of just on me, around me, over the place between my legs. He won’t kiss me on the mouth, or with his mouth open, but he presses his pelvis against me in the bed we shared with Beautiful Girl, the next morning meets my eyes and then jumps back and away when she emerges from the shower. Adultery’s in the heart, I think. Eventually there is divorce, the laws of Big City tangled and slow, the division of property tedious and time-consuming, the end result satisfactory to all parties, except, perhaps, the wife. He dates. It is not cheating. I wish it felt like it was not cheating.

Lover says I wouldn’t come in a girl’s ass, wouldn’t that be awful for her? I guess I understand why someone wouldn’t like it, but once you’re nailed into the barrel it seems a waste not to head over the falls. I urge him to, he doesn’t demur. Later, in another hotel, I crouch before him having figured out (finally) that stacking up the pillows means not wearing out my left arm holding my weight while I press the bullet to my clit, and after the tick-tick-tick up the track and the first, expected longish plunge, the coaster whips into a tunnel, around three sharpish bends, I’m screaming in earnest and it doesn’t stop. Two more bends, a short wind-up (barely a breath) to another long shrieking plunge, corkscrew at 4G’s, another quick hill and finally the whoosh of the brakes coming out of another tunnel as the cars slow. Lover says, what was that? Why, that was a multiple orgasm. Always ride in the front.

(I love being past thirty and having figured out my body, I love being not afraid to try something that might not work, that we might laugh and go, well, that sucked, let’s do something else. Power Girl, amazing Power Girl, you are so strong now, in just a few years you will be a force of nature, I am not condescending, but there is so much depth to come that cannot even be told and I hope I get to watch you dive into it…)

Lover says he’s never had phone sex. Afterwards, of course. I wouldn’t have known. Due to distance and infrequency, there is a lot of phone sex. There is me-in-a-hotel, writhing-on-the-bed, bedspread-crushed-up-under-my-body, jammies-too-damp-to-sleep-in sex. There is him-in-the-car-map-over-his-lap-while-the-cop-passes sex. There is him turning on the dome light so the truckers can see my skirt rucked up, vibrator in hand in pussy, mouth-breathing hard while he talks to me, both hands on the wheel.

Lover says he could never hit someone in the face. We go to a casino hotel, check in in a snowstorm, notice the room is indeed slightly “off” in the way designed to get you out of your quarters and onto the gaming floor. We fuck. He raises his hand and pauses. I laugh and roll out from under him, “Lost your chance.” The restaurant is oddly laid out, a room across the hall has the dinner tables, the kitchen and breakfast tables are out of sight, like a very small banquet room. It’s early-bird time and we are the only diners. The waiter exits for the dessert menu. I lean forward. Meet his eyes. Shrug my eyebrows, smart-ass, triple-dog-daring. His hand comes across my face with a sound that doesn’t echo in the dull room. The waiter enters again on the follow-through, he must have heard the sound, he certainly sees the mark spreading on my face, he is clearly completely freaked out that I laugh and kiss Lover and we turn our faces toward him to order something chocolate.

He could never hit someone with the buckle end. On the clit. With a chain.

Except he could.

Given a nudge, given permission, given a partner who triple-dog-dares you, buys the chain, gives it over in a sweet little box with a bow…wouldn’t you?

(the other picture that goes with this story is here)

Why Are There...

...so many battered women in America?

Because the bitches don't listen.

It happens that I have an affinity for sick humor, particularly anti-woman sick humor. I enjoy shocking people with the jokes I tell - childish, I know. The joke above came to mind for me during this afternoon's frolic. Sexual Athlete genuinely likes me. He sent a sappy card. He texts and emails me nearly daily. And yet, I keep liking him less and less, and today I wanted to hit him for not fucking listening. The play-by-play:

Sexual Athlete is through the door! His coat is off! Now the tie! He hands off the 50 pages of material on SEC filings, he shoots, he scores!

Or rather, he jams his tongue down my throat - again - his fingers into my pussy - again - and demands that I come after about 2.5 minutes of strictly average oral. I fake it. Twice. I go down on him, his cock is decent, a good size, smells clean, he's clean. He comes almost immediately. We chat. I make sympathetic or indignant noises, as the case may be, while trying not to drift too far into the DayQuil haze.

Cowgirl, I come for real. He tells me he wants to fuck me in the ass. I'm taken aback - I've been very clear about this - and I say "Not today." He looks astonished: "You said 'no' to me!?" I briefly become very dominant and tell him to come. He switches to mish, the moment passes, and he does. Again, he chats, I listen and fight the fog.

More oral for him, he comes again. It's a tight hour and a half, he tips me $5 (more a function of not wanting change on a twenty), he's out the door. And I blissfully waft into my other hotel room, brush my teeth, and shower until I'm pruney.

Activities with Clients, Ordered from Least to Most Off-Putting:

Intercourse
Back rubs from them to me
Oral on them
Cuddling
Oral on me
Kissing
Being called by my real name
Being called by my real name while being urged to come

After - well, during - I decide this is it. I got a fat paycheck from my other job today, I have enough for what I was saving up for, Sexual Athlete's cash is going to be a lovely trip to the used bookstore and inexpensive lunches out for the next few weeks. I text Lover "Done Whoring". I tell Power Girl this is the last one.

Then tonight I get a lovely email from a client I've been phone-tagging with...

Please call me when you get back, I would still love to share some time with you and explore those things we would like to mutually consider, chew over, reflect, percolate, ponder, deliberate, mull over or ........... muse about.

I've been asking what he does, and he attaches a drawing. He's in urban design. I love urban design...

Merde.

First Client

This post is a present for C.



Lately, I’ve also been working as an art model. Mainly, it’s cold and bits of me fall asleep, but it’s also lovely to sit in one place, no phone, no ‘net, no obligations but to hold still (no wonder I’m a closet submissive). The art students often ask how I manage to hold still, and I say, “Well, it’s great thinking time.”

Here’s what I think...



I wait in the park, on the sidewalk near the transit station, watching businesswomen eat hotdogs. August, still a little warm, I’m still a little jet-lagged from the eight-hour flight last week. Wearing, from the top down: pigtails; genuine-but-off-the-back-of-the-truck Chanel sunglasses; a smirk; orange spandex tank top; orange lacy bra with visible straps; low-slung black skirt, barely covers my ass, two little vinyl buckled straps, three pleats; fence-net stockings; black patent spike-heeled knee-high boots.

He walks by, looks me up and down, looks away. Once around the fountain, he’s back. “Are you working?”

“Yes.”

“How much for an hour?”

“Two hundred.”

“Do you do anal?”

“Two-fifty.”

We cross the street to his hotel, the tour bus stopping short, I see the driver in the giant front window give the same look, and I smile and wave. Up to the 24th floor, express elevator, the room is freshly made up, white towels, white sheets.

“I’m Mandy.” There’s an M on my purse, black patent with electric blue piping.

“I’m Matt.”

“May I see your ID, please?” He holds it with his finger over the address, I check his name and picture, he’s from somewhere else, so not a cop. We are in a country where our transaction is technically legal, and also less of a big deal, but it’s still best to check. I phone and leave a message, the room number, when I expect to finish. He lies on the bed, half sitting, there are seven pillows on each of the two beds.

“You’re so hot.”

“Thanks, you’re hot, too. What do you want to do first?”

“Do you kiss?”

“Not your lips…” and I move between his legs and unbutton his jeans. His cock is very soft, usually they’re already hard by now, but it’s nice to take him in my mouth without choking.

“Mmmmm…I love your dick, it tastes so good…”

He lets me suck for awhile, then “Turn around, I want you in 69.”

He buries his nose in my pussy, licks me while I suck him, rubs his mouth up and down me. His cock hardens in my mouth, his licking gets more frantic, his tongue slightly rough on my clit and the soft area below, so good to have touched.

“I want you on your knees.”

He slides to the edge of the bed, stands up, I kneel on the carpet and suck his cock again, running my tongue around the head, taking the length into my mouth and moving up and down while my tongue presses underneath. He reaches down and grabs.

“Remember, they’re pigtails, not handlebars,” I say with difficulty around a mouthful of cock.

He loosens up but still holds on, pulling my head onto his cock, the head bumping the back of my throat, I gag slightly and hold the base more firmly as a buffer, my curled fingers hitting my lips.

He pulls me off his cock. “Stand up and turn around. I want you bent over the bed.”

“Just a minute,” and I go to my purse, get a condom, kneel on the bed to put it on him.


I press my hands into the bedspread, my skirt so short it doesn’t need my help to slide up, display my ass in orange thong and black fishnets, the kind with the big diamond shaped holes. The spike heels make me tall enough to lean back and rub against his ass. He puts his hands on my ass, rubs my skin, grabs my hips to pull me back and rub against me, the fishnets rough between us.

“Can I rip these?”

“You rip, you tip.” They’re expensive.

He tears them open and slides into me from behind, pulling me apart to let him in, then holding the bones of my hips and fucking me hard.

“Oh, yeah, fuck me with that dick, yeah baby...”

He pushes me forward onto the bed, I’m on my hands and knees, he thrusts again and pulls out, climbs over me, lies on his back.

“Get on top.” I straddle him on my knees, rub the head of his cock back and forth along my pussy, get it wet, make me ready. He holds the tip at my entrance, and I kneel lower, sliding him into me. He grabs my hips again and thrusts up into me, his cock brushing my cervix, his pubic bone pressing into my clit, his hips against mine, spreading me wider around him. He pulls down the front of my tank top, admires my bra and pulls it down too, taking my breasts in his hands, pulling me towards him, licking and sucking my nipples, pushing my breasts together to alternate between them, rubbing his face, his tongue on the flesh. I draw him in and out, pausing at the top to feel the head of his cock almost slide out and then pierce me again, that little ripple at the top.

“I want your ass.”

“OK, but really slow and gentle at first, please.”

“OK.”

My ripped fishnets flutter around my ass, I hand him the bottle of lubricant and he slides a finger into me.

“You’re pretty tight.”

“So go slow.”

He slides another finger in, swirls around, back and forth, and I concentrate on relaxing. I reach back to check the condom as he positions himself at the entrance, then pushes. I remember the first man who ever put anything in my ass, “Push, go poo, push” and release. He slides into me, slowly at first, until he can feel me loosening a little.

“OK, fuck me, baby. Use that dick in my ass. Come on, yeah, you know I want it, you know what I like. I love your big dick, I love having your dick in my ass, yeah, give it to me.”

He comes in nine thrusts, I feel him harden right before he shoots, very hard, painfully hard, thank god it’s only right before he comes. We breathe for a moment.

“Hold on to that, OK?” I tell him, and he grabs the base of the condom while I wiggle off him.

The hour is nearly up. I step into the bathroom and clean up, thankful for the mess containment of safer sex. He cleans up, too, and then presents me with my fee and another 80 for tip.

“Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. Is there any way to get in touch with you if I come back here?”

I write my number on a piece of hotel stationary, sign my name with a big swoopy Y.

I leave the room, duck through the fire door into the stairwell, take off my skirt, my ripped stockings, my tank top, throw on a clean dress. Knock on the door –

Lover opens, grabs me, holds me.

“Well, that was fucking fantastic.”

He nods agreement, his face in my hair. “You never say ‘dick’.”

“I know, I hate that word, it always sounds like something small. Plus it means ‘jerk’.”

“Even your voice didn’t sound like you.”

We fuck again, his cock in my ass this time bare, hardening again just before he comes, just before I come, vibrator pressed tightly to my clit. The sex is very different, even though he is the same man, I am not the same woman. Afterwards, he holds me, I give him back the fee but keep the tip. “I’m going to use it to pay for the boots.”

“You could have kept the whole thing, I was prepared for that.”

“Maybe next time. Probably next time. Will you still be a good tipper?”

“Long as you’re still such an amazing fuck.”

And I hit him with all seven pillows, one after the other, hard as I can swing while he fends me off laughing.

Catch and Release

You might, Gentle Readers, observe the hour of this posting and conclude that the salmon has been landed...

PowerGirl and I drive outside the city, we have done twenty minutes exactly of shoe shopping and vowed to return, rushed into the slush and onto the icy highway by Folk Rocker’s show. We still miss the opening act. I am tired of being late for things, I’ve been so prompt until just lately, but it’s not too late, I will re-synch with the schedule of the world.

Folk Rocker is in rare form. I realize that clearly, his life has not gotten better. The protests, formerly a bit requisite, the angry white guy who truly does understand but can’t quite get the distance for irony, or the closeness for empathy rather than sympathy, have deepened, connected to something broken in him. Everyone makes better art when they’ve been broken. Not just the slog through almost-fame and almost-ease, but the place that bears the strain and fights and loses, the caryatid finally fallen under her stone.

(Lover’s art got better after we had a true breakup, not just a break. I don’t think it’s just practice. It was the only time I’ve seen him weep.)

He does not open with the song about love and the rose, he is no longer clinging to that illusion. He is in a different key, ‘a lover is more condoling.’ The venue is a church, and he frequently looks to God, who is, I think, in the best seats (in the bodily church, the uncushioned pews make our asses numb). There is a new song, about being broken, and wanting union and faith, and running out of everything, and when he sings it I want more than anything to go with him to the hotel, wash him, lie down with him, give him my body and all that he wants from it, no requests necessary, not even the effort of asking, receive, receive. It occurs to me that this is the secret to, if not good art, at least good tragic performance. The audience should want to fuck you until you feel better.

After the show, PowerGirl and I wait patiently in a pew, near the line of adoring admirers with CD’s clutched in fingers trembling to make the compliment, ask the question that will connect them. Folk Rocker sees me over the shoulder of a fan he hugs, I smile and wait, I am not part of the line, I am not a smile-and-hug, I’m with the band.

Sadly, the band is staying at the venue manager’s house.

She’s fantastic, a clutter of red hair and photography and teenage slightly insolent son and young getting-into-Shakespeare son and tea mugs that must be washed before Folk Rocker pours. PowerGirl anchors a sofa corner, I wash the mugs, and Folk Rocker tells me he’s being minded, he’s a guest, he reassures me, bless him, though I understand. I look fantastic. He notices. We touch as much as we can, and the unwatched pot boils damn fast. Yes, things are worse. I wish, I wish, I wish. I say, “I hope next time...” I think, I will purge you. I will absolve you. I will not heal you, but I will open the door to the recovery room. Part of this I voice, and he, also, knows it to be true.

Everyone watches everyone else’s videos on YouTube. Folk Rocker and I sit side by side. We walk out to the car, and PowerGirl warms it up as I go to him. Shaking in the cold, no time to waste, at least, in this moment only, we are in the same place at the same time. My mouth is on his, we breathe the same breath, I softly suck his tongue, he moves his mouth over mine.

“It would have been lovely.”

“It will be lovely.”

PowerGirl speeds us home, and I write this in the car, gloves insulating my thighs from the bottom of the cold laptop. We stop at 24-Hour Fine Food and gather yogurt, grape leaves, two-bite brownies. The deli guy flirts with me, I flirt back, Lebanese men always love me. I think of my brother, six blocks over, I have not called, he has not returned my calls in five months. The only way to see him is to leave a message: “I’ll be at Restaurant at noon tomorrow, call me if you won’t be there.” I want him, would have him were he not gay, HIV+, and my brother, in that order. I wonder if I come back in the morning if he will be there, organic this and that, swiping the bank card, perhaps meeting my eyes and smiling over gourmet cheese, both knowing that even a hundred lovers are not enough, we have to give, we have to receive, we have to matter and it’s the cock that tells us so.

Thumping the Melons

Met a fellow for coffee this morning, pre-gym - another one who says I'm better-looking than my pic, so time to change up the profile.

Had a bagel and coffee, he sipped coffee he didn't want, we chatted a bit nervously and tried not to attract the attention of the elderly (and perhaps unshockable) gentleman reading the paper at the next table.

I liked him, I'd date him in this context, he's interesting and shed some light for me on why some men see SP's (the wife is not terribly giving in this department, but the partnership is still important). I can absolutely empathize - I am with Husband 100% and forever, but I like dining out.

He walked me to my car. I hugged him and kissed him near the mouth. He reached around and...patted my ass. And said, "You know I've been wanting to do that, right?" A tiny part of my brain was shouting, "Excuse me, buddy! That is my personal ass and it's not just yours to--oh."

I guess I can't be offended if they want to check out the merch before plunking down the cash.