Day Two: Little Postcards

(Finally)

Also, there is a paragraph in here that has previously been posted, but this story is where it belongs. Indulge me.

* * *

I go to a big city and meet Folk Rocker. It’s been a year. We have exchanged photos and flirty emails, texted occasionally, finally we end up in the same city at the same time again, both for our respective jobs, though I am fudging, my job is technically over, I have other reasons to want to be here.

I pick him up at his hotel, the lobby sleek with stripes and overstuffed chairs, the breakfast room at one side. We both need the same bank, we plan to “hang out” at my hotel. He has been so equivocating in email, so sometimes taken aback by me, that I am treading carefully. I have no plans.

The phone rings, I always take Husband’s calls. I drive and chat, Husband’s ill, I suggest a cup of tea, a hot shower, I tell him it will be alright. I worry that I sound like I’m speaking to a child, that I’m being rude to my passenger and rude to my husband, having a private chat and trying to wrap it up reasonably quickly at the same time, worried that I sound like a mom. Soothing is done and I press the button. As I fold my phone, Folk Rocker says, “I’d give anything to hear my wife speak to me like that, so tenderly.”

I can’t imagine any other way.

* * *

My favorite hotel in Big City, a suite, brand new, lucked out on Hotwire. He pulls my suitcase while I check in, we go to the room, explore the possibility of room service. He draws me to the bed, we make out a little, his mouth large and open over mine. He’s nervous, he’s not comfortable with cheating, I am happy with anything, I am happy with nothing. I have no expectations. I have surprised myself that after a long hunt, I am honestly, truly, delighted just to spend time, I have no desire to push him or nudge him or draw him into one single step that betrays himself. He is over me and under me, gentle, sweet, hesitant, and in my head I write off sex and content myself with a cuddle, just as he puts his left hand on my wrist and presses it over head and his right hand on my throat begins to squeeze. And then I have been rolled over without knowing how I got here other than the heavy fingers in my hair, and he is behind me and above me, his mouth on the back of my neck and his hand coming around to my breast.

* * *

I am learning a new language.

It takes him awhile to get hard, which I prefer. I am used to younger men, I am used to older men popping pills, taking my sore pussy a second time, a third, ready to go again right after the bang. This fortnight I have been with four men and each time there was a moment where they slowed. I am puzzled, and then Folk Rocker says, “don’t want to come yet, feels so good…” and it all falls into place.

* * *

I suck his cock, bent over him, kneeling beside his hip, mouth warm and wet, him warm and smooth and slick on my tongue, the head his penis velvet-textured like the skin of a blueberry, the little drag of skin on taste buds every time. His hand reaches, holds back the curtain of my hair. I put my hand on his, gently, it’s ok to pull a little and he takes the cue, tightens his fingers on the back of my neck (so primal, so hindbrain) and pushes until I gag. I come up for air –

“I’m surprised. I didn’t think you’d like it rough.”

“I like it all ways. You seem like you’d like it rough.”

“Yes.”

And then his hands are on my shoulders, pushing me on my back, prising my legs open and his cock thrusts into me hard, catching a little at the entrance of my pussy, that first thrust that speaks of virginity every time.

* * *

He’s fucking me from behind, first standing while I’m on the bed, then kneeling between my calves. I hear a noise, I feel a sensation and realize he just spit on me. Spit. On my ass. Holy shit, this man watches too much porn…no, wait, it was actually…kind of nice. Close. Like the time I took Lover into the bathroom, took his hand and held it against my pussy while I peed, so very intimate…

* * *

His room, past midnight (I agonized a little over whether to come at all this late), he’s packing for the next leg of his journey. I curl on the bed, watching him pack, watching his rituals so like and unlike mine, so hard to feel at home on the road unless you fight for it to an absurd degree, I have pictures of my cats and Husband, a light blanket that feels the same on every bed.

“I want to hear you sing “I’m On Fire” sometime.” He already does a little Springsteen occasionally.

As he picks up things from the desk, the bedside table, the coffee table, lays out tomorrow’s shoes, pants, he sings it softly, his voice husky with late and drink and the show:

Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone

And right now there is no place better in the world than being up too late, listening to this song, listening to this man.

Journals

Next week, I go to Amsterdam. It's to be a long-delayed honeymoon for Husband and I, his first time to Europe, my eighth? Ninth? And as per usual, I dig through old notebooks, smiling at who I was, rewriting the note that begins them all:

Remember, you were afraid and lonely when starting the trip. It's OK to be that way. It will pass.

The former me is very reassuring to the present me.

I make lists of things to see, my favorite cheese shop, a store with hats, the photography museum. I contemplate whether this year will be the time I try space cake, visit the live sex show, consume substances more altering than ice cream, though even Euro convenience store ice cream gives most drugs a run for their money.

I turn the page, and there is the first night I spent with Guitarist, who lately sends me emails with photographs of his cock, messages no less sexy for their simplicity and bad phonetic porn spelling, and codes to good software for the mac (it's like I've joined a cult - when do I get the sneakers?). I wrote:

Changed in the bath - earlier, in the lobby, "I hope you don't think - I'm not getting fresh or whatever." Asking me about my deal [with Husband]. "You're a very adventurous person." And later, "Let's get adventurous." Jewish men are the best lovers, the first time I came [age 19, partner number 37], no wonder they're God's chosen people [thank you Wex]. Kissed hungrily. "I love how responsive you are." Pinched my nipples. So sensitive in his nipples that he gasped. Turning me over, taking my pants off on all fours, thrusting his fingers inside me, still tender from ex-Lover's hand days earlier. Rolled me over, went down on me, very good. Went and smoked in the bathroom, brushed his teeth, came back and it burned my pussy, so intense, I could have come but I think I didn't want to. He finger fucked me again, very good. "I really like my hands, I'm proud of my hands and forearms, I think they're my best feature." I sucked his fingers, took them into my throat, he was excited by that. Went down on him, told him he could come (in my mouth) if he wanted to. "Yeah? In your mouth?" He stood by the bed, I knelt, he asked me to look up at him, open my mouth, he slid on my tongue and came over my face, in my mouth, rubbed it on my face. "That's so hot. That was so hot." In the morning, we made out, I gave him more head (last night, I worked my way down his body, kissing his side, under his arms, put my fingers in his ass, sucked his balls), he came in my mouth, holding my head down to take it. It was amazing. He walked me to my car, I said, despite my being an inherently slutty person, I really like you. You're the only person I've slept with in Europe. He said the same. It was nice. He was nice. I say nice too much.

What I remember most is the look on ex-Lover's face when he read it, later, in another city, in another country, another place. For years after, I could make him harden by opening my mouth, rubbing his cock on my tongue, and looking up.

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.

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.

Tourism, Wrapping Up

Part One is here.
Part Two is here.

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

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

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

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

There is one more go.

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

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

Zurich (nsfw)

"Take a picture of me for my blog..."































You can never go wrong with schoolgirl.

Whore Sex Vs. Not Whore Sex, Episode 2

Part One is here.















Be-My-Real-Friend puts on his shirt, gets off the bed, and we go for a walk and have a very meta conversation about what this time together will be like, how it’s different (we both hope) from his previous experiences with escorts and my time as a whore. We eat Greek food, he picks up the tab and I get the baklava. Conversation is still a little stilted, but I am genuinely interested in what his experiences were like with escorts – one of them used to drive him home. Ohh-kay.



I like cathedrals, and the one we duck into is especially lovely, beautiful mosaics on the walls, the canticle of St. Francis, pagan in its thanks to Brother Sun and Sister Moon. Catholic churches are where I’m closest to God, the grandeur (as intended) making me feel the Presence. I light a candle in front of a saint I don’t recognize, female with book in hand, and quite literally pray that this will all work out. (It would be dramatically great if she later turned out to be an appropriate saint, but in fact it’s Anne, Mother of Mary. There are only patrons for reformed prostitutes. We working girls can burn.)



I turn on the stereo and find the Killers. Be-My-Real-Friend comes and rubs my feet (not pretty – I’ve been walking in new shoes), then sits behind me and kisses me. It’s slower. He seems to be listening. How much do I get to say what I want? He’s still paying, even if he does want real. Kissing, lots and throughout and gradually more real and fun – kissing is the hardest of all actions for me to get into in this context.



We don’t get under covers, which I like, I like that being clean space. I take off his underwear and his cock is indeed large, but shaved smooth and pink and no smell but clean skin. It’s a pleasure to go down on him. I’ve already warned him I don’t come from oral, and he spends a long time on my pussy.



Perhaps I will teach it to my Lover



















I suck him hard again, he licks me for a long time, I have to remember to keep letting him know it feels good, it’s so nice to just lie back and enjoy it. It slides from really good to too intense in a flash, and I pull him up and roll him over, suit up and lower onto him. His cock is long, long enough to slightly bruise my cervix every stroke. It’s a good, good feeling. I’m selfish in the way I am “at home,” guiding his hands to where I like to be pulled onto him, moving the pointy ends of his fingers off my clit (not helping, only distracting), telling him I like rubbing on his skin. I start to come, medium intense, and he goes to sit up and hold me. I push him down again and have what I want. A few minutes later, I come again and so does he, thrusting deeply into me with my legs around his ears.

Somewhere in there, there’s a nap. Somewhere there’s laptop time. Somewhere in there he looks a lot like George Clooney if you see him from lying down and slightly above and at an oblique angle.



I realize my favorite spike heels are not walking-on-cobblestones shoes and hold his arm while buying and changing into flip-flops. He carries the bag with my shoes the rest of the night. We walk, he tells me about the canal, the city, his friend in Paris. It feels like a second date. At one point, we come around a corner, into a cheesy area with overpriced drinks and bland restaurants but the terrace is lit with trees full of fairy lights and the tables overlook the water and there are columns and a biggish tower and tons of people having a nice time and it feels like Venice. We go into the used-and-good-music CD store and get Nina Simone.



Again and from behind, I don’t come and that’s what whoring’s all about. But it’s not. I don’t come every time with friends, and it was good sex. I am not unsatisfied when he departs, though I like sleeping alone. After he leaves, I go to brush my teeth and notice that my dehydrated skin has developed huge flakes across my cheeks. I look like I’ve been devotedly nursing in the colony of Face Lepers and finally been myself stricken. Also, my hair is flat. And I’m having kind of a fat day. And that’s the flip side of “please me *and* pay me” – that it matters to me if he doesn’t like me, if I’m not good enough in bed, not pretty enough, not enough.



He comes at 8 and so do I.

I rest and write, he goes to work. We meet for lunch, Malaysian, tender, spicy mango chicken, and in a discussion about coaching his son’s sport, it finally clicks. I’m no longer making an effort to be interested or interesting. I pick up the lunch tab – with Lover, I try to pay for something when we’re together, with Husband I carry the cash. I ask Be-My-Real-Friend if he wants to go to the hotel or if he has to be back at work.









He comes in to the room, a unisex single, slightly grubby near the end of the lunch rush. I’ve left the door unlocked and turn from the sink where I’m washing my hands. I squat on the dark red tile floor, undo his belt, his zipper, take down his briefs, take his cock – still pink and smooth and sweet, he works in air conditioning – into my mouth and suck him until the spit runs down my arms.

I’d like to do it again.

I hope he will, too.