Unclear on the concept

I've got the reality show "Cheaters" on the hotel TV, and the camera crew is egging on a wounded wife as she bangs on an escort's apartment door. They've already chased the husband out of the parking lot, filming his desperate attempts to change the subject:

(referring to light, two cameramen, boom operator, "detective" host, gaffer and best boy) "Baby, what's all this? What's all this?"

Ummm...this is the people who showed your wife the non-pixellated version of the footage I'm guessing was the escort blowing you on her balcony. This is why smart clients close the drapes.

At the door, the wife pounds and yells.

"Are you coming out here? Are you coming out here?"

Yeah, sure, I'm coming out. You want a cup of sugar, right? Or did you take in a package for me?

The "detective" host (or maybe he's a detective "host") "consoles" the wife:

"We should just end this here. I don't think she's coming out."

We? You got a little white mouse in your pocket?

The wife, still in anger/anguish, says, "she's been seeing him for months!"

"He's been seeing only her, but she's been seeing a lot of different men."

"But she's been seeing him for months!"

At this point, I want to reach through the screen, grab her scrawny insert-hick-state-of-choice (let's make it Arkansas) neck, and shake her until her already exopthalmic eyes drop out and roll around, still searching for answers in the asphalt lot of yet another suburban apartment complex with shiny, scuff-resistant doors.

Lady, he's not "seeing" her. She's not "seeing" him. He's a client. She's an escort. She hugs him goodbye because he pays her. He knows she doesn't really like him. She knows he doesn't really like her. But she's got a vagina and he's got cash, and really, that's all there is to it. You're yelling at the plumber for unstoppering your disposal, when maybe you should just stop throwing not-tonight-I-have-my-period down it.

At the show's conclusion, they flash an ad for an affiliated internet dating service "where you can meet faithful singles!" Equal vocal stress on "faithful" and "singles" - bet that took a few takes.

Hey - new market...

AUUUGGGHH!

I plan a non-whore-related meeting and a get-to-know-you dinner with Ramen guy around a meeting with Circus Guy.

Circus Guy cancels, via email, last night.

So I move my real-life meeting and my dinner.

I call Circus Guy just to say hey and to try to get a reschedule. Evidently, talking to me gets him fired up again, and the meeting is back on. I reschedule everything else, find a hotel, and am headed that way.

BUT, after I knew I wouldn't be fucking, I had a junk food splurge and am now burping half a bag of chips and some onion-cayenne-dill dip.

Let's hope I don't fart my way through the evening...

I'll keep you posted.

The Morning Post

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

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

But I also get:

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

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

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

Next!

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

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

Like?????

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

And finally:

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

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

Well. The deal is...

I've been getting the question a lot - "what's the deal?" with Husband and Lover and Big City Lover and other lovers and whoring and Me. And I was waiting to write something poetic and cool, but it's late and I didn't post yesterday and I feel guilty because Tom Paine wrote me something really nice and I have something in mind to write for him and C., and I haven't had a chance. Bitch, whine, moan. So here's The Deal.

Twelve years ago, I *thought* that what was happening was that I was getting married before I was ready. In fact, what was happening was that I was buying into the idea - widespread in America - that once I, a normal healthy girl, met the right normal healthy guy, I would stop liking more than one guy and stop wanting to have flirty fun sex and dirty raw sex with lots and lots of people.

Wrong-O, Mary-Lou.

At first I thought there must be something wrong with me. Everyone else manages to be monogamous, right? (Wrong)

After 12 years of lying and cheating - I am now at the age where I used to think I would get married, except I've been married the whole time - and 5 years of advocating for an open relationship, and a lot of therapy and going to the SAA meetings where I was the only girl but my therapist said that was fine because I tend to look at relationships like men do, anyway - I finally said this. Apropos of nothing. We were in the car. I wasn't currently in therapy. We weren't even having a relationship discussion.

Husband: Is everything all right?

Mandy: Yes.

Husband: Oh, good.

Mandy: I love you with all my heart and I don't ever want to leave you and you are my soul mate. But I am not monogamous and I don't think I ever can be. I will give you anything that is in my power to give you, and monogamy is not a gift I have in me to give. It's not something I'm capable of, and I don't want to be. I understand if you can't be with me any more because of that, but that's what I am and I can't lie to the person I love best in the world about who I am.

Husband: Have you been sleeping with other people this whole time?

Mandy: Yes.

Husband: Are you now?

Mandy: Yes.

Husband: I just don't want you to leave me.

Mandy: I'm not going to leave you. Ironically enough, I feel like if I was going to leave you, I've already gone through the "wow, this is a great new guy, what if?" stage and learned that it's not permanent and I don't want to leave.

Husband: Oh.

Mandy: I don't sleep with anyone you know and I don't do anything in our town. And it's important to me that you still come first all the time, like always taking your calls.

Husband: Well, that's good.

(Interlude with hugging, crying, and reaffirming that we want to stay together)

Mandy: So do you want to know details or anything like that?

Husband: I'll ask if I want to know.

("And...Scene!")

So it's just like when I was lying and cheating, except I'm allowed to be. He doesn't ask, I don't tell. I don't shame him or rub his nose in it or make it obvious - I mostly see people when I am already out of town. Though I do make some special trips for Lover.

However...I am still technically lying and cheating, because Husband has expressed his preference for me to have one-night stands, rather than an ongoing relationship with someone who he feels might threaten our partnership, and what I in fact have is occasional sex with friends and an ongoing, serious secondary partnership with someone I say "I love you" to and who owns part of me that no-one else ever touches.

Oh, and Husband has specifically and by name forbidden me to have sex with Lover...

Ah, sluttiness. How I dishonor you.

...special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions...

I should have worn a sesame-seed bun.

I attended an internet-bulletin-board sponsored party tonight, where a group of older men buy drinks for a group of younger women for the purpose of inspecting the merch, and the younger women flirt with, tease and hug the older men for the purpose of drumming up business.

Held at a bar in Grimy Midwestern City, it was felicitously located opposite an adult viewing-booth establishment. The men all looked relatively normal, mostly over 40, mostly overweight, with a sprinkling of skinny 30-somethings with skinny moustaches.

The women were about half "spinners" - comes from "Sit-n-Spin" - and half Big Beautiful Women. They mostly sat at a table in the corner and socialized with each other. The dynamic was odd - a couple of the women were very friendly, including one who shares a similar name and description with me (there has been confusion). Some of the women gave me the "Who's *this* new poptart?" look. Every time I joined a table that already had a woman at it, I greeted her first, complimented her, turned the conversation towards her, teased the men about her, the classic defensive maneuvers to avoid being ruthlessly cut from the female herd over the issue of men.

One of the men, the official host, took me around to meet everyone, introducing them by their bulletin board names.

"This is [Initials]."

"Hi, Initials!"

"This is [City Plus Number}"

"Hi there, City!"

"This is [Sexual Practice]"

"And so he does, I'm sure!"

The man who touched my arm and asked me to "stop by for a minute when you get a chance," his papery 70-something skin making my flesh creep, turned out to be a great conversationalist, telling me about his job as a financial something and asking me a lot of very thoughtful questions about my artistic work.

Happy Buddha Guy, who kept hugging me to demonstrate his point about the host being a "Hug-Blocker" pulled me aside when I said goodbye, asking permission to message me. The dim light caught his mid-life-crisis earring. Skinny Moustache at the same table pulled me in the other direction for the same reason.

Shy Ex-Contractor, sitting alone at the bar, confessed that after comparing some of the women with their pictures from the board, he wouldn't be calling many of them. Now in pharmaceuticals, he loves working where it's clean all the time. We talked about my 'get-to-know-you' policy and he's thrilled I live in the same town.

I stumped Silver-Haired Crew Cut with "repugnance".

Every time I switched tables, eyes followed me. I wasn't the youngest lady in the room, or the best body, but I had the prettiest face - not that other ladies weren't attractive or well-featured, but I looked like someone you might meet in the office, or the grocery store, and a lot of the others' prettiness had a hard edge. The second-most-attractive woman there, for my money, was an older blonde with wire-rim glasses who should have been wearing the Fairy Godmother dress and waving the bibbity-bobbity-boo wand. Five foot nothing and plump, she patted my ass in my velvet skirt and invited me to another party. Her hair smelled delicious.

Afterwards, I went for coffee with a fellow I'd been meaning to meet up with next week, two hours away. When he found out this afternoon that I'd be attending, he took off work and drove over. Reasonably handsome, good skin, likes long (read=expensive) dates and likes giving backrubs. He takes my cup to get more whipped cream instead of letting me get up. He takes my tray to the trash.

When I get home, this is in my box:

I had a great time tonight. You are as beautiful as I expected and
more charming than I could have hoped.

I only wish I hadn't been so nervous. I think it was a mixture of the
party putting me off , the fact that we seemed to click a bit, and the
tiny voice in my head screaming "proposition her, you can eat Ramen
and car pool for a week."

I email back, telling him that when we're comfortable with each other, we will have a date at his house.

I will cook porkchops.

Today's Dirty Little Secret

I *like* being a whore. I like it a lot. I like knowing men want me and will pay cash to have me. I like secrecy. I like dressing up. I like getting Starbucks half-light half-regular mocha Frappucino extra whipped cream please without having to raid my car's center console for change. I like buying pretty underwear. I like knowing that someone's going to see my naked body and make an estimate - a high one - about how much time I spend at the gym. I like going out for lunch because I feel like it without filling up with guilt about spending money from the household. I like not being a potential mom, not being an instructor, not being a wife, not being anyone's property. I like getting one more sweater on super double clearance at Nordstrom. I like reading other whore's blogs and agreeing and understanding. I like knowing that if I want to move to Rome or Paris or Prague or Minneapolis and live in a pied-a-terre near the good shopping neighborhood with one bedroom for business and one for pleasure, I can. (Do you think they have whores near the Mall of America?)

I like the word whore. I like that it's dirty. I like it the way I like slut. And Mandy. And mine.

When I was a dancer, about half my time, maybe three-quarters, I did my job and enjoyed physically moving around and swinging on the pole. But every so often, there would be a customer with the right mix of give it to me, please and you will give it to me that I'd get as much out of a dance as he would - more, when you add in the cash.

About two years after Prom, I ended up blowing my prom date. He said, "If I'd only known then what I know now..."

Exactly.

Sugasm #64

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Bits and Pieces

...After ducking out on a couple of potential meeting dates with Guy Who Shoves a Little, I finally am persuaded to make an appointment - after all, I've already invested the time in dinner. I call one of his references, who tells me that she saw him for a 7-hour appointment once and they never left the hotel room, he wouldn't let her have the radio or TV on and when she suggested, after six hours, going to get something to eat, he asked, "Didn't you eat before you got here?"...


...I go to Target to get some candles, since I've read some reviews of other ladies mentioning that the client appreciated it. Might make the hotel room feel a little more romantic, right? I peruse, rejecting overly sweet, overly soapy and just plain nasty, as well as anything vanilla (hate it). I end up passing on several scents I genuinely like, because anything I regularly smell while working I will associate with working, possibly calling up images. So the "coffee" scented candle is right out...

...a client asks my price for an evening-long date by asking how much I want to spend on shoes this month...

...Sexual Athlete from the Two-Client Day offers to help incorporate my other business. Let's see, the lawyer who fucks his client--no, wait, that's not it...I wonder whose hourly rate is higher?

How About Now?

Part One
Husband returns home after a week's absence, we have talked every day, I have genuinely missed him in the emptiness of the house, found myself staying up later and later with the internet and reruns of Law and Order.

I give him time to unpack, he's coming down with a cold, he steps into the shower. When he comes out, I am waiting for him with a towel. He puts on his pajamas, I touch his cock, I ask if I can kiss it. I suck him kneeling on the bath mat, bamboo imprinting on my knees. I love his cock, peach-soft skin, shorter but thick, one of the good things that came of his affair was that he started shaving here. He holds my head and fucks my mouth, making me gag, I go back and forth between actively using my tongue and holding my jaw slack and my lips firm so he can fuck.

"I've got to fuck you." I stand up, he bends me over the bathroom counter, I hold onto the sink as he slides into me from behind, grips my hips, plunges.

"Where do you want me to come?"
"Where do you want to come?"
"Can I come on your face?"
I turn around and kneel, opening my mouth for effect and hoping it's mostly on my face, I've been off swallowing for anyone lately (I never swallow for clients, too personal). He comes. This time, he does remember that it's nice if you then pass your partner some kleenex.

"Is everything all right?" he asks. He does not mean with me. He means with us, with our relationship. He means, please tell me you won't leave me. I'm not turned on enough to regret not coming, and I suspect he's too tired and sick for the amount of foreplay it would take to get me revved up again anyway.

"Everything is great. I love you."

Part Two
This morning, my client and I cancel, I have misunderstood the location and I can't get there and back in time to meet my other obligations. I am shaved, blow-dried, made-up and wearing pretty underwear. Why waste it?

Husband is aware that something is up - I have been talking on one phone and the other one rang, I don't know if he's buying my cover story, the facts of misunderstanding plus the veneer that the appointment was with a business friend we both know. He asks, "Is everything all right?" and I promise I will never leave him.

I kiss Husband through the shower curtain, pass him his towel. "Any chance of seducing you before breakfast?"

"How about after breakfast?"

He leaves the house without breakfast.

Post Script
I cried writing the first part. I felt obligated to put in the second part, to give some context, to not make him look like the bad guy.

Everyone else wants me...

Men in the World

I pause my car so that a man can cross to Pier One in front of me. He's middle-aged, slender, has one crutch.

Looks like a client.

In line at the bank, a 40-something lawyer flirts with the tellers, they tease him about his new haircut. He's tall, paunchy without being fat, his haircut is just a tad short at one temple, exposing his hairline creep.

I bet you've hired girls.

A young guy passes me my change at the mini-mart. Tattoos, earrings, probably pierced where I can't see.

You don't have the cash.

At the grocery store, I walk the aisles, looking for milk, Nyquil, kielbasa to cut up into the soup already started at home. I pass men in produce, bakery, the cola aisle.

You could have me.
You could have me.
You could have me.

In the parking lot, the standard looks, my standard response - smile, drop eyes, look left and down. One calls out, "Hey, do redheads really have more fun?" I laugh the fake 'Aren't you cute' laugh, a short bark, then think better of it and smile for real.

You could have me.

It's like a secret power, I'm invisible, I can fly, I can bend steel bars and you don't know it. Longing, hard-on, loneliness all around me.

If only you asked the right question I could solve your problem like that.

Lost in Translation

A recent post from a bulletin board, in a thread discussing whether and what type of dirty talk is hot:

Just yesterday I had an appointment with someone who pulled the dirty-talking thing off magnificently. I always kind of assumed it would be hot to hear, and the real thing did not disappoint...

What a turn-on!!

Nothing fancy, mind you. Kind of along the lines of:

"Yeah, that's it. Keep (verbing) me with that hot (noun). (Verb) me with that big (noun)! (Verb) that (noun), baby!! (Verb) me hard!!!" etc, etc.

Kind of loses something in the translation, but it was hot.

Awww....

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

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

make me come to [your town].

--K

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

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

Incall

I am on time. I am always on time. Most SP's are not. That’s probably why it’s important to me. Client greets me at his front door, in what passes for an upscale subdivision around here. I’m just pleased it’s close to the drycleaners, I’ve been meaning to pick up a dress I left last week. He asks if he can kiss me, offers me wine. We cuddle on the leather couch and discuss the vagaries of the “hobby” and the internet community that goes with it. His house looks divorced, it's under-furnished, the couch and entertainment center a little lost under high white ceilings. My money is on a credenza near the door. I leave it there for now.

He kisses me, his lips are thin and soft, his mouth is small for such a tall, heavy man. His tongue reaches into my mouth, barely past my own lips. He discovers my stockings, delighted, and takes off my patent spike-heeled boots (what I hate about winter: the choice between cold feet and practical shoes). Off comes his shirt, my shirt, his pants, there are mouths on nipples, he is carpeted in hair. I take down his boxers and discover the smallest penis I have ever seen. It has no neck, the head pertly balanced on his scrotum, testicles small enough so that now, in fact, I don’t recall what they looked like. I mentally roll up my sleeves and figure, well, I’ll do the best I can with what I have to work with.

For the record, it does grow, quite a bit, becoming the second or third smallest I’ve ever seen. He mentions that he has taken a pill (later, I realize he means Viagra - let’s just say this blog will not be quotable as testimonial for the Little Blue Miracle) and puts on a cock ring. We adjourn to the bedroom. Photos of his now-adult son are on every surface and wall. Heart-shaped picture frames. A ceramic one with "I Love My Daddy" in faux-childish crayon. A series depicting a cute third-grader becoming a thick-spectacled high-schooler with a mouth full of braces and one lazy eye.

More oral at the edge of the bed – he is quite taken with me putting his hand on the back of my head and encouraging him to fuck my mouth until I gag. He only just reaches my throat, but it does create some eye-watering and nose-running, giving me that attractive slut-who-wants-it look so beloved of low-budget porn.

He goes down on me. Gentle Readers, you already know my position on oral, so to speak. A little dramatic scene for your entertainment pleasure:

(Client licks)
Me: Ohhhhhh….. Let’s see, I’ll use his money on dinner at nice restaurant, good salad…
(Client sucks)
Me: Yeaaaahhhh…. Cashmere sweater, I would love to have another cashmere sweater, Nordstrom’s having a good sale…
(Client rubs his stubble on my tender parts)
Me: Easy, there! That’s a little intense. If only you all didn’t insist on me being on my back for this, perhaps we could find some common ground…

I suit his little fellow up and we try for Full Service, but neither cowgirl nor doggie is a success. He un-suits and brings out a Rabbit vibrator from under the sink.

“Let me just give that a bit of hot water to warm it up,” I say, not realizing until I get home, that hey, dingbat, anything headed for the Dark Night of the Vagina should probably be donning reflective gear. I do, however, wash that sucker with soap and the hottest water I can stand. The Rabbit is pretty impressive – I think I want one. It swivels like Big City Lover, and it’s a lot less emotionally traumatic.

A brief scientific digression:

Time it takes the average woman to achieve orgasm, according to Sexuality Education.com: 20 minutes.

Time it generally takes me to achieve orgasm…let me check…

…: 10 minutes.

Time it takes the average client to start urging me to come: 3 minutes.

So Client sends in the troops, which are nicely intense. I definitely want one. But despite the Rabbit feeling pretty darn good, and me being relatively close to the edge anyway, when Client starts urging me to come I end up faking it. I’m close enough to try to push for it, but it’s clear that it’s going to take at least another 5-7 minutes, having started pretty much from scratch on insertion, and what I need him to do is shut up and let me push into it. It’s less trouble – and less personal – to just toss one off.

Afterwards, we cuddle on the bed, and I give him a backrub. This is the best part. I feel close to him, he enjoys it (“You have strong hands”), I like him. He wants to see me again.

While we cuddle, I ask him if he likes off-color jokes, and tell him one:

"A man goes to a brothel where he has heard there is an amazing special. There is a lady there who will give him a blowjob while singing the National Anthem. He goes upstairs, goes into a dark room, and sure enough feels an amazing sensation and hears the Star-Spangled Banner. The bombs burst in air, he pays her and leaves. He goes back the next week, asks for the same thing, it’s incredible, rockets red glare. He goes back again, he has to see who this fantastic woman is. He flicks on the lights and sees the lady…washing her glass eye."


Client says, “Well, I won’t be telling that one to my son.”

Me: ??

Client: “He has a glass eye.”

Oops.

Bits and Pieces

...At the end of a Get-To-Know-You dinner, I'm interested that the client would like to book me weekly for several months. If I liked him more, this would be ideal, I wouldn't even see anyone else. But there's something 'off'. As we leave the restaurant, he holds each of the doors, and as I walk through, puts his hand on my lower back and ever-so-slightly, shoves...

...I get a massage and the therapist asks me to leave on my underwear (usually, they say, undress however much you are comfortable). As we progress, she ends up having to shift my underwear around to get at my hip joints and lower back. This feels more awkward and self-conscious than if I was fully naked...

...I have finally learned how to use my blowdryer and hair straightener. Years of middle school and high fashion magazines are no match for 4 weeks of whoring...

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I had meals out with three men yesterday. Two of them picked up the check. The third one I slept with. What's wrong with this picture?



First meeting - Client for lunch. He wears a blue sweater that brings out his eyes, he's sweet and a little nervous and laughs at my jokes. I eat half a salad (fortunately, as it turns out) and we plan a hot-tub appointment for next week. Later that day, he sends me an email-

Subject line: WOW
That about says it all, wow...

Hey thanks for lunch. It was an absolute pleasure meeting you. The only downside is that now I have to wait until Tuesday to see you again. Well at least that allows the anticipation to build. As I hugged you goodbye, I could only imagine the sensation of holding you close, lightly kissing and caressing your neck, you turning your head and the first kiss....

Okay so I'm not a writer, but you get my drift.

Slightly cheesy in phrasing, yes. But the man is a FINANCIAL PLANNER. He made some EFFORT writing that. He risked making a fool of himself because I talked about being a writer and he thought words would please me, and he tried to do something I would like.

Second meeting - at the Shooting Range. Client, a self-described 'Geezer', reminds me of my Grampa before he got a little angry with dementia. He's got that spry, chipper, wry sense of humor, where he says outrageous things just to see what I'll do. We suit up with safety glasses and special earmuffs that electronically muffle noise when shots happen but let us hear each other's voices the rest of the time. Geezer teaches me how to load, aim and fire a .22, a .38 and a Glock 9mm. I am most accurate with the 38, but darn pleased that in fact I hit the main part of the target most of the time. At the end of our shooting session, he shows me what appears to be a fanny pack but is actually a quick-draw holster for a small handgun. I find it suddenly terrifying that people with permits can walk around wearing something like this.

Geezer then wants to take me to dinner - it's only 4:30, and my first thought is, well it is Early Bird Special time and he's probably AARP as well as NRA...he tells me about his foster kids (!?!), we eat 2-for-1 steak dinners and I am impressed that he tips the waitress $10 on a $22 check. He wants to take me snowmobiling and book me for a weekend.

Third meeting - I go see Big City Lover, complete with hour drive to his hotel from where I am, which is already an hour from home. We go get food - he needs it, I have soup and another half a salad - and I'm dreading the arrival of the check. See, BCL and I have had a couple of conversations about his position on chivalry, which is officially 'men and women should both be nice to each other', but which seems to translate as not holding doors or coats or picking up checks. Not that he doesn't do these things at all, but that he doesn't do them consistently one way or the other.

When the check arrives at Meals #1 and 2, both Clients not-so-subtly lunge for it, their body language indicating that the waitress has made a crucial tactical error by setting the folder squarely in the Gender-Neutral location on the table. With BCL, however, the check sits there, mocking me for driving, for the intention of head. But eventually, I reach over and say, "Well, I think it works out about the same, shall we just go halves?"



I hate going Dutch. I hate it with the burning heat of a thousand suns. I would rather pick up the check myself than work out who had the second glass of wine and did it cost more than half a shared dessert. With Husband, I usually carry the (joint) cash, he gets doors and coats. Lover feels strongly enough about 'man pays' that the last time I went to see him he put gas in my car. (When he was married, we went halves by me booking the hotel in advance while he paid for meals and on-the-spot expenses. Now, when I occasionally demur at a dinner or treat, he reminds me I am less expensive than was the marital mortgage.)

Here is the thing. I understand if the existing societal conventions, so useful to most men in providing simple, easily recognizable signals that say "I Value You," are not BCL's cup of tea. But I don't find that he's replaced those conventions with any other method of telling me that I'm worth more than as a non-complicated romp. After many years of Good Sport Sex, I have finally met a string of guys (personally and professionally) who treat me like my pussy is the Publisher's Clearinghouse Prize, and they are willing to subscribe to Sewing Circle, Cooking Lite and Teen Vogue to increase their chances of winning. It does not sit well with me to be with the guy who gives his kid the stickers and tosses the entry form saying, "Nobody ever wins that shit anyway."

Back at the hotel, we check our respective emails, he admires my bra (whore-wear), and we get into bed. For a while, we gently touch. His eyes are closed, and I think, ok, maybe we'll just go to sleep. I roll into his body and his hand wraps around my pussy like lightning. I watch his hand in my panties as an observer. The fingering starts to turn me on, and I roll over, kneel between his legs and suck. His eyes are still closed. His cock is very smooth, the head very dark. I straddle him, pull my panties (also whore-wear) aside, and lick my fingers to help him in. I had forgotten why I fuck him, and the answer suddenly comes back - the way he moves his hips, an incredible circular motion that fills me and rubs me and hurts just enough. He comes. I come. We stay there until I need to turn the heat down in the room, and when I go to the thermostat his come slides out of me, pools in my panties. I debate mailing them to Lover but think it will probably take too long, the smell will be gone.

We sleep. In the morning, he gets up earliest, sends email, gets dressed. He leaves a little before I do, for the job that brought him to town. I miss the part about being held as I wake up.



In the car today, after meeting yet another client, I finally get the balls to call BCL and tell him that I need to know he values me. Somehow, the conversation ends up with him sounding perfectly reasonable and me feeling whiny.

But I'm home tonight...

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.

Morning

This morning I was lying in bed, enjoying warm blankets and a cat at my feet, and the phone rang - I had forgotten I agreed to babysit for the neighbor for an hour this morning. Client lunch at noon, but I think I'll be able to make it.

Neighbor home a little late, so I call the client, get his voicemail, ask if we can make it 12:15 or 12:30.

I am taking the world's fastest shower when he return-voicemails me back - he'd been hoping I could be early, guess we'll have to make it another time. I call him immediately to suggest that I can be there in 10 minutes and perhaps we could just have coffee? I again get the voicemail. Turn your damn phone on, buddy.

He doesn't call back. Which is just as well, as I discover upon hanging up that Husband has taken the blow-dryer out of town with him, and I suspect my drowned-rat hair will not lead to booking an appointment.

On a side note - the neighbor's children are adorable. Husband and I have proceeded from debating whether to debating when. I am frankly terrfied.

1) Not really a kid person, though I hear it's different when they are yours.
2) Perhaps this is shallow, but I like having a tight pussy and I'm worried it'll get all stretched out.
3) I'm worried, not that I won't be able to continue my sex life, but that I won't want to.

How's that for morning reflection?

Finer Points

I make an appointment for a get-to-know-you with a client.

We're going to meet at the shooting range.

"How will I know you?" I ask.

"I'm 58, 6 feet tall, and I'll be wearing a black leather jacket with a Marine Corps patch on one shoulder and my NRA patch on the other."

Should I be screening for politics?

Whatever Shall I Wear?

I may be meeting a last-minute client tonight for dinner and dancing (or something). It is 20 degrees and slushy out.

Sexy clothes:
Short skirts (I go with knee length, shooting for class here), thin stockings with garter belt, high heels (my favorite are the Kenneth Coles in the picture, they are fabric, not leather), clingy tops of thin material, bare necks, bare arms, bare wrists, bare ears, fluffy hair, perfect makeup.

Warm/dry clothes:
Thick tights or long underwear under brown corduroys, tank top layered under long-sleeve shirt layered under heavy sweater, coat, hat, gloves, thick socks, winter hiker-y boots, scarf, chapstick and lots of it.

Houston, we have a problem.

Bits and Pieces

...for me, the money buys my instant availability rather than overcoming a lack of desire, though I am walking that line a bit...

...If your spouse sucks at cleaning, hire a maid. If your spouse works too much to care for the children, hire a nanny. If your spouse hates cooking, hire a cook or order in. But God forbid the spouse can't/won't have sex - they're an injured innocent and you're a lousy partner if you try to fulfill *that* need without leaving them...We spend our whole lives being brought up to believe that we must only have sex with people we are in love with, and that it's wrong and bad to enjoy being with more than one person in that way, that we are wrong and bad if we keep expressing a basic need, and we just have to 'deal with it' if the person we love best cannot provide for us. We'd never say that about food...

...Lying with Client, talking about Amsterdam, I say that I would like to visit a live sex show, and Amsterdam would be the place to do it since it will probably be a good one there. Thus far, I say, I have not been to Amsterdam with someone who would go to a live sex show with me, and I don't want to go alone because I'm worried I'll be mistaken for a prostitute. Oh, wait...


...My latest dilemma. Perhaps the idea that will come to be the overriding theme of this blog. If a client is doing things that do not turn me on, or feel actively bad, do I stop them, redirect them, teach them, or let them keep going and fake/enhance my enjoyment so that they think everything is just fine? On one hand, I am not there for my pleasure (we could argue), I'm there for theirs. That's why they're paying. The product is Girl Who Thinks You're a Fabulous Lover, and my job is to make them feel like the world's greatest athlete. On the other hand, the kind of personal experience I am starting to be interested in having is the outreach aspect - getting compensated like a therapist for much the same job, minus some of the professional detachment. With my circus client, I was honest about what oral was like for me, and I asked him his reasoning for a certain position for oral for him, just as I would with a personal lover. Sooo...can I make money and not offend clients if I treat them like a lover I care about being with again, and like I want to be genuinely having a good time? Or will they just feel instructed and put off by an overbearing bitch instead of the compliant little slut they paid for?

So the question, Gentle Readers - better for you if the lady, for all you can tell, is having a lovely time with no instructions to you, or if she says wait, do it like this? The client cannot (so far) tell the difference between my real and faked good time...