Very Idiotic Provincial

I’m surrounded by lesbians. Short, chubby lesbians. Tall, rangy lesbians. Old Lesbians For Change. Softball lesbians. Punk lesbians. There are more crewcuts than I can shake a stick at, and frankly, not much in the way of lipstick.

On the way back to VIP, flash my bracelet, Security in an orange shirt calls at me. It takes me a minute to realize what she said was, “I’ll have to frisk you first,” and a second minute to realize it’s flirting. She’s a foot shorter than me, rosy cheeks, sleek grey bob, smooth unlined skin and great tits on a buxom body, waist vanishing as she approaches fifty. Later, I flirt with the lesbian comedienne, the big name anchoring the show, joking that all the hot chicks out there are making me bi-curious. Nothing says Pride Day Celebration like a hetero whore, right?

Here’s the thing. I don’t “get” lesbianism. It’s not that I don’t support anyone’s right to be with whom they are born to be with. But I don’t “get” it in the way that I don’t “get” what it’s like to be black. Just as I can only get a glimpse of what Big City Lover or Circus Guy go through in their daily lives, and they can only speculate what it’s like to be in mine, I don’t understand how the feeling of wanting can be wanting women only. Beautiful Girl tells me, “I love being with a woman, but I can’t imagine living without cock.”

Um, ditto.

I felt really, really provincial and kind of homophobic when I kept catching myself staring at the lesbian couples. Not the gay ones – I don’t know why it’s different, maybe because they are already “not me”, what with the testicles and all. But the women, the strong and beautiful women, were a herd of ten thousand zebras, giraffes, gazelles (and the occasional warthog) around one very confused and outnumbered lioness.

A Little Diversion (Poem for Beautiful Girl)

(People who post poetry on their blogs are lame.)


Fairfield Inn Room 346, Kansas City, Kansas

You are a goddess and a genius
i say to my friend she says to me
we will be princesses together
with yellow stones in your tiara and me with a green in mine
Victory Victoria Alexandria Albertine
your little sister shall be Albertine
and we will keep the good names.

You are an angel and a goddess my friend she says to me, she has created
me as Celestial, Celeste, Celesta (a tiny piano?
why not - i think it has the voice of angels, thin bells
arguing on high)
me as the heroin of my story
worth every penny for the high
dirty needles left in our wake
as she gets up from the dermabrasion table
(all reinvention comes from vanity)
and i lay down on the floor.

You are a genius and an angel
we say, we kiss hello, we rise from hell
oh, how we shriek with joy and share our scalps
and swap shampoo in tiny hotel bottles
that remind us of the nights
we spent and spooned, were chaperoned
and we were good little girls
good as gold, good as angels,
good as kind goddesses, not that other kind
of goddess, whose pretty words are sharp like knives
but not as sharp as scalpels - why make an easy wound?
we say, and laugh, receive our tributes
as our due, we pay our dues
with checks that bounce, and sign our names
Morgana, Calliope, Misti, Alice Pleasance
or just 'me', illegibly, i, i, i,
and tell our paramours to prove their love
and take the bait, slay the dragon, hold the line,
i'll be back, i promise, one day, i'll be back.

Back soon...

Sorry, Gentle Readers -

5 days of being "off" writing - not really having anything to say, not willing to write filler.

5 days of being not just heinously busy but surrounded by other people.

5 days of being in a location with minimal cell service, minimal internet, working my 'real job' all day...surrounded by other people.

So I am remiss. I have greatly appreciated the people who have checked in with me - thank you (personal thanks to come, a blog thank-you-note is lameass).

I did in that span have one long, interesting client - I've been writing it in my head and will post probably tomorrow or the next day.

Meanwhile - a little something written on a tablecloth.

Sugasm #82

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #83? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks

Back Surgery and Sex-How do you connect sexually when you can’t connect physically? (deliciously-naughty.typepad.com…)
“There was no sex. It wasn’t possible.”

A Hard Day’s Play - part 4 (curvaceousdee.blogspot.com…)
“But all the while, there was the awareness of the runes.”

Unrequited (junohenry.wordpress.com…)
“The man in question is a friend and sometime fuck-buddy.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Google Search: &imgtype=face (sugarbank.com…)

Editor’s Choice
Coffee (gentlygently.blogspot.com…)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday (Fleshbot.com)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The Friday Night Bookstore Crowd (silent-porn-star.blogspot.com…)
A hundred blowjobs in one night? (www.katiegirl4u.com…)
Poly & Death (perverselypoly.blogspot.com…)
Polyamory from a Lesbian Point of View (practicalpolyamory.blogspot.com…)
“When he was just a word.” (un-cool.blogspot.com…)

BDSM & Fetish
Goldslut on Top (goldslutstandard.com…)
Featured Fetish - Good Old Fashioned Bondage - YAY! (www.quipsandchains.com…)
Flogger Session (www.sub-burbs.com…)
Game Type B (lolitawolf.blogspot.com…)
Happiness Is A Rosy Bottom (cherryredreport.blogspot.com…)
Ownership, sharing and monogamy (twentyfoursevends.blogspot.com…)
Pained need (insidedarkpixie.blogspot.com…)
The power of the Anakin’s paddle (darkside-journey.blogspot.com…)
What a weekend it has been… (everythingoze.blogspot.com…)
What vanilla guys can do when they try (kinkyfarmwife.blogspot.com…)

Sex Humor
At seventeen (hard-and-fast.blogspot.com…)
Isn’t That The Thing That Killed The Crocodile Hunter? (funnyextreme.com…)

Sex Work
Bad Call Breakdown (radicalvixen.com…)
Found in Translation (thismuse.blogspot.com…)

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Christine Vinson Nude (eroticandy.blogspot.com…)
Danae (Met Models) (viviane212.blogspot.com…)
Feeders (Tiffany Lynn) (pornster.blogspot.com…)
Friday’s Here…Time For Beer!!!!! (drtycplinva.blogspot.com…)
Giving Head (video) (kimandethan.com…)
Hegre Art’s Latest Nude Photo Shoots (www.taratainton.com…)
Nella and Simone (www.nellablog.com…)
Oily (myhotbox.blogspot.com…)
Summer Cummings - Red and Black Boots (video) (thebootcam.com…)

Sex News & Reviews
Pocket Rocket Plus Review (stilettodiaries.blogspot.com…)
Porn Star’s Claims Merit Trooper’s Suspension ( www.tarasnaughtyshop.com…)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
30-again (bikersballsandteacherstits.blogspot.com…)
Casual (sexcakes.blogspot.com…)
Charlie and Bess (in-your-pants.blogspot.com…)
The Cock Slayer (confessions112.blogspot.com…)
First Trip To The Nude Beach (watchingmywife.blogspot.com…)
On Living in the Moment… (whatmyfriendsdontknowcanthurt.blogspot.com…)
Put your hands on me…. fantasy friday (dirtylittlecockslut.blogspot.com…)
A saucy tale (erotischism.blogspot.com…)
Some Very Lovable Neighbors (4) (eroticjournals.blogspot.com…)
Up Against The Wall… (classyelegantlady.blogspot.com…)
Welcome To School…. (afterschoolmonologues.blogspot.com…)
When you need some time to play basketball (lastbreath.wordpress.com…)

Hanging Out at Nia's

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Not Worth Doing Unless Done Well

Planning my next meeting with Tourist:

White stockings and garter belt
Nurse smock with zip front
Nurse skirt hemmed above the knee
Nurse hat
Horn-rim glasses
Clipboard and pen
Medical forms with increasingly personal questions
White heeled shoes
Wrist restraints – blood pressure cuffs?
Patient gown
Thermometer
Tongue depressor
Stethescope
Access to rented medical office with examination table, counter, sink, etc.
“Secretary” to register “patient”

And that’s why your whore wants a deposit.

Osmosis

Another city. Another hotel. This one with a wide, lobby-like area on our floor, pleasant maybe later for lounging or fucking on a chaise.

Lover loves OCD, I hang clothes in the closet, set shoes in a line, refold two shirts in my suitcase and pose like a pinup as I tuck them back in the row, bent at the hips, chest up, rear up.

“Do that again,” smiling. I do, and he comes behind me, I press into him as I press down the shirt. Suitcase goes by the closet, lid open, on the rack, bath stuff in the bathroom, sex toys in the bedside table drawer. Lover picks up the paper, special section of portraits and stats. “There are some homely women in the Indy 500.”

I come over to look. Danica Patrick needs more makeup, and Milka Duno is working it too hard hair in her face, she looks unprofessional. But the guys are no great shakes either, closer to a set of trim Jason Alexanders and British authors who dutifully belong to health clubs than dashing guys named Andretti should look.

Lover pulls me to him, holds me, kisses my neck, my hair. “Which bed is yours?” “That’s the one I’m sleeping in and that’s the one I’m fucking you on.” He pulls me down onto the bed, on top of him. My white linen skirt (I admired the demure knee-length in my reflection in the doors on the way in) rides up. I touch his chest, he holds my hips. We kiss, lightly and then less lightly. He reaches up beneath my skirt, beneath my soft t-shirt, holds my breasts in his hand. Off comes the shirt, over my head to beside him on the bed. We’re on top of the bedspread. Covered in hooker juice, no doubt. I realize too late that this is what I set up with clients, one bed pristine and one for spoilage. I think to say, “But maybe I’ll sleep here anyway,” but I don’t.

“Take me from behind.” “You want that a lot lately.” I do, because I’m in the habit – that’s the position you come the quickest in. They come the quickest in. He’s in me, I miss seeing his face, the little head duck, the sudden gratified delight when he finds himself there. It’s good, it hurts, it’s fine. He still has all his clothes, I’m naked but for thong panties pulled to the side, light blue cotton. I can feel the zipper bump me each time.

He wants me on top, I straddle him and ride, distant tremors coming closer. He pinches my left nipple, hard, the way that focuses me purely and tightly on this moment, this place, this feeling. Release. Pinch again. I ask for it, drawing closer, and I come in a haze of gentle sparks.

Afterwards, I’m close to tears, which is not uncommon, but I look down at him, gentle face, dark hair, light eyes, and the thought flashes, Our days are numbered.

I’m still jerking every time he touches me, sensitive to shock and movement. His turn, and the terrible crushing feeling of obligation, I want so bad to ask him to leave and I don’t even know why, but it’s so terribly selfish (I think) to come and not return the favor, I must, I must, I don’t know what it is but I have to…

Onward. Over him. Pausing for a minute to close my eyes and wish the tears back in their ducts, I’ve always been an easy cry, voice exercises that loosen the sinus resonator are Kleenex days for me, snot and salt everywhere. I wish you knew what was going on because I sure don’t. I wish I could put my clothes on and tell you to go. He says, “You have such a cute expression on your face – so uncertain.” The unintentional irony is a wall of water, this man who knows me almost-best, loves me almost-best, hurts me only in the ways I beg for, so good at watching for my edge, has no perception in this moment.

More. I sit up and back. “Raise your hands above your head.” I do, one hand half-holding the other wrist. He slaps my left breast, brushing across my tender nipple. Physically, it’s wonderful, shock and pain and yet it’s the intention and not the blow that stings. Mentally, I’m nowhere, the best part of D/s, I’m here. Again, and I flinch. My arms draw down and he tells me to put them back up again. Again he strikes, his eyes wide, his breath faster, too. I wonder why he doesn’t make me raise them higher, make me more his. Last one, that’s it, that’s all I can do. I curl down into his arms and he pats me and soothes me, knowing that for me, this is always what I want afterwards.

And then the tears come for real, I keep my eyes closed, I want this client to leave, I want to know why I fantasized about my husband right before I came, I want to know why the combination of stubble against my breast and coming and being fucked from behind is dirt under my nails, the cat refusing to use the box, waitressing when I’m not old enough to serve, being scolded by a boss.

“I need to go blow my nose.” And there I am in the bathroom, red nose, red nipples, eyes working towards unpretty. Blow, flush, snap out the light and back to bed. Got to give them their money’s worth.

He does, not much later, notice. “What are you thinking?” “I’m not thinking. I’m writing this in my head so that I won’t be thinking.” “I’m not sure that answer makes me happy.” I can’t tell him what is so terribly wrong, in part because I do not know.

He rubs my back. I tell him as much as I can. “Do you want to take a nap, or put our clothes on and go for a walk? Is there anything I can do?”

I need to write it out. We toss the bedspread on the floor. He curls into the sheets, curls around me and sleeps while I write.

Wake, Lover. Wake and read.

Dispatches From the Front

My Mother. Oh, My Mother…

I get a forwarded email from my mother. She got it from her friend Racist Homophobette (who hasn’t yet figured out why her oldest son is unmarried at 45 and doesn’t date).

It purports to be a screed by Andy Rooney. It’s not – Rooney’s quoted on Snopes saying he’d like to sue whoever started this nasty, racist piece as he feels it’s damaged his name.

The gist: why can’t white people have things for themselves if black people have special things like magazines and TV networks – isn’t that reverse racism? Followed hard upon by no girls in the Boy Scouts, guns don’t kill people people kill people, homosexuality is bad, why don’t those immigrants speak English and why do they get any social services, tattoos and piercings are bad (it’s pretty wide-ranging) and wraps up with, “since 86% of Americans believe in God” (which one?) we should tell the other 14% to “shut up and be quiet.” It concludes with “If you agree, forward this, if you don’t, delete.” Ah yes – speak up and be heard, unless you disagree, in which case shut up and be quiet.

And me, I can’t let it lie.

I address the misapplication of non-specific pseudo-statistics, point out that my brother is gay and my friends (I avoid the words ‘lovers’ and ‘clients’, tee hee) are black, mention that I’ve been beaten (briefly) by cops so maybe they’re not always right, and ask if Andy Rooney really said this, or did someone else throw his name on it and start sending it around?

I get personal:

…naming a majority as a reason for rightness reminds me of "well, all my friends are doing it..." …I'm a little embarrassed that my mother, who taught me to stand up for what is right instead of what is convenient and popular, would send me this…Up to you whether you forward this back to Racist Homophobette.

I, of course, cc it to all the family members my mother cc’d it to.

My brother points out it’s not Andy Rooney. My aunt replies back that it doesn’t matter who wrote it, it’s their opinion, “some valid points, some invalid.”

And you know, it occurs to me that it does matter who wrote it. If it's a
public figure, we weight their words more heavily than if it's just some internet nobody taking advantage of not having to spend money to spread around their words. Would Homophobette have sent it to all her friends if it was from Joe Blow she'd never heard of?

My mother is from a generation where the internet is a way to do business and a fun toy, but I get most of my news and information in this way. It personally benefits me to call people on lies, misrepresentations, and lack of accuracy in the emails they forward to all their friends, because I'd rather have an internet that's more of a library and less of a bathroom wall.

More importantly, it matters who forwards it. Would my mother – or even her friend – write in a public newspaper, with their name attached, the same sentiments? It’s safer to mass-forward an email supposedly written by a funny columnist without thinking very much about the subtle hate speech involved. When you forward an email, you endorse what it says. In this case, explicitly, as per the last line of the email. I'm not comfortable letting my family think I'm willing to go along with gay-bashing, immigrant-bashing, and racism, and "just delete."

I write to my aunt (cc-ing to everyone, why withhold the potential for family drama?)

…casual hate speech is worse than deliberate hate speech, because we take it in without thinking when it comes in a funny email instead of from a guy in a white hood. Maybe I'm one of the horrible PC people the original writer alludes to - but if he had the guts to sign his real name and stand up for what he believes, his polemic would carry a lot more weight.

Which leads me to think, am I the pot? You are, after all, reading an anonymous blog. But there is a difference, not only in that I am not claiming to be someone more important or more established to give weight to my opinions, but also that I have a persona you can use for context. You may not know Mandy, but you know “Mandy”, and she accepts comments, answers emails, and engages in dialogue when people disagree.

Feel free to forward...the name is Mandy Muse.

Further Adventures in Linguistics

Practice Dialogues: Listening for the Unsaid

Dialogue One

I wanted to quickly write you before I head out the door to get my run in, and let you know how much I enjoyed our conversation! I really appreciate your willingness to listen to me, and hopefully have an understanding of what I'm looking for.

I think your idea is a wonderful one, and hopefully all the necessary factors will work out for us to begin creating experiences for each other, starting with a nice dinner…perhaps we could plan on meeting around… depending of course upon your schedule and availability.

I hope my picture comes through ok, and need to apologize up front for the lack of quality of the photo. Hopefully it will serve the purpose until we actually do meet.

Thanks again for the lovely conversation, and I believe we have much to discover with each other :-)

Have a fun and safe weekend, and I look forward to your email soon,
Tourist

Notes for the student:
- Correct spelling and use of polysyllabic words indicate Tourist’s willingness to communicate in the appropriate forms.
- Mention of his “run” indicates probable lack of pasty waistline fat.
- The translator may or may not choose to indicate the slightly submissive tone.

Mandy responds, indicating her desire to know more about him as a person, her interest in knowing more about his fantasies, and:

…we should both be on the same page as far as the financial side goes. Generally, I receive a gift of $XXXX for an afternoon through early evening or late afternoon through late evening plus the next morning meeting. This includes my time, travel and hotel, and fun conversations before and after via phone and email. Shorter meetings (long afternoon or long morning) can be arranged with a 25% reduction. I really like to be able to focus on you not just in our time together, but before and after for enough time that we can truly feel a connection, and I think this will be especially helpful in terms of extended role-playing.

I'm looking forward to meeting you. As I mentioned, I am in the Midwestern City area for something else so you are not 'on the hook' for most of my travel, but if you would like to gift me for my time I will leave that to your discretion.

xo - and a little slap on the hand -

Mandy

Notes for the student:
- Mandy indicates that her emails and conversations are included in her fee, thus clarifying up front that they are paid time. This is as much for her benefit as for his, reminding herself that taking on too many things leads to doing them all poorly.
- Mandy sets a test for Tourist – will he show his generosity on the very first meeting?
- Note suggestive closing, a foray into whether or not Tourist may be interested in D/s in addition to his stated desire to roleplay.


***

Dialogue Two

Tourist responds cautiously:

The only part I didn't quite get is the "xo - and a little slap on the hand - "
Not sure if I said something that upset you, but hope I didn't, and didn't mean to if I did.

One must always be willing to clarify intention in a new language:

It's a playful little smack, not because you did anything bad, but because perhaps you'll like it :)

Glad to hear I didn't do anything wrong, and it looks like you have a pretty good intuition about me :-) I'm so ready to have you help expand my horizons!

***

You have successfully completed this practice dialogue. Now try some conversation with your new friends!

Monday: more History.

A PS to Anonymous Girl on the Verge – I think my closing comment about ‘competition’ sounded way snarkier than I meant. Holler if you would like an apology.

Found in Translation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tease

and

denial.

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

Damn right I do.

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



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

The Key in an Open Hand

I paused a moment before opening the hotel room door, knowing that he wasn’t inside but still disappointed when he wasn’t inside. Before he left, I tucked the second key into his pocket, “In case you want to come back.”

It’s not wanting. It’s flight schedules and long work days and money, always money. Once we had a phone date, both on our cells in different cities having dinner, but I drove to New Orleans instead of Atlanta and met him in the restaurant, the staff charmingly congratulatory when the live girl walked up in dress and heels (I showered and changed at a truck stop, the transformation from driving sweats to dinner girl fazing the guys in the shower line) and they reseated us from the bar where he’d anticipated talking on his phone to a charming corner table, extra appetizers, have a glass of wine on us.

So I am only a little crushed.

Later, Lover rings me, at least I know he left the party alone, he had a little with the hostess but couldn’t outwait the other guests at the end of the day, the three days. Music’s glamorous but it’s hard, the energy pours out indiscriminately and I never worry about the ones who listen, they’re part of a herd. But colleagues are another story, and jealousy is not the problem but possessiveness is. It’s not my call to make. If he is to be a fellow traveler and not a thing to be used and discarded, he cannot be just mine, it demeans, lessens, makes me too sure.

Today I was in Claire’s, hair flowers, tights, purses, tiaras, little notebooks, cheap pleasure in my basket and half-off from the nice guy behind the counter (I ask about a Hair-i-gami to make clever buns, Hans knows immediately it’s wrong for the texture of my hair, so much for retail drones not caring). I want some earrings. Something small, that I can not bother to take out before bed. I want Lover to give me some earrings. Small gold hoops that I can wear all the time, real gold, probably not from Claire’s…

I’m half an hour back on the job before the symbolism crashes into my brain.

Terrifying.

OK, I don’t normally write about political issues, but I read about the Ted Klaut arrest over at Radical Vixen’s, and it made me wonder – does the anti-woman, anti-choice, anti-midwife legislation go hand-in-hand with the proclivity to child rape and molestation of young women and girls under one’s care because, well, perhaps one is so fat and ugly (there’s a picture) and mentally disgusting (my assumption) that he can only manage to fuck powerless women? Are Conservative Right Republicans so anti-woman because it increases their potential sexual partners? Are they so set on no-sex-before-marriage because then the woman won’t know that his penis is small and he’s lousy and/or selfish in bed? Anti-gay because it’s a whole new set of options that don’t include fucking them? It sure would explain a lot...



Prideful Parade photo accompanies a modern protest song over at the Huffington Post.

Signals

My mother’s mother said to her and then she said to me:

Never call a boy, let him call you.

What I received: Boys are never friends. The only reason to talk to a boy is if you’re going to play the game. The only reason to call one is to tell him you’re available

Sexual Athlete calls and calls and texts and texts. I finally send him an email to tide him over, tell him I’m not generally seeing people but have a new way of doing things. The grasping fingers in me want his money, his legal advice, and very little else. Nothing else. Especially not his grasping fingers in me.

I finally call him. How’s his life, how’s his business, he just got out of a meeting and has a charming little anecdote about Navy aircraft carrier landings and the signs and gestures involved, including a slang gesture for “get your head out of your –“. Sexual Athlete uses this sign in meetings to indicate his displeasure with the speaker. Bet working with him’s as fun as fucking him for money. I’m sure the checks clear. I tell him about having seen a gentleman in another city, and how much more fun it was to spend real time, human time instead of rental time. Sadly, he’s interested. Guess it’s a better deal than I thought. I tell him I’ll send him financial information and quickly formulate a plan of delaying that as long as possible, ‘cause you know, it’s my body, I can’t stand fucking him, hate his rough hands, his spit that gradually smells worse and worse, his bad oral, and so the logical conclusion is to (as a liberated woman) take ownership of my body and deny him access by...stalling.

While I follow this train of thought through the murky Tunnel of Indecision, Sexual Athlete is critiquing my blowjob skills, he prefers less hand action and more mouth. I imagine giving him the Navy sign for “Well, tell me at the time, dumbass, you’re paying” Or better yet, the sign for “Secretly, I’m not interested at all, can we wind this up?” I tell him flat out, partly as revenge, but still nicely enough that I’m sure it doesn’t penetrate, that I don’t come from oral and I won’t be faking it. Now he’s babbling on about ice cubes again – I jumped back and said no in person, I answered his email question with no, too cold, and now he’s suggesting putting them on my nipples instead. Not a listener, our Sexual Athlete.

Why, LFM? Why do we keep going when it so clearly sucks, why do we give them another chance, another ten minutes, hoping it will get better or feeling obligated to see it through? He’s not attractive to me, though as far as clients go, he’s Brad Pitt on a bad day (some baby spit-up and a hopefully growing realization that he’s not having quite the same experience as his partner, but still hot) compared to the usual rank of pasty guys in pants with a partially-elastic waist. He’s not good in bed, he makes me sore, I don’t like his attitude or the way he sheds bodily hair, I feel like a service provider.

My mother’s mother said to her and then she said to me:

Always go out with a boy at least once if he asks you, he might have a nice friend.

What I received: don’t say no.

Madeleines

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

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

He does not leave the money on the dresser.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We fuck.

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

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

We rest.

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

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

He kisses me.

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

We leave $10 for the maid.

Bits and Pieces

...At a business meeting, an attorney tells me his one case that made news, two children killed when a driver hit the back of the tractor they were riding. “The fact that my client was intoxicated when he hit them was not relevant,” he earnestly volunteers. “It was a rainy night, the road curved, and the tractor did not have rear reflectors. The tractor driver and his wife later divorced, one of the children was theirs and I think they couldn’t handle being at fault.” I think, there's not enough money in the world...

...I write in a word document and then copy-paste to the blog. I’ve decided that when I’m at 100 pages I will start looking for literary representation to make this sucker (or the content thereof) a book. 78 single-spaced and counting...

...One way to tell if you would whore – how much could you charge? Check out the Provider Price Predictor, which will weight your age, sex, looks and personality to advise you on a fair rate in your area and across America! Get a friend to help you rate yourself, it's a great way to acquire some hurt feelings! Is my face really a 6 or is Power Girl just working from a different generational reference? (It's best you not answer that, Gentle Readers)...

Theory (On Whoring, Privacy and Choice)

Part One is here.

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

These privacy concerns [about sending out possibly identifying pictures] are all that keep me from following a comparable course as yours.

As a writer and artist (struggling, of course), I anticipate receiving some publicity at some point, hopefully some success. I intend to be very selective, taking the 'courtesan' route from the start. And although I would have no shame about any whoring or other sex work I do in the interim, I'd nevertheless prefer to keep those activities separate from my public work -- at least until I'm ready to connect the dots myself, which in fact I look forward to doing, but on my terms.

Damn straight.

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

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

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

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

...



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

Sugasm #79 - Top Three!

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