Art 1, Honesty/Chastity/Fidelity 0

One of the Gentle Readers comments:

The writing that's coming from your experiences is excellent, but what of the costs? Is the thrill worth having to lie to your husband, betray his trust and potentially put his health at risk? Is the creative product worth choosing to be an untrustworthy person?

I don't characterize what I'm doing as a "thrill", which I think demeans the ability of art to transcend the raw materials. I'm not in this for (cheap) thrills. I sleep around because I love the people I'm with and I'm not inherently monogamous. I whore for money and, as I am now discovering, to 'only connect'.

On one hand, I'm not Picasso. On the other, no-one said to Pablo, "Hey, you're a lousy husband and father and kind of a man-slut, why don't you give up this art thing and focus on your home life for awhile?" I suspect that this is in part because I'm female, but much more because I write about sex, which we as a society feel is unworthy of risk-taking to obtain, even while almost every popular depiction of "good sex" involves wild passion, adultery, one-night stands, violating social mores, obtaining the unattainable through heroic acts, near-rape, etc.

Right now, right or wrong, I identify the life I am leading as the major source of my creative power. I can no more choose between my husband and my writing than I could choose a favorite child. The other analogy that occurs is that of being in the military - is it fundamentally irresponsible to risk one's life in Iraq if you have dependents who will be widowed and fatherless if anything happens to you? This analogy presupposes that one finds making art to be as important and vital as serving one's country. I do find it so.

I said in an earlier post that

I think it’s worthwhile to do reprehensible things for the sake of making art. That’s why art must be good, why we cannot settle for average in our work. It must be worthy of the time spent cheating on the spouse, avoiding the friends, half-heartedly grading the students’ papers, ignoring the crying child kicking at the locked door of the room of one’s own.

And

I'd rather make great art than a great person

The struggle now is whether I'd rather make great art than be a great person.

So far Art has Human Kindness cornered in the Girls' Room with a pack of Sharpies and it's not looking good.

Dirty Little Secrets 2 (You Must Be This Tall to Ride This Ride)

Beautiful Girl commented beautifully, after I also mentioned to her privately that she might consider this line of work:

nice- glad there was a turnaround, my dear. i might try it, but there is something that wouldn't wash away, though i appreciate you thinking that i could. i am too essentially hippy, too uninterested in modifying my righteous me.[...] normal boys think twice about it. boys who pay... same as being paid to make music. there is a large sense of control that is lost.[...]

[...]i wish you were here to share in the night and the moon and the simpler things which do not involve boys and caring what they want and don't want. don't forget, dear one. you are more than the sum of these experiences, though they are heady and draw the attention like an exotic city seen first by night, with its lights and its music and its rhythm.

you are more.

She's right. Parts of it don't wash away. I noticed myself identifying with the group "prostitutes" when hearing that the group is being persecuted, and it's strange to feel one's identity shift. (A bisexual friend is married to a woman, all his long-term relationships have been with women, but he still calls himself "queer" because "when they load up the boxcars, that's who I want to be with.") No matter what else I do in my life from here, I've been a whore, and that's an indelible stamp in the passport that must be guarded forever. Once you go to Israel...

But this journey has led to a spate of writing like nothing ever before and so far the cost is high but worth every penny. Because I am writing about it, it's not about boys. Even when I am with someone, I am writing in my head and that is something they can't and don't touch, and right now it's burning so strong that it burns away a lot of the ick.

If I had to sell 20-dollar blowjobs on the corner to be able to write this well and prolifically (and hey, it's ego but I know when I'm good) I would do it. I would do anything short of shooting up to have this writing, and that's only a limit because I'm afraid of needles.

I said to Power Girl(and probably blogged)when I first started, "the memory of fucking him is already fading, but his money's still in my purse."

It's not about the money anymore. It's that for whatever reason, this is the risk that stimulates me. This is my wooden coaster, looking like it's been assembled by an old guy with a rachet set, the tracks shaking overhead while I wait in line, the jolting of the cars so strong I have to ride in the front seat only.

At the top

of the Pepsi Max One (longest-tallest-
fastest) you can see Blackpool laid out
beneath, the map edged with sea

spreading across the shingle, spreading
across the world.

There's a reason the E-ticket costs the most.

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.

Whore Sex vs Not Whore Sex, Part I

I start the day by breaking my glasses, missing the airport exit, and getting charged extra to standby for a later flight. I fly into National, which I refuse to call Ronald Reagan Airport. My skin is a mess – I’m already dehydrated from working all weekend, the flight made it worse. I powder my nose again as we taxi in, turn on my cell…and get a message that no, my hotel is not booked. Turns out that on Last Minute Travel some of the deals aren’t actually assured until they call you back. Spit. Dirty Drawers. Garbage. But I pull out my guidebook and book the swanky boutique hotel I’ve been eyeing for the past two weeks, figuring, ok, the extra $100 will be worth it if I’m having a lousy time and need somewhere nice to lick my wounds.

I see him on the other side of the security doors, he’s short with the stocky but not fat build that bespeaks a good-sized cock. As I come through the doors, he:

1) Ignores my outstretched hand and lunges over to kiss me on the mouth, open-mouthed, repeatedly, taking off the top third of my left big toenail with his giant clunky shoes;
2) Reeks of some godawful cologne;
3) Does not take my suitcase.

In my head, the robot starts flailing his arms…

We get to the car. He gets out something about “can’t wait to taste those-” (eewww!) and goes for the lips again. The robot has his hand on his forehead, shaking his head. This is worse than less-expensive whoring because it’s going to last twelve hours and it’s just starting.

A momentary digression on cologne:

Anteus

“Anteus is the God of Fire and Earth. He appears to his followers as a short, stout man with a bulbous nose, a long cap and he is often seen carrying a pickaxe or hammer.”

Rrrow! Bringin' sexy back!

scent strength: intense (I’ll say)
scent life: 6-10 hours (Oh dear God make it quit)
recommended use: evening (or never)
recommended age: mature (Estimated Age: Mummy, anyone?)
classification: woods (They crept through the woods, the sickly-sweet stench leading inevitably to the rotting corpse. “Some whore’s sorry she shagged that,” mused Constable Wexford.)

We make awkward small talk, me asking about his job in my time-honored technique of “You talk, I’ll think about what the heck to do about this.” The robot in my head waves a printout of flight times, damn the standby fee, get out while you can! Be-My-Real-Friend reaches across me to the glove compartment and points to a greeting-card envelope inside. “That’s for you.” The envelope is fat. Inside, there’s a card, clearly stuffed with money. “I’ll read this later.” I’ll count this later.

I check into the hotel, it’s delightful. The robot does a little Saturday Night Fever spin and pose. The clerk is from my home state and gives me a complimentary late checkout. We get to the room and Be-My-Real-Friend lunges again. The robot’s still dancing downstairs in the psychedelic lobby, I’m on my own now. I work up my guts and tell Be-My-Real-Friend that I’m so sorry, his cologne is one an ex-boyfriend used to wear and would he mind washing it off? He takes it with good grace, and while he ducks into the bathroom I check the money. All 20’s, too much to count right now, so I stuff it in my purse. Be-My-Real-Friend comes out of the bathroom, warp speed ahead, over to the bed. More kissing – he’s not a bad kisser, but the timing and pace are so wrong I’m ready to cry.

(maybe if I kiss you you’ll like me maybe if I suck your cock you’ll like me maybe if I’m available, I do whatever you want, I don’t expect dating or calling or thinking of me first you’ll like me and smile at me when you pass my locker and I’ll have a secret no-one else knows and all I have to do is give up all of me)

And there’s the rub. If I’m a whore, I show up, we fuck, you pay, that’s cool. I don’t care if you like me, except for liking me enough to pay me again. But when the personal element enters in *at all*, I can’t just be a fuck. I have to be wanted, and that means taking a fucking minute to court me, however informally, before the cock slides in. I don’t want to have whore sex any more, it kills my soul. And so far, this feels just like whore sex.

I duck down and suck his nipples to avoid the floodgates, then sit up and look him in the face.

“So you want to have the real me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you want me to really like you.”

“I hope so.”

“Well the real me with my real friends doesn’t fuck until we’ve hung out for awhile.”

It gets much better from here.

Reading Recommendation

There are two beautiful posts over at Viewing the Local Antiquities - one on who owns charity:

"Charity" and "whore" come from the same root. Can Randall Tobias and the rest of our depraved ruling class say that they share a whore's virtues?

and one written lyrically about "taking" in all its senses:

Taking my pleasure in the sound of her
Taking my pleasure on her
In her
With her
Her

From the link above, scroll down for amazing writing.

So Far Not Bad

Houston, we have met Be-My-Real-Friend. So far, doesn't suck.

Stay tuned...

Unlimited Ride Wristband Night!

Here’s what I got to ride at the midway:
Freak-Out
Power Surge
Giant Ferris Wheel
Monkey Jungle
Wacky World
Alpine Bobsleds
Giant Slide (3 times)
Merry-Go-Round

Here’s what I didn’t get to ride:
Secret Scientist

But his girlfriend is totally hot...


On another note, Power Girl and I were propositioned by carnies at, of course, the Merry-Go-Round. Nothing says wholesome, child-oriented-ride like a guy with six teeth letting you know he gets off in half an hour. I figure it’s like the way they train dolphins – if the reward comes all the time, the desired behavior gets sloppy, the animal will do only the minimum to get the treat. But if the rewards are irregular and unpredictable…well, they’re motivated to do their very best every time. Good try, Flipper – and keep up the good work!


(Amazing photo courtesy of World of Juice Juice, if you ever read this...love to comment on your pics but can't find a link or even a way to contact you on your site.)

Question - Ads?

I'd like to make a little money off of the blog, since I'm spending a fair amount of time on it. Google AdSense yanked when they found out I write about sex. Shame, really. Anyone have any good ad programs they like?

Safari

Outfitting
The musicians didn’t suck. Thank goodness. The fellow with too much receding hairline (lead vocals) and the hot black guy (bass) both made meaningful eye contact with me over several casual interactions, and I chatted with them in a muse-ish way, how they might develop their sound, other places they might perform. I asked what else they do (musicians generally do something else): hairline boy teaches music lessons on the side, and hot black guy is…wait for it…very high up in a governmental agency in which he does something complex with behavioral intervention psychology. My estimate of his worth rises exponentially. So I’ll be calling him Secret Scientist. Sorry, Hairline Boy, you’re screwed.

Still-Hunting
Power Girl and I go to dinner with Secret Scientist and Hairline Boy. Casual pizza, Secret Scientist and I stand in line to order for the table. I pull out money for the girls’ share. SS waves it away. Point! He also turns out to be 37, about ten years older than he looks. Double Points! While we’re eating, I casually let my leg touch his leg, and play a very careful conversational tennis between the boys and another lady who has joined us and is less attractive than we are. I’m not judging her looks, I’m judging her role as a hanger-on. (We are also prettier.) Power Girl eats pizza in a state of beatific observational glee as I move on Secret Scientist, Hairline Boy gives me sparkly eyes, and the hanger-on responds earnestly to my inquiries about her role in the chemical industry. Between ‘accidental’ touches and “gee-you’re-nice-but-sorry-I’m-married” looks, I learn quite a bit about refining.

Stalking
After a discussion of fans who don’t know when to quit in which Power Girl and I explain to the boys that any girl who PM’s you wants to do you, there is no other reason for a girl to PM a guy (longtime friends and short exchanges about the Chem notes excepted), we all head home. Hairline Boy hugs me for that crucial I-wanna-do-you amount of time. So does Secret Scientist, who rests his arm around my waist during goodbyes. I text him: So what are my chances?

Persistence Hunting
I generally prefer a direct club to the head. He hasn’t gotten my text. I rescue him from a group of hangers-on and tell him I texted him. He asks what I said. Then he tells me my chances would be excellent…were it not for his longtime live-in girlfriend. (Waa-waa-waaaahhhh….) I am torn. Karma-wise, I’m trying to be a better person, I should respect his thing and enjoy our flirting and not push.

Regroup. Hang out with the band and chat normally. Throughout the time we’re around each other, he and Hairline Boy each find excuses to talk to me alone, more than once one arriving as the other departs. Power Girl nearly wets herself with amusement. I casually ask Secret Scientist out of hearing, “So, does head count?” He says he believes in quid pro quo…

The last time I see him today, he waits patiently while I deal with business, then we sit alone but publicly. I tell him my deal with Husband, that I have a lover, that I like being with new people. He tells me about his girlfriend whom he wants to be with but doesn’t want to marry (minus half a point!). He’s committed to cooking at home tonight. He’s been flirted with before, often, but never with someone who “put their cards on the table” the way I do. I’m straddling a bench and in the tension between us I am oh-so-conscious of the pressure of my pussy on the metal. He is slightly dominant. He feels polyamorous. I like him. I say, “I’d like to kiss you but it’s too public here.” His thoughts exactly. “Step into my parlor,” I say and lead him somewhere marginally more private but not by much.

We stand. He looks. I step forward and put my hands on his shoulders, reach for his mouth with mine. His tongue is strong and slender and firm in my mouth. I suck it gently, part my lips as his arms go around me. One hand strays towards my breast, he’s not quite brave enough yet. We step back. Eyes. He comes to me this time, his hand solid on the small of my back, his mouth covering mine. I run my hand up the inside of his leg, stopping low enough so that he will think of me all night, cooking dinner, sleeping next to girlfriend.

Tomorrow, we go to the circus.

The Dream

I was in a college class, the teacher was Japanese. We were sitting around a table, and John M (my best friend from first grade who is now serving in the Navy) got up to leave a little early. As he stood up and gathered his books, he looked at me and mouthed, “Mandy.” I was in shock. I had to wait for the bell to ring to be able to leave, then run through the halls, out of the building, across to the next campus, a military academy on a wide grassy lawn, backing on a river. I finally caught him in doorway of the foyer. “How did you know? How did you find out?” He looked at me pityingly, “I know how to look around on the internet, it’s not hard.” Sun on the grass. White uniforms. Terror, lasting long after I woke up.

Sugasm #76 - Top Three!

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Bits and Pieces

…Not to be snarky, but has anyone else felt that Belle de Jour, mother of us all, has lately become both annoyingly, pretentiously cryptic and just the wee-est bit, well, boring? As a fellow sex blogger, I worry about continuing to generate good stories...

…Folk Rocker has gotten back in touch, announcing that he’s golfing in Retiree State with 12 other guys, he’d rather be home with a good book, and isn’t it my turn to send dirty pictures? We’ve exchanged already, the first time he’d ever taken a naked picture of himself, let alone sent one to anyone, and it’s both charming and frustrating to see him half-pictured in a mirror, his hand coyly on his uncut cock. I’m ok with sending him more, but I want something in return – perhaps his fantasies, written out. I’m enlisting Power Girl to click the shutter and will share some of the results with you, Gentle Readers…

…Here’s why I’m a female chauvinist pig: I meet yet more musicians and my first thought is, “fresh meat.” (My second is, “Hope they don’t suck or I’ll have to stop liking them.”) Here’s why I’m a racist: I immediately rank them as “too much receding hairline,” “hot but too young and probably taken,” “guy I can’t really remember,” and “hot black guy, bingo, you’re mine.”…


("Titus Three" poster courtesy of Toxic Dreams)

They Say It Broadens the Mind

A trip. Two trips, one inside the other, the everyday (to me) shell of another business-related trip, the hidden yolk a side trip to Be-My-Real-Friend’s city for our first meeting. I want to sightsee (with him) in his city, I want to see my girlfriend Computer Whiz who also lives there, I want to see if being my real self works, I want to see if we like each other in person, I want the cash.

Husband’s red suitcase on the bed. Easier to pack a larger bag than make choices. Outside big zippy pocket: files I don’t need handy on the trip. Outside little zippy pocket: extra pens, razor, tampons - Oh dear God, I’ve timed my period wrong.

(I take my pills continuously instead of taking the week off, I can go three months in a row, no mess, no expensive tampons, and it lowers the risk for ovarian cancer. Having had part of my cervix chopped already, I’m in no mood to go another round. No, wait – count the days. Stop bleeding Friday, new pills on Sunday, fly on Tuesday to see Be-My-Real-Friend, it’s all right. Back to cancer – Lover found the lump in a place Husband’s fingers hadn’t been for months and didn’t know well enough to compare.)

Main compartment. Underwear, socks, tights, remember there will be laundry, I only need four days’ worth.

Plus some extras.

Plus tights I might be in the mood to wear. Plus one more pair of socks for sleeping in. Plus pretty underwear, in case I meet someone. Whore underwear doesn’t count against the I-should-pack-less-total. I don’t know if I’ll wear mine or the whore’s with Be-My-Friend.

T-shirts (three exactly alike, I know what I wear), a long-sleeve shirt. Call out to Husband, “Can you look up the weather in Big City and DC for me?” I’m going to travelogue later so I might as well reveal – it’s a big enough place. Husband reports back – two more long-sleeve shirts.

Bag of sex toys, I love masturbating alone in hotel rooms. They probably won’t come out with Be-My-Real-Friend, I’d rather just be with a person the first time. The tiny glass dish from Epcot Japan, there’s a real branch of Mitsukoshi there. Lucky Cat (white for patience). Two plastic pigs from Husband that touch noses on hotel bedside tables in Prague, in Dayton, in Seattle. Two pictures in tough plastic frames, one of the cats, one of Husband, cooking something for his fellow workers three summers ago. He looks up over the pot, white collared shirt open at the neck, his hair in two tiny pigtails, I forget why.

A carefully timed dash to my office, while Husband changes the laundry, nets my whore bag, the phone off for more than a month now. I discard the candles that have been at other appointments, substitute some ginseng tealights, a new smell for a new plan. The bag with condoms, lube, toothbrush, mouthwash, not sure how much I’ll need but it’s faster than sorting and I don’t want to get caught. I add four outfits, I don’t know how dressy dinner will be. Kenneth Cole heels with a Mary Jane strap, my favorite, bought in Vegas years ago and still in style, still the most expensive shoes I own. Patent boots with spike heels. Stockings. Garter belt. Whore underwear, the bits of lace only suitable for being seen in and rubbing on.

Guidebook. Metro stops. Restaurants. Hotels (I still haven’t booked, trusting in Hotwire and faith). Markets. Helpful articles about the history of the city, about which I know very little. Shopping. Sights. Museums. Useful Addresses. Emergency Information. Sadly, no section marked “Tricky New Relationship, Navigation Of.”

Phone Sex

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

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

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

It’s not Husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(painting by Rodger Casier)

Gala

(since Beautiful Girl has been visiting lately...)


This is the Hallucinogenic Toreador, which means, the bullfighter that you see in your imagination. Can you see the woman in the blue bathing suit on the yellow raft? That’s Dali’s way of saying that the tourists are ruining Port Ligat. And here, where the artist has signed his name: Gala Salvador Dali. He wrote his wife’s name first, to show that she inspired all of his paintings.

In Museo Sophia Reina, the labels are less explanatory than my fifth-grade self on Student Docent Day, my whole gifted program class each given a painting to memorize, me with the longest one, a page and a half single-spaced. The parents and teachers and the unsuspecting public subjected to our practiced spiels followed floor paths of red and green tape from painting to painting, stopping off at the ones with a sweaty-palmed grade-schooler standing in front, carefully not fidgeting in our dark pants and white shirts. Beautiful Girl and I have only two days in Madrid, Friday afternoon to Sunday afternoon, and we are not going to waste it on minor paintings by minor artists, for us it’s the Lichtenstein special exhibit, the Guernica room, Dali, only as much as our attention spans can handle before going back to the hotel for siesta, late dinner, coffee, and the street of clubs that beckon with Spanish techno and Euro techno and American techno which is really Euro techno at its heart, remixes and dance mixes and Kylie, Kylie, Kylie.

Here, there are three Venus de Milos. Notice how they fade into the background and become less complete. This is Dali’s way of showing that classical art is disintegrating, and it reflects his earlier painting, The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory. The first Venus de Milo is next to the cliffs. See how the fabric draped over her hips is also part of the cliffs, and at the same time, it makes the cape of the toreador.

I say to Beautiful Girl, do you want to see a bullfight? It is Spain, after all. She does not. I do not. I've heard you have to buy a really expensive ticket to get a seat in the shade, and we are both nearly broke, I’m charging the hotel on my card and Beautiful Girl can pay me back in the fall. She would be shamed if she knew I wrote that, as much as she loves me, as much as she knows she would do it for me if the situation was reversed, as much as we are the kind of friends who do that for each other, there is still shame packed in the imaginary backpack she still carries despite her transition to a rolly suitcase, to big-girl luggage, to traveling in skirts and the pretty heeled thong sandals that hurt her, so she will not look like a hippie any more. Beautiful Girl is also a vegetarian. Compromises have been made in Morocco, where it is almost impossible to get food that is only vegetables, you would think that a couscous country would have dishes that are only vegetables and grain, but even the lentils are flavored with fat. A bullfight would not be a compromise. It would be a capitulation. I wish that I felt as strongly about something, that I was able to stick to my guns on one thing, one lousy thing that I wouldn’t give in on, no matter what.

The toreador has a pink cape, with gold sparkles, and the curve of the arena above him is also the curve of his hat. Here, below him, you can see the bull, his shape emerging from the cliffs. The straight lines sticking out of the bull’s shoulder are banderillas, long spears with hooks in the end that the bullfighter’s assistants use to distract the bull and tire him out. The bull is kneeling, which means that he is very tired.

Guernica, what we came for, the one thing in Madrid I really want to see, is huge and in black and white, a surprise. I have been imagining blood and gore and Bosch-like excess, but it is spare and cubist and terrifying. Beautiful Girl comes over to me, and says in a whisper, “It’s Picasso.” I don’t know why she’s telling me this, is it a joke I’m not getting? I give her the “and?” look. She says, “You’re looking for Guernica. This is by Picasso.” I say, “Beautiful Girl, Guernica is the name of the painting. I know it’s by Picasso.” There must be something in my tone (shame again), because she looks around at the room of people gazing at Guernica, gazing at a painting finally freed from bulletproof glass with the change of government, a painting whose commissioners’ sole instruction was “Make it big,” a painting famous enough to be our reason for this museum, and says “Oh.” I have already shamed her once, refusing to put our things in a pay locker when there was a free coat check, saying in front of the clerk who almost certainly spoke very good English, “They’re employees of a national institution, they don’t make their living robbing bags.” In Morocco, it’s a legitimate worry.

Later, I shame her yet again, walking down the street, handing her a condom just in case, saying, “Maybe I should be passing over my vibrator instead?” She shushes me and scolds, “Mandy, you’ve got to stop assuming that no-one here speaks English!” I say, “I’d say it in New York.” But that is later. That is on the way to the airport, on my way back to Prague, on her way to the Prado that turns out to be closed on Sunday afternoons. How do you go to Madrid and not see the Prado? How do you go to Amsterdam and not see the Rijksmuseum, to London and not the Tate or the British Museum? In the end, it’s not really what we’re there for.

Notice the collar button here at the toreador’s neck. It’s painted so realistically that most people think it’s real. You can see that it’s not by moving to the side of the painting and looking for the edge of the button. Below the button is the toreador’s tie. See how the vertical dark line of the tie leads your eye to the blue water below. The water is in the place that the bull’s blood would be, but it’s a swimming cove in the cliffs instead.

We see one more room of paintings after Guernica, that’s all we have the eyes for, we’re cloudy with images and need ice cream to revive. But we’re here, and we might as well, room 12 has the Dali’s and the other Spanish surrealists. I recognize them from down the hall, the first glimpse through the doorway. There’s something snobbish in knowing a painting’s artist from across the room, I can do it with Vermeer and Hals and Renoir and Monet (Impressionists are easy) and sometimes Judith Leyster although of course the opportunities for recognition there are much fewer, but Dali is the easiest. It’s not the brush strokes or the colors or the subjects alone, it’s all of those, recurring images, recurring themes, the nurse from boyhood and the cliffs of Ligat and the Venus de Milo and drawers in bodies and Dutch merchants and Gala, Gala, Gala.

We stand for a long time in front of Bust of Gala, her head an island of light in the low right, the rest of the board black as ink. I softly read the signature aloud, “Gala Salvador Dali.” Beautiful Girl looks at me, and I say, “do you know why?” I hope to ask the right question, I hope not to shame her yet again, to presume ignorance instead of enlightenment as is my wont. She does not know. She would like to know. I say, “Gala was his wife. He wrote his wife’s name first, to show that she inspired all of his paintings. As if she was part of him.” Outside the museum, we eat ice cream, Magnum bars with truffle and dark chocolate and the tiny paddle-shaped stick inside after the last and best bites. When we sit on the bench, the men turn to us like sunflowers as they pass. I cannot kiss her, so I take her to a sex shop filled with the same plastic as Amsterdam, equally out of our price range. I cannot kiss her, so we siesta from eight to ten at night, dress, make up, tell each other you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful.

At the first club, I realize, this is what the man feels like. She’s lovely and fun and smart and I can’t keep my eyes off her breasts and while part of me knows she’ll welcome it, I’m afraid to kiss her in case it’s wrong, in case it wrecks everything. We hold hands, we dance together, we see the sunflowers turning towards the only blondes in the bar. We walk, hand in hand, to the big club, the twelve Euros cover even with our discount flyers club, the club we really cannot afford to go to. We’re on my money. I am already planning to tell her not to pay me back until the fall, I am already hoping drinks will be bought for us. They are. And in the end, we walk home as the sun rises. I make Juan Carlos say the “star light star bright” rhyme in broken English and Catalan, and she falls behind with Santiago, so far behind they finally call us on Juan Carlos’ mobile to find out where we are. We are on the way to the hotel. We are in that hazy morning place after dancing all night. We are safely away, safely averting danger, the kind of danger that comes when you kiss someone you really like instead of someone you met in a club.

Here is the curve of the toreador’s face. His chin is the stomach of the second Venus de Milo. His nose is her breast. His eye is her face. Below his eye, you can see a single tear. Perhaps he is mourning the fate of the bull, or perhaps he is sad that the tourists are ruining Port Ligat.

Sugasm #75 - Yay, Tom!

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Tired and Tremulous

I feel like Madeline Kahn.

My last full day off was Easter (I used it to clear my desk). My next full day off is Tuesday the 24th. I went into work today with a terrible attitude and was horrible to my co-workers, one of whom is in charge of a large project that she's feeling overwhelmed by. If I tell her it's just not that big a deal, it demeans the project, which is a first for her on a few levels. If I agree that yes, it's a huge deal, it just puts more weight on her shoulders.

But back on topic.

I've been corresponding with Be-My-Real-Friend, by which I mean he writes me long emails, I answer one out of ten and call him when I have time. He doesn't nag, or phone at bad times. So far, this is working great, as far as I'm concerned. I like reading what he has to say, and I'm glad he is OK with my getting back when I can. The battle is to make sure I keep my head aligned on, "I've talked to him about as much as I've talked to Beautiful Girl this month, and she's my best friend. I am not short-changing him as a friend, and he has expressly said he doesn't want my paid attention, he just happens to be giving me money so I can carve out the time to see him."

We've set a date for me to fly to see him. He's sent a deposit for the plane ticket and hotel. It's a city I enjoy visiting, and we're going to look at buildings and stroll through neighborhoods. Battle #2 is to stay me, to not defer past politeness into customer service, to act like the superior bitch I am instead of the "woman who can't wait to have sex with you" that I act like with clients. To truly take him at his word, make him work for it the way I would with any non-client, be the tease I am, make it feel edgy and slippery and doubtful.

It's still a sure thing.

I'd feel like a very, very bad person accepting the plane and hotel, let alone the cash, and not follow through at the moment of truth. The Victorians had a point when they restricted what presents a lady could safely accept without compromising herself. But we've had enough chat that I find him likeable, and he's cute in a craggy sort of way.

I'm very curious to see if I can pull this off. If so, it's the first step into courtesan-ship. If not, at least I'll learn something. And I do think he's the kind of guy who can laugh and say, "That sucked, let's do something else." Hopefully, even (if necessary), "someone else."

Upgrading the Product Line

So I’m noticing on the bulletin boards around Midwestern State that a lot of guys are bitching and moaning about girls who want to switch to condom blowjobs only, since right now there’s a bit of an STD scare going around. (Girl posts that she’s the owner of a brand new, turbo-charged STD, everyone panics, I’m just grateful I haven’t seen many guys, and they haven’t seen many girls (so they claim)). The big observation is - imagine whiny pasty middle-aged guy typing petulantly on company time - “Well I notice they’re still letting us do oral on them for their pleasure!!”

Oh, those selfish, overpriced girls! Letting you pleasure them without protection because it feels so nice, and then refusing to return the favor! Ummmm, whiners? News bulletin:

I’m not. Getting pleasure. From you.

When I come with a lover, I’m with them. I’m with them. I’m enjoying how their body feels, their hands on me. I can tell them, touch me here, do it softer, try it another way, without worrying about offending them or turning them off – even with a new person, I presumably have a personal connection that led us into bed, and I don’t have a vested interest in them coming back to spend more money. If they find me bossy in bed, fine, fuck off, there are lots of less-complicated girls out there if they don’t want to put the effort in.

When I’m with a client, I can’t say, “grab my ass like this, not like that” or the equivalent in nicer language, because that’s not my job. It’s not my role to discover together how they can please me. It’s my role to please them, in whatever way they overtly or covertly ask for. Overtly, they tell me they don’t want me to fake it. Covertly, they clearly expect their skills to make me come nearly instantly. In a way, I think playing this role makes me a lousy whore - or at least, not the kind of whore I want to be. Judging from comments on bulletin boards, I think there are guys who want (or think they want) to be treated like they are really someone I want to be with. Like I care about how they please me, rather than just hoping it will be less-unpleasant than it could be.

More often than not, I come with clients. They like me on top (less work) and that happens to be the position I come relatively easily in. Rub the space below my clit enough, there it goes. But even in the throes of orgasm, part of my brain is ticking off the clock. I’m thinking: How much should I give away in my face? Am I loud enough? Too loud? Crank up the volume a little. No, bring in the lower register, that always sounds good. Close your eyes. OK, throw in a couple extra spasms. Stretch it out a little. Breathy voice. “Mmmm…thank you…that was great…you make me feel so good!” It’s like eating something very nice when you’re just not hungry. You can appreciate the taste, and maybe you paid a lot for it, or maybe someone you care about made it for you and took some trouble, but it’s not the same as sitting down to the table with the sauce of appetite.

I’m thinking more and more about this – how perhaps the whole point of moving into upscale whoring is that I can be me, I can be a lover whose time is purchased rather than a whore whose services are the product. What’s valuable about me is real me – Mandy is a lot more interesting and worth a lot more money for her time than the person I have pretended to be for my clients so far. I also suspect that men with more money have more to lose. I’d rather be able to tell my real name, and what I do, to someone who will enjoy talking with me about it…and will lose his wife, kids, and standing in the community if he tells.

So here’s what I think. I think that if I charge ten times what I charged before, only do long dates and overnights, and put up a cute little website, perhaps 100 men (who are genuinely potential clients) will find me. Of them, 90 will not be able to afford me. Five will not find me attractive and will get a girl with a Barbie body instead. Of the last five, I will not like three. But at ten times the price, I only need two in six months to make the money I want. If I’m lucky, maybe only one and see him twice.

I notice there are fewer seats in First Class...

Sugasm #74 - Top Three!

I guess Tom hasn't quit voting for me yet :)

Mon 9th Apr, 07

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 #75? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

History: Marlene on the Wall (http://thismuse.blogspot.com)
“3AM, showering, head, his hands soapy on my breasts, I’m thankful I’ve dropped weight, the water is warm and cool enough to feel like bed.”

Afternoon Debauchery (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
“Occasionally he’d push it further inside me, from where it had involuntarily escaped due to slickness and enthusiastic vibrations.”

Too Many Choices (http://bikersballsandteacherstits.blogspot.com)
“We’d been naked most of the time since getting here on Friday, so I wasn’t surprised when I reached under her skirt and found that she wasn’t wearing any panties.”


Mr. Sugasm Himself
Circumcision? Bullshit. (http://sugarbank.com)

Editor’s Choice
Spanking Models Run For Charity, AKA Bums on the Run (http://adelehaze.com)

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Ah! Yer Kegeling Me! (http://smutandsteff.com)
The Cruel Algorithm of Desire (http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)
Gold Star Academy of Discipline to open Washington DC branch! (http://principalquattrano.com/blog)
Thoughts on the “true love revolution” (http://www.jessicagoldharalson.com)

NSFW Pics (& videos)
Jesse Capelli Nude (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Webmistress Feature Gallery: Dirty Chores (http://www.TaraTainton.com)

Sex Work
Oh, for the good old days (http://www.callacuckoldress.com/blog)

BDSM & Fetish
Hitting the Edge (http://lafillemariee.blogspot.com)
A Kinky Friend says… (http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog)
“Late for a Spanking” from He’s on Top, part two (http://lustylady.blogspot.com)
Laughter (http://www.kinkerbelle.com)
Lessons in the Boardroom, Part 3 (http://dragonflygeisha.blogspot.com)
March Questions: SM (http://danaewhispering.blogspot.com)
Meeboguest G confesses: “She likes denying my orgasms” (http://anawtymouz.blogspot.com)
Softness (http://kinkyfarmwife.blogspot.com)
Surprise… (http://fantasy-nuggets.blogspot.com)
Trip - Day One (http://www.timidboy.com)

Sex News
Half-nekkid invitation (http://www.TarasNaughtyShop.com)
The latest in Free Speech Coalition v. Gonzales (http://mikeymongol.blogspot.com)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
600 (http://secretbrain.blogspot.com)
Elusive spunk (http://rubytellsall.com)
The face at the window (http://thelastseduction.blogspot.com)
Feast of Delights (http://confessions112.blogspot.com)
Fuck Me (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)
Fuckfest March, part 3 (http://mysexualmisadventures.blogspot.com)
Hold it Against Me. Please. (http://www.betweensheets.net)
I need…. (http://ellesnovellas.blogspot.com)
I took the plunge (http://wanklog.blogspot.com)
In the Back Row pt. 5 (http://kislee.naughtyblog.net)
La chasse (http://www.easilyaroused.co.uk)
“… not really.” (http://celebrateyournaughtiness.blogspot.com)
On the Road Again (http://sabrinainstockings.com)
Parents Possessed (http://http://dirtyandthirty.blogspot.com)
“So does this make me a slut or what?” (http://lastbreath.wordpress.com)
Sperm-a-thon (http://drtycplinva.blogspot.com)
A Tiny Flame (http://femmefataleteen.blogspot.com)
Trembling (http://curvaceousdee.blogspot.com)
Using it (http://thenakedrhetoricaltruth.blogspot.com)
Whose Cock Is This Anyway? (http://domain2.blogspot.com)
You say good-bye, i say hello (http://nocloudnine.blogspot.com)
Your voice (http://lifewords.wordpress.com)

Sex Reviews & Advice
“G” Marks The Spot: Part One (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Gwen (Forever) Diamond (http://www.connectbycam.com/blog)
The Sadistic Tourist (http://blog.atlantabondage.com)
She’s On Top Book Tour (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)
Lovely picture of C. courtesy of Polyamorously Perverse.