My effort didn’t seem to help. He was looking at the wall, not at me. A few times his frantic hand slowed, and he dipped down to my lips. He was going soft and I sucked him hard again. He never looked down, not once. Then the masturbation would start again. And the mantra. “I’m going to come on your face.” I writhed on the sheets and groaned. No reaction. I bent my head forward and licked his inner thigh. Again, no reaction.
Half an hour later, he still had not finished. I murmured and probed, wandering fingers, gentle questions. But it seemed he wanted nothing from me, save to be the canvas he painted. It made me feel the way unturned clay must, wanting to form into something, some fantasy, but not being allowed. His shoulders slumped and he fell, sweaty, into my chest, “I’m sorry, honey, it ain’t gonna happen,” he said, as if it had been my idea all along. mercredi, le 31 mars
Funnily enough, the liaison with “my future husband” did not go to plan. I hold this up as a prime example of why my friends should not choose my dates, but A1 is undeterred and determined not only to make his mark as matchmaker, but to find the root of my problems with partners.
So he was idly surfing the Web while I hunted for any scrap of cake in his house. None was forthcoming, and I made a deal with the devil and concocted a cup of chocolate consisting of the heat-whitened end of a chocolate bar, most of a waxen bar of choc from an Army rat pack, and instant coffee. It swirled, oily and evil, in a white mug. “When and where were you born?” A1 asked.
“Why?”
“Natal chart.” Online astrology is one of the sure signs of imminent societal collapse. Told him anyway. “Oh dear. Oh, oh dear.”
“What’s that?” I sipped the greasy faux-chocolate drink. Foul, yes, but not unsatisfying. Must find a better method of dealing with hormonal cycles though-for it is spring, when a young woman’s fancy turns to bikinis.
“Mars is in Cancer.” (Or whatever on earth he said. I’m not au fait with this particular brand of superstition.)
“Which means what exactly?”
“You’re emotionally manipulative.”
“Alert the press. I wonder who didn’t already know that.”
Avril
Q-S
Q is for Quality
Don’t get lazy. It’s perfectly acceptable for one’s mind to wander on the job, but totting up your credit card receipts while some poor john bones you from behind will not go unnoticed. Feigning interest is the social lubricant of modern life and not too much to ask in one hour out of the day. Think of it as increasing the chances of a tip and repeat business.
Q is also for Quitting
Some people say once you’ve been paid for sex, you are never really out of the business. I’ll report back in 2037 whether this is true.
R is for Relationships
This is not a film or a fairy tale. You will not end up marrying a rich, attractive single man you met on the job and live happily ever after. Do not date the clients, do not confuse the nature of the relationship. Enjoy the man if he’s nice but never forget where the line is. Would you expect a personal trainer to follow a client home from the gym, or get together on weekends just to hang out? No. Out of the question.
S is for Sexy
Sexiness is not a square-yards-of-cloth to exposed-skin ratio. Sexy is not the inevitable result of being blonde, tan, and thin (though it seems to work for television hosts). Sexy is the result of being pulled together and comfortable in your skin. Holding your stomach in when your clothes are off is not fuckable. Slapping your ample behind and inviting him to ride the wobble is.
SHARK
Etymology: probably modified of German Schurke, “scoundrel.”
Function: noun, intransitive verb
1: any of numerous marine elasmobranch fishes that have a fusiform body and lateral gill clefts and are rapacious predators
2: a crafty person who preys upon others through usury, extortion, or trickery
3: one who excels greatly in a particular field
4: the act of entrapment of a person, usually younger or less experienced
I’ve been eyeing up someone at the gym for the last few months.
This is not a habit, really. Gyms are for exercising, perhaps a bit of socializing, but the widespread idea of workouts as meat markets is gruesome by any standard. On the upside, if you do meet someone in an atmosphere of lycra-clad, endorphin-soaked madness, you can rest easy that he has seen you at your worst, covered in sweat and hair undone, and found you attractive.
On the other hand, I wouldn’t want to date anyone who regularly saw me at my worst.
At the start of the year, though, one man in particular caught my eye. Shy smile, soft-looking hair, impressively muscled build. I made inquiries. Gleaned his name.
“Gay,” barked N, who is not gay himself but claims to have the most finely attuned straight-man gaydar in the south of England. It’s rubbish, but I dare not say. “Without doubt.”
“I don’t think so,” I sighed, trying not to stare as the object of our conversation worked his way around the free weights.
“Ten-pence bet says he is.”
Them’s, as they say, fightin’ words. “You’re on.”
“It would indeed be a pleasure,” N said, rubbing his hands, “to see the master shark lose this one.” vendredi, le 2 avril
Conversations with clients are not exactly what one might call “normal,” but still have their rigid conventions. It’s nice to know where someone is from, a general outline of what he does. Most of the men are business travelers and not frequent consumers of sex services. A little idle chatter puts both parties at ease.
There’s a fine line between curiosity and nosiness, though, and while meeting a working girl is a bit like going on a first date, some lines of interrogation are simply off limits. These include questions about one’s parents, location of one’s house (as I only do outcalls), vehicle registration number…
On the other hand, the fact that you are unlikely to meet again means a customer can ask the sort of questions that would get anyone else a rapid introduction to the pavement. Context is everything.
Example 1: “Do you think you’ll marry and have children?”
I like children well enough. I especially like when they go back to their parents.
Sometimes-sometimes-I am struck by the charm of a precocious bebe and think rearing young’uns a good idea. And if someone could take charge of children between the ages of eleven and sixteen, it would sweeten the deal immensely.
Clients are perhaps the only people I can answer this question honestly to. The ambivalence toward a future family, the uncertainty whether this world is a suitable place to chain oneself to another being or beings, frankly, troubles me. As many of them are married and have children, they appreciate this. Sometimes they offer advice.
Some adore their children and family life. Some are… well, they’re out paying for sex, aren’t they?
My parents are sometimes fool enough to ask after my future plans for babymaking and receive the stock answer of “I simply haven’t met the right man.” Any paramour who dares let this query pass his lips is on a one-way trip to speed dating and singleton hell.
Example 2: Questions about taste in films, books, and music.
Potential mates receive an honest answer. My taste in cultural minutiae might be dodgy, but it is my own, and anyone hoping to merge his material possessions with mine in a happy reenactment of Homo erectus setting up housekeeping in the Olduvai Gorge, will have to live with a collection of music that could best be described by the term “selective appeal.”
In a client situation, I try to discern what his taste might be and stray not too far off the beaten mainstream. Trying to cover the finer points of free jazz whilst administering a soapy titwank is possibly straining the privileges of my position.