Sorry, y’all, shit’s been all fucked up.

So, here I am again.  How many months has it been? Too many.

I’ve been in a bit of a downward spiral.  I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I’m bipolar.  No doctor has given me a specific diagnosis, Bipolar-NOS is the most official title I’ve been given (yes, it’s a title, fuck you).  I handle depression pretty well, as it’s my natural state, but I can fly into an extremely high-energy mode pretty much at will, but once it’s on, I can’t turn it off as easily (and of course, sometimes it begins without my will for it to do so).  In some ways, I can control my moods, meaning, I can choose to go up, but coming down is another thing entirely.  And that may be unclear to some (if you’re depressed and go up, wouldn’t you want to stay?), but these are typically “mixed episodes,” a depressed *mood* with high *energy*.  For many, that’s the suicidal stage.

 

And it got there.  As in, practicing with the available blades on my fleshy upper thighs to see how much pressure I would have to commit to on my wrists and arms. 

 

But why did it get there?

 

Well, the boyfriend you’ve heard me complain about, I don’t know if I gave him a pseudonym, but let’s call him Harold now.  That’s the least sexy name I can think of right now.  Anyway, I know I’ve mentioned this, he didn’t exactly *provide*, sexually speaking.  Fucking never.  He would just roll on top of me and hump away for a few minutes until he came.  Fantastic.  That really makes a girl like me want to remain monogamous.

 

So, come Christmas (well, the day after), I decided to wake up and start drinking.  I had three beers then started on a box of wine.  It got to a point where I started texting an old flame from TWELVE years ago, with whom I have maintained a friendship that occasionally gets flirtatious, but I haven’t actually seen him in eleven years.  Somehow, things got sexual.  I must have been playing a domme role and told him not to cum, because a while later, I passed out, my phone on the arm of the couch, Harold is home, and he sees a text pop up saying: “Can I cum now?”

 

Harold figured out what was going on, and yelled at me.  I was still totally plastered, so I don’t really remember much, just being really confused, because at first I didn’t even remember the sexting.  He yelled at me that I was cheating on him, so he was breaking up with me.  I argued that maybe if he ate my pussy once in a while, I wouldn’t need to find other excitement.  And that was when he told me: “I was scared to tell you before, but your pussy smells bad.”

 

Hold. The. Boat.

 

Not only did someone pay good money to eat that pussy a few months ago, but I have never, ever, ever heard this before. 

 

Technically, we were broken up.  He said we were.  So, I called a former fuck buddy and told him to meet me at a bar and tell me if my pussy was good or not.  I wasn’t wearing any panties when I showed up in my skin-tight skirt.  We sat next to each other, and I told him I needed a second opinion.  He fingered me under the bar for a while, then sniffed his hand.  He confirmed that I smelled fucking awesome.  I begged him to fuck me, but he had the sense to realize I was fucking hammered, and that I didn’t want to do anything too stupid just yet, considered me and Harold’s breakup was only three hours prior.  However, considering what Harold had said about me, we both agreed a little manual exploration was essential to proving my case.  God bless that man.  We’ve been in touch since.  He looks out for me without expecting sexual activity.  That’s something I’ve cultivated in probably 90% of my sexual relationships.  I act like I use these motherfuckers, but actually, we become close friends, even after the sex is gone.  I think it’s because for me, affection is a physical, rather than an emotional act.  That’s just how I work.

 

So, Harold banished me to the guest room for a few nights while I tried to practice remorse.  It was pretty horrible.  I think I did a decent job there for a few days.  I convinced myself that I was an incurably awful person, destined only to hurt others and destroy everything good and decent in the world.  I know that I have a lot of deficiency when it comes to empathy.  It’s really, really hard for me.  I have to feel like the other person is just another version of me in order to really feel for them.  I think it happens sometimes, but I could count the times/people it’s happened with on one hand.  But do my deficiencies in empathy mean I’m so horrible I should wipe myself from the planet?  I decided not.

 

One night, Harold came into my room in his boxers and told me he wanted sex.  I couldn’t say no.  I wanted it, too.  I didn’t want him to find another girl to sleep with.  So, I invited him in and we talked for a while.  He told me a secret.  I don’t tell other people’s secrets, sorry, but it helped make me feel for him, as I had been through something similar.  We talked, we held one another, and eventually, yes, we had sex.  He was very, very dominant.  To a point where I was uncomfortable.  However, I felt it was important for him, given my transgression.  I accept punishment.  Sometimes.  If I know the right thing is to feel remorse, I allow it, hoping I’ll feel a sense of responsibility.

 

Soon enough after that, he invited me back into the master bedroom. 

 

We remained a couple, but he never reinstated us as “In a Relationship” on Facebook.  I know FB isn’t that big of a deal, but it was a sign.  We tried.  We tried, I tell you.  But I knew that I wasn’t gross, physically, and he had no excuse to not have sex with me.  We carried on, and I hoped that he would slowly start to please me, without my nagging (I think I mentioned this before, but sometime a while back I had nagged him too much about it, and he told me to give him his own chance to initiate, so I gave him a six month time frame to start taking that initiative.  My non-existent foul odor was his only excuse.)

 

I didn’t quite make it the full six months (it would have been early April). 

 

On February 15th, I decided to break up with him.  Then, the next day, I decided to give him more time.  I suggested we move into a smaller place, instead of renewing our lease, a place that one of us could afford on our own if we needed to.  He agreed.  But, as time went on, and he talked about “our new place,” I realized it wasn’t going to work.  I had given it enough time.  And there was nothing that was going to fix the fact that he didn’t want to have good sex with me (even his normal shitty sex was rare). 

 

Then I met Blake.  He puppy-dogged me, following me around everywhere, insisting he needed to take me out to dinner.

 

We hung out secretly, for an hour maybe at a time, for a week or so.  I was falling so hard for him, we have so much in common, that I couldn’t pretend that I was giving Harold an honest shot, and I decided I had to break up with him immediately, even with two months left on our lease.  Harold was out of town, visiting his parents and brother, so I felt that breaking up with him over the phone wasn’t that bad (he has no friends in the town where we live, and I wanted him to have a support network when it happened, so it seemed the best way).  He seemed very understanding, admitted he had let me down, and insisted we would share the apartment cordially.

 

However, when he came back, things were not okay.  I had been spending so much time at Blake’s house, and he has an acre of fenced-in land and two fun dogs himself, that it made more sense for me to keep my puppy at Blake’s house (also, Blake had given me a key [already] just in case things blew up at home), and I feel like I have to do what’s best for my dog than anyone else.  Sorry, not sorry.  Harold got pissed when he found out I was seeing someone else.  He started throwing things and breaking things and ripping up paintings, so I tossed a bag of clothes and my puppy in the car and went up to Blake’s.

 

So, Blake and I are already on “I love you.”  It’s been a month, maybe.  It happened well before a month, yeah, that’s for sure. 

 

So I’ve been at Blake’s for a couple of weeks, I’ve met his children, and then he comes home one night and tells me he’s still in love with his ex, who he broke up with only a couple of weeks before we met.

 

When I say I only feel empathy on rare occasion, I mean it, and this man is one of those very rare situations.  On one hand, I want to say, “Can’t you just be tough like me? Ditch that bitch, she didn’t love you and put you down whenever she could.”  Meanwhile, I’m cooking meals from scratch and cleaning his house.  I love that shit, though.  I’ve always only ever wanted to be someone’s wife.  Maybe it’s because I’m a narcissist, but I’ve always wanted someone to love me until I died, yet I’ve always been willing to return the favor.  They just have to be as awesome as me.  And this one is.  Fucking Blake. 

 

I need him to forget about Old Girl.  She’s a waste of his time.  She doesn’t like his kids (when his baby girl put her hand in mine while we walked across a parking lot, I swear to god, I don’t think I’ve ever felt that much emotion, and I’m the fucking sociopath, whereas she complained about them).  He tells me he’s never had a woman cook for him like I do (and I fucking cook), nor has he had a woman just barge in while he’s getting dressed, get on her knees, suck his dick and insist on having her way with him, and that’s the fastest way to a man’s heart, according to Blake.

 

So, my question: why haven’t I taken over yet?

 

He’s told me that her biggest draw was her looks.  Apparently, she’s beautiful.  But, honestly, I’m also beautiful, plus, I’m a brunette to her blonde, and he’s always favored brunettes.  However, I worry I’m not, in his eyes, as beautiful, and he feels he’d be settling for a 9/10 who cooks like a motherfucker, gives him random blowjobs, and loves the same music he does, while the 10/10 hates him for his obnoxious truck, his cowboy boots, and his manual labor job (all of which I love, btw–I even cleaned his boots today, because I have 25 pairs myself, and he is jealous).  WE ARE FUCKING PERFECT FOR ONE ANOTHER.  Fuck me. 

 

The sun is coming out.  I love watching the sun rise.  I just wish I were able to sleep in these hours.

 

So, I’ve been on a bit of a tear.  I’ve been manic, and when that happens, that means that alcohol doesn’t make me tired and groggy.  I get uncoordinated and stupid, but I’m not tired, and at no point do I feel like I need to stop.  It’s like pumping Red Bull instead of  blood.  Even if your state is altered by alcohol, you’re still very much in a go, go, go mindset.  Eventually, it sucks.  Eventually, you fuck up something important, then your stress just amps you up even more, and you’re five times worse than before.  Hopefully, something kicks in and you crash.  Just be careful to not get too depressed.  Crash just softly enough to make excuses for yourself.

 

But you know what?  I don’t make excuses.  When an employer asks me what the fuck is up, I tell them, straight up, “I’m bipolar.  I do crazy shit sometimes.  Bear with me, because all the other times, I’m fucking phenomenal” And it works.  Honesty kills motherfuckers.  If you tell them something super personal about yourself, it takes down their guard, they feel for you, and they don’t want to punish you, they can’t even be mad at you.  A client had misinterpreted my frequent trips to the bathroom on a particular night as a sign of drug use (when actually, I had the shits that night, and I was soooooo worried they were going to smell it, and I tried to spray this body mist thing in the air, but even when I left, I thought I could still smell it, that’s how serious of a shit this was).  My boss asked, “How would you feel about a drug test?”  I told him I thought it was a violation of my privacy, and if he wanted to know anything about my drug use, he could just ask.  I told him that on that particular night I had diarrhea, and also that I had lost my iPhone and kept circling my prior locations in an attempt to find it.  I offered the information that I drank on occasion (but not when working, and this could have been easily confirmed, as I take the no-drink-while-work thing very seriously and have made many a generous bar staff sad), and that, because I am such a high-energy personality, which is exactly what he hired me to be, I needed to smoke pot to chill out sometimes.  However, because I have a condition that induces manic moods at random times, I absolutely despise anyone that would fucking choose that kind of mindset.  I hate having it take over me so much that I hate that people would think it’s something to play around with.  I really, really do.

 

He took me for my word, and I’ve always been brutally honest with him, as I’ve set things up to be, because improving my sense of responsibility is important to me, and he didn’t make me pee into any cups.  Smoking pot is not that huge of a deal to most people, and especially since the current charge was that I was “erratic,” suspecting a use of uppers, admitting to being a stoner, and knowing that I could not be stoned when I do the stuff I do (it’s just impossible), he didn’t think my pot use was an issue.

 

Anyway, Blake saw me at my worst.  I got fall-down drunk.  I have a bruise on the bottom of my chin.  He says he’s “disappointed” in me.  This is not how I usually drink.  I like to drink, but I know when to stop.  When it comes to a night of total Dionysian pleasure, I will arrange for a hotel room or cab beforehand.  Those nights need to happen, and Blake knows that, because he drinks, too (a lot).  But when I’m a little manic, alcohol doesn’t affect me the same.  I get clumsy, but I don’t get tired.  Normally, I notice I’m getting drowsy, so I stop drinking.  But when I’m on the upswing, I simply don’t notice the retarding effects of alcohol.  Right now, I’ve had 84 ounces of beer in three and a half hours.  My fingers don’t hit the keys like I want them to, but I feel sharp as a tack, mentally, and watching the sun rise and the clouds cheer up is so wonderful, I may as well never go to sleep (but I will try, I promise).  I’m going to get another beer.

 

The short story is that Blake is the man of my dreams.  Now, I’ve never dreamt of a specific man, but if I could put all of the best qualities of all the best men I’ve been with in one man, Blake would be it.  If only he loved me like her.  That is my task. 

Do not lie to me.

For one thing, I am simply so much better at it than you that I observe most people in their lies the way a parent observes their toddler’s first attempts at swimming.  It’s very cute, but there’s still a good possibility you’ll drown doing it.

Second, dishonesty simply isn’t “cool.”  Do I lie?  Yes, of course I do.  Typically to protect someone or something.  As a salesperson, I’ve had to bend the truth enough to be untruthful (but not explicitly lying, in my opinion) in order to protect the company or industry.  I’ve told lies to protect coworkers from reprisals when I knew they made a simple mistake they would not be making again.  I lied to protect my step-sister when we were kids (she was more outwardly disobedient than I was).  I lie to protect myself and my own interests, but not that often.  Really.  Maybe I’m so biased I cannot see my lies (and I tell them enough they become true, of course), but I consider myself to be a very honest and upfront person.  I find it’s actually a very useful way of living, and people are somehow made vulnerable when you explain things to them openly.  I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done, so I don’t mind being honest, so long as the statue of limitations has run out.  I tell strangers in bars that I have “limited empathy” or “empathy issues,” and if they piece it together, they’ll ask if I’ve got some antisocial tendencies.  I’ve told my fiance that I simply do not know how other people feel, and that I’m trying to figure it out, I’m just about 25 years behind on that lesson.  My bartenders know who I am and what I’m about.  They know I have no problem telling others exactly what I think and I have no problem correcting them for their misdeeds, whatever they may be (like taking up three seats worth of space at a crowded bar when you’re not even that fat).  My bartenders know that I figure I’m antisocial and I think that gives me some leeway.  If I tell you upfront who I am and what I do, can you really be that surprised when I do those things?  No.  If you’re caught in the way, that’s your own fault.

Point is, I’m honest.  People appreciate my candor (they tell me this).  My old coworkers, as much as I apparently intimidated them (said my bitch general manager from whom I spent all nine hours each day hiding), they all knew, every time, what I would say, how I would react, etc., or else I’d surprise them by being nicer than expected.  Either way, no one was offended, and from what they told me, they appreciated that much more than our other coworker Tanya’s constant roller-coaster ride of friendship: one day you’re BFFs, the next she pretends you do not exist and tries to “accidentally” body slam you (by the way, I’m sure you’ve figured this or I’ve said it, but I change names here, and “Tanya,” I’ve always believed [pronounced like “Can-yuh”, not Con-yuh], is THE. MOST. WHITE. TRASH. NAME. EVER., so make what you will of my former coworker).  One’s home is supposed to be clean, so when the sewer backs up and your house smells like shit, you complain about it and hate it and scream and cry.  But people who work at water treatment plants don’t get upset that the workplace smells like shit: it’s supposed to; if the plant didn’t smell like shit, the rest of the world would.  We all take our offense in response to the situation.

But as honest as I am, I am a very, very good liar.  Maybe it’s because I know what the truth looks and sounds like so well that I feel so comfortable adapting those behaviors to the lie.  I’ve been lied to a lot, mostly by my father.  I’ve always been able to see through it, but I don’t think he is as adaptable as me, as much as I feel we carry the burden of the same affliction (gift?).  I went to private schools my whole life, so I understand how to develop and make a point, and how to debate others’ points in relation to mine.  He’s very intelligent, yes, but he never learned those critical skills, or at least never learned how to use them as an adult on topics such as “No, I did not burn down that house,” and “No, I did not forge your name on those documents,” and “No, I did not just color a clear rhinestone in with a blue sharpie and call it a sapphire.” Or maybe he is just so arrogant he doesn’t believe he’ll ever be discovered, and despite the wealth of evidence for his (literal) crimes, he thinks if he just keeps denying it, it will go away.  But if you don’t answer the questions, the questions will continue to be asked.  And everyone thinks it’s strange that for 25 years, you’ve been adding no additional point or information in your favor–just a “nu uh!”, Dad.  Yes, dad, I’m talking to you.  Sigh.

So that gets me to today.

Well, last week is when it started.  My mother-in-law gave a me a wonderful gift: a leather briefcase.  It’s beautiful and practical.  I really do like it.  The pockets are the perfect size, the organization of said pockets is great, and I take those things verrrrrry seriously.  Let me point out here that I have a lot of experience with leather, both new and vintage, and all of my designer handbags were scored on eBay.  I have ZERO problem with a vintage leather bag being handed down to me from a relative–that’s part of why I love leather in the first place: it’s the kind of material that many generations get to experience, and I think a lot of people are like that.  My sister’s birthday was a few months back, and being strapped for cash, but knowing she’s always wanted cowboy boots, I gave her my old pair, which still look great.  She was pleased as punch and, I think like most people who understand leather goods, felt no offense that the boots were “used,” which in this arena, can actually increase an object’s value.

When I first opened it, it had that smell.  That old leather smell.  If you know it, you know it.  Your memory for scent is probably more reliable than any other form of memory.  I excitedly asked my fiance (MIL was not present) if it was vintage.  He gave me an emphatic “no” and insisted it was just really, really expensive because the leather was so nice it felt vintage from the get-go (for reference, I have new leather bags that started that soft, and they were about $450, but I digress).  I looked it over, not to be critical, but to appreciate my new bag.  I enjoy trying to figure out where the leather good came from, whenever I see used leather.  I saw scuff marks on the feet, and the finish on the brass was wearing off some.  Also, if you look closely, there’s a little bit of dust in certain little crannies, a few minor scratches over the body, and the suede shoulder strap has a small amount of pilling.  I am not saying these are flaws or undesirable qualities in any way, simply that they exist and it seems this is a vintage piece, and I do not give even 1/36 of a flying fuck how old it is, unless it has some historic provenance, and Mary Tod wore it or something, in which case I would be over the moon with excitement.

I just want my fiance and MIL to be honest with me.

When I first went to use it, I pulled the shoulder strap out and tried to clasp it to the bag.  The clasps were so old that the metal cracked, the springs fell out, and now I need to replace the clasps. No problem, that happens on old leather stuff, and is another reason why leather is awesome: it outlasts metal, bitches.  So this morning, I go to use my bag for the first time (it still has a handle).  I tell fiance that I have to take the strap to a luggage repair place and he asks why.  I told him because the metal was so old, the clasps broke.  He insisted it was not really old (maybe those scuff marks got there because it was so expensive that it sat in the store for so long that all of the constant trying-ons scuffed it some [but, he also insisted that it was so expensive it lived in a case, and I don’t know where they will let you handle cased goods so often they become worn…]).  I said, “yes it is! I don’t care, just don’t lie to me!”  He insisted I was wrong.

So I said, “Fine, if it’s new and that expensive, it will have a warranty.  Tell your mother to call the store where she bought it and give me a return authorization.”  If Coach can do free repairs (and, in my friend’s case, offer 40% off a new purchase since the old one was irreparable), then certainly this mystery brand that lived in a case and was passed up for years and years because of its price can do so as well.

I googled the manufacturer.  I couldn’t find anything to suggest that this bag was made by a company currently in business.

Something tells me that I’ll have to take it to a regular luggage repair shop.  That is fine with me.  So totally fine with me.  Just please don’t lie to me.  I can see through it like a window.

My whole life, my grandmother has always bought me, my siblings, and my cousins (and now their kids) pajamas for Christmas.  One year, she got me a blanket because I was living in a very cold climate, but the next year she went back to PJs.  Last year, I received no gift from my grandmother, who had, until then, been very reliable with Christmas gifts.  I opened up the package from my father.  Well, whaddayaknow…. It’s pajamas!!! My father has never gotten me pajamas.  His gifts are usually books, or music (CDs, instruments, accessories for said instruments, etc.), or gift cards to places that sell books and music, and he does this because those are the things that he knows about and understands.  Those are the kinds of things that he likes.  He’s never bought me clothing, and his few attempts at buying me jewelry (I mentioned the phony sapphire above, but there’s another  story, too, that I can’t go into here) have been pretty disastrous.  I had opened the gift over a trash can at work so I could immediately discard the wrapping.  I was so pissed about the pajamas, I just threw them into the trash as well.  Later, a coworker got mad at me because I could have donated them to Goodwill.  Oh well.

I confronted him about it a few weeks ago.  He responded with silence and told me that the kids at the correctional place he’s tutoring at have the “real,” problems.  What he doesn’t understand as that for me there is no problem.  My life is fine.  I do not, however, condone lying, and I opt not to have liars in my life.  That is part of why my life is not that problematic in the first place.  The greater the distance at which I keep the liars, the better I fare.

So I wish my fiance would just fucking admit it.  Maybe his mom lied to him and he’s trying to protect her.  He’s a guy, he doesn’t know shit about bags.  I, on the other hand, get all my fancy bags on eBay, so, yeah, I know a thing or two about used bags, and I obviously have no problem using one.  Otherwise, I’d buy them all new.  But frankly, unless it’s a shoe, leather goods are actually best used. It’s a beautiful bag and I love it.

Just tell me the truth so I can love you, too.

Oh, and do NOT get me started on her impatience regarding my “thank you” for the bag.  I sent a thank-you card, which takes some time to both be written, and then delivered through USPS (and of course, traveling home, to where I keep my stationary, took a day as well). Is it as fast as a text message?  No, it’s not.  But a “thank you” text?  Are you fucking kidding me?  How sleazy! Who would not prefer to wait a few extra days for a handwritten, fuschia card with a gold hedgehog and confetti stars and little green waves on the envelope and a cute drawing of a puppy paw?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Two things (at least)

1) For every girl who is sexually active but uses zero form of birth control (pulling out doesn’t count as birth control, but it’s what I use), seeing that ever so slight shade of pink on the toilet paper when she first starts her period is the most wonderful sensation ever.

2) I don’t think I want to cheat on my boyfriend.  Let me tell you a story:

A couple of weeks ago I went to the bar and noticed another man when he sat down a few seats over.  He was huge and hunky (he’s a fucking fireman–just kill me now).  He had a goatee.  Dark hair.  Full lips.  Strong jaw.  Big hands.  Oh my god, his hands…  He was probably the most attractive piece of man meat I had seen in a very, very long time.  We started to talk.  We got along.  I don’t remember what we talked about, but I never mentioned my boyfriend.  He walked me to my car.  We talked some more then said, in a very nice way, “well, then let me get your phone number and we’ll meet up again.”  I told him I didn’t have a phone number to give out.  He looked confused, then said “okay,” and was polite and wished me a good night.

As I drove away, I noticed that, for the first time since meeting my fiance, I wanted to sleep with someone else.  Sure, I’ve felt the urge to turn a trick, but this time, it was a specific person, and it was because I wanted *him* to stick *his* dick in me and fuck the living shit out of me.  It wasn’t about money or games or power.  It was about being so physically attracted to another man that I wanted him to tear me to pieces.  It wasn’t me looking for an experience that I could have with pretty much any random stranger to be fulfilled, it was me wanting to have sex with one particular man who is not my fiance.

I saw him a few days later again.  This time, most of the seats were taken, and my purse occupied the seat next to mine (yes, I do it on purpose so I decide who sits there).  Fireman looked around for a place to sit, and I said, “you can sit here if you want, you know,” and he set his jacket on the chair, ordered a beer, and then went to the bathroom.  I had been telling my bartender about this guy not a moment before he walked in, and that I had had those… urges for him, so I told him that I had to leave before fireman came back.  He said, “well then, why the hell did you invite him to sit next to you?”  Damnit.  Ya got me.

I saw him last night.  The bar was mostly empty (it’s small).  He sat at the other end with some nerdy guys and they talked politics.  I heard him ask another guy, “are you some kind of conspiracy theorist?”  That made me like him more.  We made eye contact once, and I immediately looked away.  Then, he was watching me first, then he caught my eye, and he had his glass up and made a gesture to say “hello.”  When the bar closed, I went to the bathroom first, while he and the conspiracy theorists went outside and continued their discussion in the parking lot.  When I came out, I walked past them to my car, and he waved and said goodnight.  Of course I smiled flirtatiously and said goodnight.

I then went home and fantasized about him in a myriad of ways.  First, we just talk for a while outside of his car.  He’s so sweet, and I’ve been so fickle, so I know I have to take the lead, and I just open up the door and climb into the back seat and he follows me.  I imagine we start kissing, he runs his hands over me, slides them up my skirt, pulls my cosabella boyshorts aside and starts to finger me.  I pull his dick out and I find–to my utter and extreme delight–that he is uncircumcised and huge.  I go crazy, and I jump on him, taking his cock into my mouth and furiously sucking up and down while he fingers me with two fingers until I squirt all over his leather seats.  When I cum it turns him on so much that he shoots into my mouth and I swallow the whole thing in one gulp, but of course I still squeeze his dick until I get every drop onto my tongue and down my throat.  Of course we have to end it there because I have a boyfriend and sex would be too much.

Then, in the next fantasy, that whole idea goes out the window.  We are at his place.  I am on the couch, my legs spread open off the edge, and he’s on his knees, fucking me at the edge of the couch.  His dick goes so deep and hard and hits me in that magic spot and I cum and I squirt all over him.  He fucks me for a few more minutes just to watch me squirm, then decides he wants to cum in my mouth.  He stands up, and I’m still sitting on the couch.  He shoves his cock in my mouth, grabbing my head with both hands and skull fucking me.  I get so turned on I have to rub my clit while I take him down my throat.  Once he starts to cum and grunt and shoot delicious juice into my mouth, I cum too in excitement.  I don’t know what happens after that.

The third scenario was the one I had while my boyfriend was in bed next to me.  This time, we’re both in his car, in the front seats with the console between us, and we’re listening to music for a while and eventually we discuss our mutual attraction, and my unfortunate attachment.  This time, I compromise by saying I can only play with myself, but he can watch.  Of course, he takes out that giant uncut cock to pleasure himself, but I still can’t help myself.  I start sucking his dick and I stick my pussy in the air and grab his hand and slide his fingers into me.  He finger fucks me while he’s in my mouth and as soon as I begin to taste his cum, I squirt on his hand and it splashes on the seat and drips down my legs.  Or course I milk him for all he’s worth.

I had these thoughts in my head all day.  This morning I sucked my fiance’s dick because I just wanted Fireman’s cock in my mouth so much.  Then I made my fiance fuck me–hard–and I imagined Fireman’s dick in my pussy and hands on my throat.  But the whole time, I knew it was my fiance fucking me, and it was great.  He did an awesome job.  [Editorial note: he’s been much better at the oral sex lately, but I am actually on my period right now, and I don’t really expect anyone to chow down at that time.]

Tonight I decided I wanted to see Fireman again.  I drove through the parking lot to see if his car was there already.  It was.  When I walked in, he was sitting next to my favorite seat (the seat I was in the night before, of course). with another woman.  I was so relieved.  I was hoping he was on a date, maybe setting a boundary, but whatever the case, it would be the perfect time to mention my boyfriend.  Of course, he said hello when I sat down.  I was friendly about it, but I ended it immediately to ask the bartender about what was on tap.  I read a book for a few minutes, then his lady friend started talking to me.  I was listening to their conversation some, and I realized it wasn’t a date; they were friends and she was actually obsessed with another man at the time.  Fireman got up to go to the bathroom and Kendra almost immediately introduced herself and started talking to me.  It was almost as if (and this could just be the narcissist in me) Fireman had said something about me before I arrived (or maybe whispered it while I was reading or ordering), and she was trying to access my availability for her friend.  I’ve done things like that before; it was a possibility.  While he was away, I mentioned my boyfriend.  When he came back, neither she nor I brought it up.

Even though I didn’t mention it, it got to a point where I was pretty sure I didn’t need to if it wasn’t natural to the thread of the conversation.  As I heard him talk more about himself and his life, I discovered he was a person.  He has feelings.  He’s not just the meat machine I thought I was looking for.  If I brought him into my world, I would destroy him.  I saw his destruction.  I saw him weak, and I saw him with that “why doesn’t she love me?” face.  I hate that face.  I saw that he would try to win my affection, and I saw that he would drain me.  I absolutely cannot stand the thought of another person needing me to give them emotions.

I’ve already agreed to ride this ride because it agrees with me.  Even if Fireman is a hunka-hunka burnin’ love, I don’t think there’s any amount of uncircumcised dick (my faaaaaaavorite) that could make me try to care about a different human being than the one I’m with.  I made my decision a long time ago (the night we met, actually).  I’m just sick of having to get to know another person’s emotions, and I don’t want to have to learn about yet another’s.  That’s not to say that I don’t, in some way, enjoy the challenges that my fiance poses: I know that I need to be better, and he helps me with that.  He helps me be more tolerant.  It’s work, but I’ve always enjoyed challenges, and I truly believe that I am capable of anything.

And of course, I thought about what would happen if my fiance found out.  I imagine it would be come out in a situation where my fiance and I went to the bar together, and Fireman sees us, hurt from my fucking his lights out then abandoning him for my fiance, and here we were together, all over one another like we usually are (I really only know how to express myself physically, so I show him my love with constant touching and kissing–I very rarely use words).  I imagine Fireman makes some kind of smart comment, not fully giving away the truth, and of course, Fiance doesn’t know any better, so he sticks up for himself (and me), but by the end of the night, it won’t sit right with him.  We’ll go home and he’ll know it.  He’ll get angry.  He’ll throw things, grab me, and slam doors.  He’ll sleep in the guest bedroom.  The next day he won’t talk to me.  The second day he’ll tell me to leave.  And then it will all be over.  I’ll have to start all over from scratch.  Do you know how hard it is for me to find someone I agree with?  And then, to find someone I agree with for more than a few months?  I’m getting too old for this game.

Tonight, Kendra, Fireman, and I were all talking about the virtues of my hometown versus our current town.  I actually prefer the new place, but no one can believe that this little shithole has more to offer me than a famous city.  The bartender (who knew that I almost lost my shit with this guy before) loudly interjected that I “came here to settle down.”  It’s true.  I’ve decided on this future: husband, kids, in-laws (I love my in-laws; my mother-in-law is a super sweet, generous chef, and my father-in-law is a scientist and we drink bourbon and discuss everything from cosmology to the psychology of feral cats).  The life I have is the life I want. This is what I have always wanted.  I have always wanted to be on a team of two.  We’ll have allies, for sure, but I’ve always wanted to share my awesomeness with someone else, and to have another person teach me what love means.  As much as my mother didn’t turn out a sociopath (she’s actually very empathic towards a lot of people, especially strangers), she’s always been a tit-for-tat kind of person.  I was a fat kid, so if I ever wanted something, I would have to lose weight to earn it.  She wouldn’t buy me a car (not that I really thought she had to, I was fine with public transit as it was all I knew and I’m kind of a hippie), until I enrolled in her favorite college (and of course, it took her three years to provide her end of the bargain that she offered [mind you, I paid for college 100% out of my own funds–savings bond left by a relative, straight work, and flatbacking–except for one small loan for which we co-signed to help build my credit, but which I had paid back completely within one year].  My fiance’s family doesn’t make me write out a payment plan on loans they give us.  They don’t even give us “loans”.  They just give us money when they know we’re struggling.  They don’t expect us to pay it back, but I recently got a new job that would allow me to pay them back 200% in 12 months if I choose (it’s a slow start kind of position, but “residuals” is a beautiful word).  They haven’t asked for that, not at all, not even moderately implied, but I imagine that’s what I would do for them when I was able.  Perhaps I will simply put the money into a savings account of some kind (whatever has the best return) to allow for my in-laws to be well cared for when they are too old to care for themselves (whether we build an in-law unit or set them up someplace swanky).  But everything my mom has loaned me, I have paid back according to her terms, which are always in the short term.

I saw the future.  I couldn’t stand to lose this one, and I couldn’t stand to give a shit about the other.  I have it really good where I am.  He’s on his way home now, and when he gets here, I’m going to shove my face into his chest hair.

DTMFA?

Here’s my shameful truth: my boyfriend (so called fiance) has gone down on me approximately six times in our year long relationship. I can only count five times from memory (the night we met, our Halloween vacation, valentines, my birthday, and once since then, of course after I complained), but I will assume another instance happened as well, for his sake.

I only cum from oral sex, as far as contributions from a partner are concerned. I can get off with a vibrator by myself just fine. But that’s what being single is for (and “being single” to me means, “the three weeks at most between this dick and that”).

The last guy I had sex with before I met my fiancé was Charlie. I had known him and wanted him for a while (he’s a redhead, a great one at that, and that is my THING, for some reason). Finally, over a year after we met, we talked about our mutual attraction. That night, I thought, I was out of commission on account of my period. He told me “I was married for seven years. I’ve seen it all and I don’t care. I just want you squirming on my face, no matter what, where, when, or why.” He cheerfully agreed to follow me home and eat me out, despite me being on my period. This carried on with similar enthusiasm for a while. There were many times when I just wanted to suck him off, because yes, that gets me off, but I knew, if I needed it, it would be there.

There are no such certainties with my fiancé. I don’t know why he doesn’t do it, and he won’t explain why. I figure it’s the usual reason immature men have: women smell/taste gross down there. So, I shower, I shave, and if he attempts to go down after I went for a run and haven’t showered, I turn him down. I’ve explained to him that I don’t do this because I don’t want it, but because I know how much he obviously hates it, and I don’t want to make the experience any more difficult than it already is.

In our time together, I have never mentioned that he has an abnormally hairy penis. That’s right. He has hair growing halfway up his dick. It’s not a lot, but when I go down on him, sometimes I think I have a hair stuck in my mouth, but really, it’s a still-attached dick hair. It’s really only maybe like eight hairs total, but they are full sized, and still very uncommon for my dick sucking experience (which exceeds the 100 point for sure). What’s weird is he will shave his balls, but he completely ignores his dick hair.

But I shave everything constantly to keep him not-uninterested. I don’t know how to get him excited about it, so I just try to make myself as presentable as possible.

But charlie wouldn’t give a flying shit. Not one. If I went three weeks between shaves, he didn’t give a shit, my pussy was a wonderful source of enjoyment for me, therefore for him, then both of us together. I can’t even think of a fucking JOHN who didn’t eat my pussy first. They paid to eat it of all things!

My no-contact client told me the other night how much he loved eating pussy. He could do it for hours, he said. I’m almost tempted to call him and just ask him to eat me out. No money, just eat my pussy for an hour.

What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’ve never had a mate so reluctant to give me pleasure. I figure I’ll stay with him, because he’s great in every other way, but I’ll just get my pussy eaten on the side. So long as there’s no reciprocation on my end (giving oral or sex), can he really complain? Really?

I mean fucking really?
It’s not like he’s established a monopoly on it. He’s not outdoing the competitors. If I, as a business owner, hired a company that did legal and financial services, but found that while their legal services were fantastic, their financial services sucked, could they really get mad if I used them only for their legal skills, but turned to someone different for financial advice? There’s no contract yet. Even if there were, failure to provide on any one aspect would warrant the agreement null.

I don’t want to cheat, and I don’t want to break up, but I am comfortable cheating. More so than breaking up with him. I told him, before, that a recent study said men performed cunnilingus to keep women from leaving them. In fact, the study said men performed cunnilingus to keep women from cheating on them. but I didn’t want to scare him.

But that’s the truth we’re facing. Any advice is welcome.

Update: Oh, and to let you know, I suck his dick probably 97% of the time that we have sex. He does not eat my pussy to make it wet, nor does he like it when I spit on my fingers and then rub them on myself to make up for the lack of actual sexual lubricant. He complained about that, so I stopped. So, unless I suck him first, it’s dry cock going into dry pussy and it is painful and unnecessary. Just eat it god damnit.

Yes, yes, and double yes

Could it be that this is what I was meant to do?

I was feeling a little bit excited; it’s been my first time in maybe three years that I’ve ever charged for my presence.  As I mentioned earlier this evening, this was for a show: me, naked, playing with myself, with no contact, he decides if he wants to touch himself or not. Easy peasy.  As I was taking a shower, shaving the appropriate bits, I started to hoot and holler with delight.  I. was. fucking. doing it.

I decided to stop at my bar to have a drink before the event.  As I waited for his confirmation, I ran into a couple of girls I know.  If you’ve read my previous posts, you may have noticed one where I talked about a girl I was sure was an escort.  Well, I was wrong.  She does phone sex.  And her friend does as well, who I had also met a while back.  The friend, we’ll call her Skyler, said something, in a joking way, about being in phone sex and asking if I wanted to join.  I told her no, because people were listening, but I was hoping maybe it was a cover for an agency.  At the end of the evening I gave her my number and told her I hoped she was lying, and if she was, to call me.  I hadn’t heard from her, but I’ve seen her between then (maybe a week ago) and now.

The girl I thought I had pegged, let’s call her Emma, was at the bar tonight when I showed up, waiting for Skyler.  I didn’t know her very well, but since we both had Skyler in common, I decided to sit next to her at the bar (the bartender also suggested it for some reason).  I asked her if it was true what Skyler had said, and Emma filled me in on the details.  I revealed that I had escorted in the past, and we grew a bond right there.  Immediately, I was in.  Eventually, late-ass Skyler showed up.

I got confirmation from my client.  I paid my tab and wrote my client’s name and address on a piece of paper and folded it the maximum six times for that size of paper, and handed it to Skyler.  I told her, “If I don’t call you by 9:30 I want you to read this paper.”  She looked at me for a second, then her eyes got wide and she knew.  Skyler and Emma both immediately agreed to keep track of me, Emma set a timer on her phone, and Skyler and I put one another’s numbers on our phones.  They hugged me and wished me good luck.

I found this motherfucker’s place, eventually.  But, it wasn’t his place.  It was his parents’ place.  His place was around the corner, but his neighbors are nosy, and a friend of his just pulled up.  There was a chance they might disturb us.  He didn’t want to stay at his parents’ place because the AC had not been on (they were out of town).  I preferred to stay at the place with the address I had already given to Skyler, and we drove up his private driveway.  As I followed his truck, I took a picture of the license plate and sent it to Skyler.  She sent me back an encouraging message.

He was so shy.  He was good looking, too.  The kind of guy I would normally go for, and I would have loved to have offered him full service.  He grabbed me a beer and we settled in.  He explained that he had never done this kind of thing before.  I assured him I was nice, that I wouldn’t bite, and I’d be gentle.  I let a minute of opening beers go by, and asked if his real name was Cody, because a photo on the wall that looked like him was dedicated to a Cody.  He said it was his brother.  How the hell did I know about Cody?  I told him I saw it on the picture and he calmed down.  I could tell he was new to this and apprehensive.  It was then that I got professional.  I explained that it was customary for him, at this point early on, to place his end of the bargain somewhere in view, then hopefully turn around (at least that’s how I like to do it).  He did so.

I agreed that the lack of AC was a pain, and took my clothes off.  We got started slowly.  I performed on the ottoman while he sat in his chair.  I asked him what he liked, but he was reticent.  I asked him if he was more of a boob or ass man, and he said he wasn’t sure.  After a while I turned around and showed him my ass, and then he finally admitted that was his favorite view.  I told him he could play with himself, but he acted like he didn’t want to.  Eventually, when I pulled out my dildo, he began to jerk it.  I caught a little bit out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t think he wanted me to watch him.  I asked him if he wanted me to cum or to wait.  He told me to cum.  So I did.  When I was finished, I sat up, and his dick was under his shirt (his pants never came off, but they were unzipped).  He asked me if it was real.  I told him I never fake it (I don’t).   I asked him if he came.  He said yes.  I said, “I don’t see any wet spots.” And he still insisted otherwise.  I didn’t know what to think.

We wrapped up, got dressed, and we walked to our cars.  I told him my name was Jamie, which isn’t true, and he questioned it.  I looked at him like, “duh!” and he asked for a real email.  I gave it to him, but he didn’t believe me.  I drove home and called Skyler on the way.  She was happy for me and she told me any time I needed help like that again, just to let her know.  I told her I may have an appointment Sunday.  She was so supportive.

As a professional in this field, I don’t think my resume is that great.  But I do think I’m a natural.  It just comes so easy to me to be free with my body, enjoy it, and enjoy the sexual side of others.  I wanted him to ask me to do something that scared him.  He didn’t, but maybe next time.  I want people to push their own boundaries with me.  That’s what I’m here for, that’s what I’m good at: this is what I contribute to the world.  This is the only way I know how to reach people, to help them, to care.  My body is here for you to use in the way that makes you most sexually fulfilled.  Whether you want to fuck me with a bottle, or have me fuck you in the ass with a strap on and then pee on you, I can do it.  I can bear that brunt.  I don’t feel what the other girls feel, and I can set you loose.  When it comes to sex, I don’t judge.  I really don’t.  If you want me to dress in children’s clothing and pretend to be your five year old daughter, I will do it without blinking.  Acting out a fantasy with me is your time to be you.  I know how it feels to pretend to be something you are not.  That is something with which I can empathize.

I feel no remorse about my fiance, though.  Maybe I am a sociopath for real after all.

Who am I kidding?

I probably ran out of money on purpose so that I would be forced to put my little pussy out.  I’m easing back into it of course.

The other day I had a long think about whether or not I was prepared to do this again.  The situation is not like before, I’m not single.  But I am broke.  If he found out, it would hurt him.  I don’t know if it’s any consolation that what I’m currently offering is a no-contact experience (but yes, I still get naked).  It’s not really cheating that way.  Sure, someone else gets to enjoy looking at me doing dirty things, but he doesn’t touch me, I don’t touch him, we both benefit, we walk away and it’s done.  It’s not like picking up a guy at the bar and fucking him because I’m bored or horny.  No, I have a purpose.  Fucking money.  Money is unfortunately necessary and I don’t have time to wait 2-4 weeks for a paycheck from a straight gig.  I just don’t.  I’m making better money this way anyway.  It might be dangerous, but it’s still practical.  And as much as I’ve been around evil people, I will still say that most people, including most men who pay to play, are normal and have no desire to hurt you.  There really is such a thing as the guy who “just wants to talk/cuddle/watch TV/otherGRatedActivities.”  He’s rare, for sure, but he’s out there.  Even when psychopaths do pick on prostitutes, they usually choose the streetwalkers.  The ones who post coded messages online with big words and double entendre (the sly kind, not the “roses” kind) are typically not the ones they pick, because those girls usually have loved ones, or at least a friend who is expecting a phone call to say she’s alright in 15 minutes. But I digress.

I’m looking forward to it.  I don’t want my man to know, but I miss this.  It’s what I love most, other than him.  I’ve checked the penal code (*snort*).  I’m not doing anything illegal.  There could be a case for obscenity, but then you’re getting into first-amendment land, and who wants to go there? 

I kinda wish this wasn’t my version of Disneyland.  It’s frowned upon.  I don’t care what you think of me, really, but a lot of people get really mean about it when they learn you choose to turn tricks, rather than being trafficked into it.  They don’t understand the nuance, but that doesn’t stop them from being plain loud about it.  When people get so emotionally charged, you just cannot reason with them, and emotional people are just the worst, I swear. 

So, if you never see another post from me, it’s because I got murdered in someone’s apartment and now I’m in a landfill or ditch or something.  But if you do, it’s because I could afford to pay my cable bill.  Premium channels and phone line bundles are a bitch, but I need home entertainment.

And food.  Paleo ain’t cheap.

Mostly food.

Everybody Hurts

Even me.  And so does my fiance.  But I don’t know what to do about it.

He’s been frustrated at work, rightfully so, and he’s exhausted and scared.  I know that, as a concept, but I guess I don’t express it or show him.  He told me today (and he said it the other day, too) that he thinks I “just don’t understand what [he’s] going through.”  Last time he said it, I didn’t say anything.  Today I told him he was right.  I softened it by saying I’ve never been in his situation, so no, I don’t know what it’s like, but I know he’s upset and I know he’s being exploited.  Other than that, what do I do?

I don’t really know what the interplay is between empathy and oxytocin is, but it appears there is one.  I read about one study where it increased the capacity for empathy in men.  I’m reading a book right now that says lack of empathy (to the point of autism) is an extreme expression of a “male mind.”  I’m not going to worry about the misogynistic implications there, because frankly, I think it’s correct (I hate nothing more than talking about feelings with other women, like many men).  I don’t know if I have a poorly or non-functioning amygdala.  I’ve never had a brain scan.  However, I do suspect I have the ability to produce oxytocin.  I don’t think it’s horribly impaired, if at all.  I think the fact that I’ve really only ever felt “bonded” to my sex partners (and no one else, but my mother comes close) probably has something to do with a hormone that is released when people kiss and touch and orgasm.  I saw it on TV that exchanging saliva stimulates oxytocin production.  So I’ve been trying to kiss him with more tongue lately.  I’m trying the only real way I know how.

It hurts me that I don’t understand him.  I adore him.  I don’t mind cleaning his butt fuzz off the toilet, or picking up the trash he leaves next to the trash can, not in the can.  I want him to be happy with me.  

 

And yes, I am totally playing R.E.M. while I write this.

Link

Girls like to rape, too.

I find this interesting.  As I’ve either said directly, or simply alluded to with my philosoraptor meme, I did this, too, but at an even younger age.  I was five when I first coerced a girl to hide in a closet with me until I got to the work of raping her.  We met through vacation bible school.  I played with her for years.  Eventually, the boys caught up to my sexuality and I went for them instead. (I checked my old posts… this feels familiar, but I don’t know when else I may have written this…) But it was fun for a while.  I haven’t done it since, really, unless someone was paying for it.  Then it was a job.

But for this girl, maybe she was just curious, maybe she really didn’t know she was doing a bad thing.  But, most likely, something happened to her first and she turned this way.  Maybe she was born this way, and then it was done purely out of hate and anger.  I don’t know.  But I don’t know how to incarcerate a 10 year old girl for a crime that probably isn’t her fault at the ultimate level of final blame.  Even without empathy, she’s only ten and may not know what “rape” is.  When I was her age I had escalated to other kinds of violence, but a lot of the kids around me could barely comprehend these kinds of things (I apologize to my former classmates for the group therapy sessions we were forced to have on my account, but it was you-know-who’s-fault anyway).  If the boy did what boys are taught to do–don’t cry–she may not have known she was hurting him.  Maybe.  Still, I’m betting on the P/N theory and going with: she doesn’t have empathy.  But there were three paths to get her there, all completely out of her control: her genes, her upbringing, or a combination of the two (most likely option one or three).  Yes, I believe in Responsible Non-Empathy (I’ll come up with a better term later, or maybe you could suggest one), but it takes a while to get a non-empath to comprehend the most basic of all things: other people feel stuff.  With work, I think you can get there, but you have to want it.  Either way, she’s not old enough to have learned how to navigate the world with a faulty brain, as if any ten year old, even with the best faculties, could do better. 

So do we lock her up for something she couldn’t help doing?  I don’t know.  I really don’t know.  The first time I stabbed someone, I was practically rewarded for it.  The boy was fine, with the exception of a two-inch scar I left behind.  When the future mother of his children sees it and asks, “what happened?” he’ll have to tell her what he did to deserve it.  Good.  That’s what I learned.  Maybe a little bit of incarceration in a psyche ward and forced therapy could be good for her.  Unfortunately, most research I’ve read on the topic shows that most sociopaths get worse with therapy, it teaches them more about manipulating others.  But I think it helped me with insight and control.

I say, let her off fairly easy with this one.  The second time, if she’s stupid enough to get caught, fine.  I don’t want a stupid sociopath running around anymore than you want any sociopath at all running around. 

And of course, if you want to say “wah wah wah, what about the victim?”  Boo Fucking Hoo.  I’ve been raped more times than that and I turned out both strong and fearsome.  One in four women, on a conservative estimate, will have this happen to them.  The only way to get men to care about it in any real way is to let it happen to boys so they’ll finally say, “OH MY GOD!!! THIS AFFECTS US, TOO!!!!! WE HAVE TO STOP IT!!!!!!”  If four or five boys get raped along the way (while another 23,460,572 women get raped in the same time frame), so be it.  Someone’s gotta be sacrificed, and I’m tired of it always being the sociopath who, hello, never asked to be this way.

You know I blast Lady Gaga like a twink.

Badness and Goodness

I’m sitting here at my computer, wearing no pants or panties.  I just masturbated to videos of prostitutes getting used by fat guys.  I’m still not sick of it.  I’ve grown out of gangbang videos, which aren’t demeaning enough for my tastes, usually.  I used to watch a lot of Midnight Prowl, which at first seemed pretty legit: the men really were just the creeps hanging around porn shops or street corners at night.  Then they started hiring actual porn stars to do the work.  My friend was dating a porn star, I won’t say who, but I knew who he was, and once I saw him fucking one of the MP girls, I knew they had jumped the shark.  You see, by then they’ve either exhausted the supply of creepy men (not likely), or girls who were willing to sleep with creepy men.  Being a porn star and fucking other, attractive, well-hung porn stars is not difficult, unless your vagina is shallow, I guess.  But having to fuck random, loser guys?  Why, that’s for prostitutes, not porn stars.  What they fail to realize is they’re whores just the same.  It’s great when you can screen for only good-looking men, but that’s not how the world goes ’round.  Not, of course, to imply that all men who see hookers are unattractive.  I was always bothered by their insistence that “I don’t pay her to show up! I pay her to leave!”  True, some good-looking or not-unattractive men say this, but I’ve known the vast majority to be so gross, they really could not get it without paying.

There’s an episode of Criminal Minds where a call-girl (notice the terminology) starts killing a bunch of high-powered executives.  It turns out, her father was seeing call-girls and that lead to divorce from her mother, and the destruction of her home life, so this was her revenge against him.  As she sits on a hotel balcony, dying from some pills she took, she tells Aaron Hotchner, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit team leader, the irony of the previously mentioned statement, and I paraphrase: “They always say they’re paying her to leave.  But it’s always the man that leaves first.” 

I can’t speak to the truth of that statement.  I suspect it to be true, but I don’t know.  When I worked, I usually did my outcalls in their home, where obviously I did the leaving (because, you know, it’s his home), or at my incall location, where obviously they would do the leaving (since I had to clean up, do laundry, dishes, restock the condoms and lube, etc., etc. before I could go anywhere).  Honestly, I can only think of one time where I went to someone’s hotel room (When you take security seriously, you screen your clients.  If your client is from out of town, you cannot trust references from girls you don’t know in other parts of the country, so I never met anyone whose only option for an outcall was his hotel.  The one gentleman I did see at a hotel was local enough to have good references from girls I knew, but he lived a good distance away–I had no car–and we agreed to meet in the middle.  He said he had to get home to feed his dogs, which I knew he really did have, and he let me stay in his 5-star hotel room and order whatever food service or pay-per-view I wanted.  I was 18, but I attacked the mini-bar as well, as I doubted he would report me for underage drinking.  Yes, he left first, but he set me up to still enjoy his money and my solitude).

So really, who needs whom?  What is our relationship to one another?  The escort may need money, but of course most of the girls I knew had college degrees and had other means of employment, sometimes being fully employed somewhere straight.  This was not her only choice, just her favorite of her options.  Whereas, what’s the john’s option?  A porno flick and Palmela Handerson?  His wife?  Some mistress he has to woo with dates and gifts and, most importantly, time and attention, before he can stick it in?  I can’t blame him for taking the most direct route.  The mistress route–the one about starting a relationship that may not be of equals, but does require some balance–is not that different from the 40-hr work week option for women.  But I think the power to make money is far greater than the power to get yourself laid, the ability to afford getting laid, whether it be in time or money.  Women don’t have to do anything to get laid.  All we have to do is put ourselves in the same room as a man.  Depending on how long we’re stuck there, he’ll eventually want to stick it in.  If, for some reason, stuck in this room, he had a key to a lock box full of food.  If the woman wants some food, it’s easy to get.  Women enjoy sex, and assuming this man meets her qualifications, she gets laid, and she gets food.  

At the end of the night, no matter who leaves first, the woman gets the enjoyable sexual activity and the money.  The john’s score is zero, the escort’s is two.  To quote a famous whoremonger: “Winning!”

For the independent girls, they set their own rates.  I knew a girl who was highly rated, I think she held the #1 spot for a while, and she charged well higher than the average rate.  She was chubby and had flapjack tits–and she was only a B-cup.  I had a threesome with her, and the guy involved, I ended up dating him for a long while, made fun of her tits constantly.  He didn’t see how she could get the reviews she does with tits like that.  But somehow, she did.  This completely unimpressive girl, from outside observation, was commanding hundreds of dollars an hour and everyone was happy about it (no, it’s not all $5000/hr shit going on, some of it is quite reasonable).  She was sitting in the catbird seat.

Are escorts and their johns mutually parasitic?  Or does one hold an advantage over the other?  As someone who loves degradation, I always felt like I had the upper hand.  I get my rocks off, and I get paid to do it.  Well, not anymore.  But I don’t know how anyone else feels. 

l knew one girl, her passion was rescuing cats–lions and tigers, not tabbies and calicoes–but of course, it doesn’t pay the bills.  She was working as an exotic dancer, when she was fired for being “too old” (management just pointed at every girl over the age of 23 and said: “you’re fired”).  So she turned to escorting.  For some reason, I got the chance to look closely at her tits (these kinds of things happen in the industry).  I saw the scar from her implants.  She had great tits, and she was super sexy.  For her, I think she was so self-sacrificing and so dedicated to the cats that she felt it was the just and proper thing to do.  What other job would have paid her that much, with that little time spent working, so she could spend 40+ hours a week rehabilitating cats that fucking Amish people sell to idiots who don’t realize, “are you serious, it could eat me?”?  I don’t think there really is one.  What other job makes you $2000 a week with only six hours of work?  She not only used her body, she altered her body so she could make more to give to the leopards.  If I believed in such things, I would call it a holy endeavor.

Flapjacks was a nanny, working on a degree in Education.  Another woman wanted to put her kids in private schools.  I went to a party at one woman’s house, and she was so proud, she had just bought it, paid in cash, and it was hers.  Myself, I was in school, but I didn’t need the money for anything.  I had a good part-time job and a college fund.  But I loved makeup.  I would take my friends on financial aid out to dinners.  I loaned money and didn’t worry about getting it back.  I really didn’t care about the money.  Sure, I liked to shop, but really, I was just looking for adventure.  Some might say I’m prone to boredom, but luckily, I find ways to entertain myself.  Most of the girls I knew were using their money for some higher purpose.  It wasn’t just “Fuck Johns, Get Money.”

So, to continue the theme of doing bad for good… it’s common.  I think maybe some things might be objectively wrong (most people would say murder, but I’m not so convinced on that, but I’ll offer a concession here), whereas others are based on perceptions given to us by holy books and society.  Both cannot be trusted, however, as ultimately, society is unduly influenced by religion, which is, ultimately, based on folklore.  This is easy to prove, but for another day.

I just read a fascinating book, The Psychopath Test.  It was absolutely fascinating and I would have read it in one sitting if I had started it early enough in the day, but I had to go to bed and start up again the next day.  That was the last two days.  I plan to add my thoughts on the book in another post, hopefully soon.  Basically, it’s about the power-grabs that surround the industry that assigns madness to others who fit in the madness mold, even if they may fit more evenly into the sane mold–the question is, which do we measure, and to which do we give more weight?  It’s an interesting question for me as I examine what I myself contribute in terms of good and evil.  Stay tuned. 

Sigh..

Every time I talk to a stranger in public, I quickly regret it. There’s no filter. Anyone, regardless of intelligence is allowed to open their mouth. I’m sorry, but I don’t care and you bother me with your naïveté.