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.

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. 

“I’m bad, and that’s good. I will never be good, and that’s not bad. There’s no one I’d rather be, than me.”

I like to joke a lot and say extremely narcissistic things to people, or in a crowd, and people think it’s funny, because I don’t think they could believe I really feel that way.  The thing is, I believe everything I’m saying, but I know it’s fucked up.  I don’t think I’m wrong for how I feel, and I can justify the most horrifying of actions, but I know I’m different, and I know I’m not normal, and certainly not what I’d call right.  Of course, I can turn that to my benefit because it makes me special.  But yes, I still know right from wrong, and I know that the behavior I poke fun at is not acceptable in society, and I try to fit in.  We watched Wreck-It Ralph the other night.  It was better than I was expecting (only because my boyfriend didn’t explain that it starred John C Reilly and Jane Lynch), and I actually found it a little bit uplifting.

I have always wanted to get married.  The thought of someone promising to love me forever has always excited me, and every time I get into a new relationship, from the very beginning I ask, “Could this be it?”  I’ve had a lot of men fall in love with me, at least that’s what they said, over and over, while I insisted they did not.  A few weeks ago, my fiance pulled me close to him on the couch and put his arm around me.  All of a fucking sudden it hit me: he did that because it felt good to him to hold me, just like when it felt good to me to cuddle with him.  It was the first time I had ever noticed that in the two decades I have been slutting around this planet.  I think that may have had a reason it was so hard to believe anyone loved me (that, and like, the abuse).  But you know, I always found “proof” they didn’t love me, usually the fact that at some point, they tried to break up with me (or succeeded and we reunited).  Once that happened, no matter when in the relationship, that’s when the real cheating would begin.  I would occasionally turn tricks behind their backs if I wanted money (or just because I fucking like it), but that’s not really cheating since it’s just a job and I’ll never see that guy again (well, I saw some of them again. One guy wanted me to come back and play with his girlfriend while he watched.  That bitch was so coked up it was ridiculous, she was naked and bouncing on her tippy-toes when she walked around and just totally out of it.  I fucked her with a dildo on the couch.  She just flopped around and looked blank.  I wouldn’t be surprised if she died that night.)

Once the cheating started, it was all downhill from there.  If they didn’t love me, it didn’t matter if I cheated on them, it couldn’t hurt them.  Even if it did, I didn’t care.  I don’t owe anyone anything if they don’t adore me.  Although I can say I ended it with most of my boyfriends, it was always a preemptive strike because I knew, once they tried it the first time, they were going to keep trying to break up with me until it stuck.  And I could always sense when that final time was right around the corner.  I’ve done it by moving out of state at least a time or two.

I’ve realized that with my behavior, and the frequency of divorce, marriage is no guarantee that I will not die alone.  I want someone to love me forever, and I won’t have that if I keep acting like a fucking sociopath of a narcissist all the time.  I had a boyfriend a while back who pointed out every single narcissistic thing I did.  Freaking everything.  My current one has to stop me and say “it’s not always about you, you know,” and frankly, it shocks me every time.  “It’s not??” That’s the thing people don’t want to understand: sometimes, it’s innocent.  I really don’t know how things are or how I sound.  Of course, when it’s pointed out to me, I am willing to try to make it somehow not about me (old habits die hard, y’all), and I do try to compromise.  I’m not trying to be horrible all the time.  I just am that way.  I try so hard to be nice when I go out in public.  But it’s exhausting.  It’s just not who I am.

But as Wreck-It Ralph says: “I’m bad, and that’s good. I will never be good, and that’s not bad. There’s no one I’d rather be, than me.” I can use my badness for good.  I’m the friend you can go see gory movies with and hide your eyes, and you can trust me to describe anything plot-specific you may be missing, and of course the proper moment to open your eyes again.  If someone’s picking on you, and you’re in my chosen few, I’ll scare them for you.  When we walk down the street alone, in the dark, don’t worry, I’ve got a knife and I’m looking for rocks or pieces of metal to grab, just in case.  Is someone spurting blood? Let me put a bandage on it, at worst I’ll just get horny.  And I’m sure there are other applications.  Just because I have no means to really care doesn’t mean I’m outwardly malicious.  I am friendly when I like the people I’m with.  But yes, you still have to pass a difficult test.

I have one female best friend.  She lives in another state.  I have a few casual girlfriends (not that kind of girlfriend, perverts), but I only ever make plans with one of them, once every several months.  The others I see when I run into them or am looking to sell some stuff I don’t want.  All of my friends that I feel I have some kind of connection to (except the one BFF) are ones I’ve slept with.  Whether it was once, a few times, or a relationship long enough where you don’t count, those are the people I want to be around.  They’re the ones I feel comfortable with.  Knowing they still want me is certainly awesome, but… I spent about twelve minutes trying to think of a way to finish that sentence, and I couldn’t.  It’s because I still have a hold over them.  That’s really it.  And it’s so fucking fun.  But that’s about all I know how to do.  Even now, I have a scheme for every man I meet.  I can’t act on any of them, of course, but I still plan them.  It’s what I do.  On a platonic level, and I actually do have some platonic male friends, I get along better with men.  There’s still the potential for sexual mischief, but it doesn’t have to go there.  I still feel more comfortable talking about aggressive and intellectual kinds of things.  But yeah, in the end, it comes down to who I could have sex with.

 

Well, y’all, my fiance will be here soon and I don’t trust no kind of newfangled technology to save my post, so I’ll have to post the next part on of this tomorrow.  Trust me, I’m getting to a point.  Enjoy the long walk with me.