Saying it all. . .

Lola returned once more to the small room under the castle. The rosy glow of the fire shone on the plush bed in the corner but left the far reaches of the room in shadow. The faint smell of pipe smoke that always drifted through the room brought images rushing to her mind. . .images of her first trip to this place to beg for the return of the child. . .and the bargain struck, and all the nights since. . .her legs quivered slightly under her loose white gown.

Tonight would be different. Tonight she had the answer that would end it all. She knew the name that his mother had given him. When she spoke that name, she would see the wicked light in his little eyes die. The child would be freed and he would hold no power over her. Her trips to the den of the gnome would cease.  

From the darkness on the far side of the room came a rough teutonic voice.

“Have you come with an answer for me or shall we play once more, my sweet?”

Turning, Lola spied the diminuative gnome of a man. He sat as he had every night. His silver curls were wreathed in pipe smoke, and the source of that smoke perched like a sparrow in his thick little hand. His round little body was clothed in loose, dark clothing, looking as though he was lounging after a hard day’s work. His feet in their scruffy slippers did not touch the floor.

Lola straightened her spine, felt the warmth of the fire caress her shoulders as she threw them back, unconsciously displaying the beauty of her round breasts. She raised her chin, pride and surety shining from her every pore.

“Your name is Wendell.” The smile on her face was so bright, she fairly glowed in the flickering light.

But the gnome hesitated. . .fleshy lips wrapped around the pipestem and drew, somehow giving the illusion of length to a face that was otherwise round in all it’s aspects. After several seconds of tense silence, he slowly shook his head from side to side, and a merry, devlish light kindled in his clear blue eyes.

Lola’s chin dropped to her chest. Her soft brown curls fell forward to veil her shame at another failure. With slightly trembling hands, she reached up to untie the ribbons at the shoulders of her gown so that it slipped becomingly off her silky shoulders.

“I offer myself for one more chance to free the child.” she whispered the words she had learned so well over the many nights. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she moved to a place directly in front of him and released the strings of her gown. It billowed slightly and caressed its way down her rounded hips to pool at her feet. The gnome gazed on her nakedness as he slowly rose to walk around her in his round legged gait. He placed his pipe on a low table and began unfastening the strings of his pants as he turned back to face her.

“Never have I been so happy to hear so many wrong answers. . .wise of them to send such a lovely lass to me.” There was pure appreciation in his voice.

Lola came shyly to him, not raising her head, but lifting her eyes just enough to glimpse his gourd-like belly and the nest of silver curls surrounding his small member before she dropped to her knees before him.  She took him gently into her mouth and felt the slight swelling of his flesh. Like some strange supplicant, Lola showered her affection on his cock and the gnome could not help but lower his hands to caress her head. When he was moaning her name, she pulled back to sit on her heels, head still down, and requested in a slightly shaky voice “Shall we move to the bed?”.
 
The gnome placed his hands gently on Lola’s head. “Tonight, my dear,” he rasped. “I wish to see you astride me. . .I want you to mount yourself on my shaft and bring yourself to completion while I watch you.”

Lola’s blush burned over her whole body. She had always avoided allowing him to see this final, full surrender of her passion. . .to have his eyes so firmly upon her in her weakest, and strongest, and most vulnerable moment was almost too much to ask of her. But he knew that she would do whatever he asked.

When he was situated on the bed, Lola climbed up to kneel astride him. She used her hands to guide his semi-hard cock into her body. She held him inside her and began to gently rotate her hips in a slow dance. She ran her hand down her body to circle her clitoris slowly, mimicking her body’s motion. And the gnome watched. Though his cock never grew harder, it still filled Lola and her hips gyrated faster, her fingers becoming almost frantic between their bodies.

The gnome stared in wonder as she pinned him to the bed with her body. He had never seen her so focused, so driven, so engaged in her own pleasure that he became nothing more than a means to reaching her goal. He felt the contractions begin to ripple along the length of her dripping sheath and reached his sausage-like hands up to squeeze her breasts hard. She looked charming with her head thrown to the side, her eyes closed in ecstasy, but he wanted her eyes locked on him when she made that last surrender. He squeezed harder and Lola screamed as her orgasm washed over her. . .

“WENDELLSON!”

The gnome’s blue eyes opened wide with shock and he froze with his hands still gripping Lola’s breasts. From the castle above came the faint sound of cheering. Lola cocked her head to the side to listen to the proof that the child had reappeared, then bowed her head as though graciously accepting the applause of a grateful audience. In less than a moment, her brown eyes met the gnome’s.

“So, the princeling is back, the queen will be overjoyed, and I shall no longer be yours to toy with,” She looked pointedly down at the little man’s hands that were still gripping her breasts. The gnome pulled his hands back quickly and puffed his chest out as though greatly affronted.

“Madam, you have played me false! You bought a reprieve that you did not need! Why would you do that?”

“If I’ve overpaid, then you are in my debt, little man. . .there is, after all, magic involved. To pay your debt, perhaps I should force you to guess silly riddles?” Lola rolled off of the bed to stand looking down at the gnome consideringly, then moved to retrieve her chemise from the floor. As she dressed, the gnome pondered her words with comprehension beginning to dawn in his eyes. 

“I will return tomorrow and you will tell me how many wildflowers I have picked in my life.” 

“Oh, but what is the consequence if I am wrong, sweet Lola?”

Lola pondered her answer for long enough that the gnome feared she would leave before he had his answer. Just as she opened the door, she spoke. . .

“You are in my debt. Should your answer be wrong, you will simply remain in my debt. Don’t think I don’t know how that debt disturbs you. Of course, I suppose you might be able to convince me to give you another opportunity to pay your debt. . .”

Lola closed the door behind her and chuckled as she made her way to the stairway leading up to the castle and the celebration that was no doubt waiting to name her a hero. She almost skipped down the hall as she thought with a blush of the many wrong answers soon to come.  

In honor of the posting of the link to this blog by the phenomenal Ms. Bliss, I’m gonna tell a little story. . .

I traveled north, into the mountains; measuring the miles by the rise in altitude. I went to see the poet who has wooed me these last few weeks. . .sending me verse from his favorite poets, photos that he has taken, and resounding prose to waken my spirit. While he calls me to him to explore “the art of eros”, I will also be treated to museum visits and massage. . .wine and winsome writing. I have agreed to this trip, not for the money, but for the experience.

As I drive, I spend my time listening to the hum of my wheels paired with the music of my high school years. In this time of so much soul searching and internal change, I find comfort in the fact that I can still sing along to songs I haven’t heard in more than a decade. And, as I drive, small snatches of poetry and lines of prose whisper to me so that I have to stop several times in the winding river gorge to write them down. I don’t want them to pass me by like the motorcycles that give me the Hi sign. The poet promised that this trip would be a time of artistic emergence and inspiration. And even at this early stage in my journey, my expectations have been fulfilled.

I find the coffee shop where we are to meet and let my Chai and espresso mix soothe the slight agitation that getting lost has left behind. And as the sun warms me, a handsome and distinguished man in a white hat arrives. He gives me a smile, an inquiring look. . .I know it’s my poet. I can tell simply by his look, the light in his eyes as he begins to outline our day, that his excitement and passion can hardly be contained. The room he has for us is lovely, with a hot tub and stunning bed tucked under a loft in the corner. The fireplace is crowned with a gorgeous mosaic and decked with candles. . .but no sooner did we arrive than he has to run off to handle some business concerns. He recommends a nearby restaurant that has wonderful food and promises to return as soon as he is able.

I dawdled over my meal. . .an amazingly flavorful quesadilla with cactus and squash. . .then I read the magazines. Finally I decide to nap to counteract the effects of the altitude. He finds me there, two hours after he left me, curled up and snoozing. We shared a few stolen kisses and a glass of wine before heading out to explore the artistic history of this tiny hamlet, all the while maintaining the ruse that I am a tourist, he the tourguide. We spoke of D.H. Lawrence, and Victorian Era women with more passion than society could handle. “Your life, my dear, is so much a mirror of the reality these women lived” he says, with the past sighing in his ear. He even leaves me alone in the parlor of one historic home to soak in the history and peace of the place.

Later, back in our room, he changed into a bathrobe, took a seat by the fire and I perched on a cushion next to his feet while he read me poems about the desires of the spirit and the passion of the flesh. The heat from the flames was so insistent that I peeled the layers of my clothing as his words washed over me. . .first the long flowing skirt. . .then the small blouse. . .the pale pink bra, the small whisp of lace that passes for panties. My breasts were heavy from his glances. I could almost feel his hands on me as they caressed the pages of his favorite book. Stoking me with the cadence of his language.  In the end, I was displayed before him in nothing but a rosy glow. 

Perhaps he was overcome. . .he stopped in the middle of a poem to take my hand and pull me to the bed. I lay on my stomach with my head off the end of the bed while he stood before me and poured warm oil on my shoulders. As he stroked my back and eased my muscles, I opened his robe to run my hands softly up his thighs. It wasn’t too long until it was my turn to be overcome. . .I rolled to my back, placed my hand on my yearning puss and tilted my head back far enough to take him between my lips. I felt him grow harder and larger on my tounge and couldn’t contain my squirming. As he poured his fluid onto my face and into my mouth, I set myself free to let my orgasm wash over me.    

Not long after that, it was time for me to begin my journey home. We left each other with a warm kiss and a promise to share more time in the future. The drive home seemed so much shorter than the drive into the mountains had been. I carried with me a book about the woman with the trapdoor under her bed for escaping lovers and a mind full of words and beauty. I think I will carry this trip with me for a while to come.

I finished the wine that the poet sent home with me as I wrote this tale. . .the bottle is empty and the words are spent. . .thank you for sharing the journey with me.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop talking to a new friend about my business. Since he’s a client, there is no need for me to hide the secret side of my life.  I mention the fact that I see just enough clients to pay my bills. I would have no problem filling out a schedule and could probably make loads of money if I would just get organized. But, like so many things in my life, I have approached this in too tentative a way.  He gave me a considering look and said “Sounds like you haven’t made up your mind to do this.”

My first reaction was incredulity. I have been doing this for months now. But I’ve been thinking about it for a few hours now and I realize that he is right. I once knew a stripper who told me about her first days dancing. She said she would go home every night just a bit sad and ashamed. One night her boyfriend asked her what was bothering her, and she told him her feelings. He said something like “Honey, if you are going to do this, you have to be proud of the service you offer. You are a great dancer and you make people happy. Embrace that.” I think it took all this time, and an errant comment from a lovely gentleman, for me to internalize that lesson.

I haven’t exactly been ashamed of what I do. . .I love it, and realize that I provide a valuable gift to my friends. But I was so wrapped up in hiding and trying to keep my secret from everyone. I guess there was a tiny bit of internal disapproval there. Largely because of the neccesity for secrecy. I’ve been half-assed in my approach because I just didn’t want to admit to myself that this really is my life. I have turned down business and made myself somewhat inaccessible simply because I didn’t want to face myself.  

Recently, I have started revealing my life to a few very understanding friends. Some in person, some online. And without exception, my friends have been wonderfully supportive and accepting. And proud of me. That was the shocker. That others can look at what I do, read my stories, and love me for my openness and freedom. I love them all so much for that! It is largely due to their support and positivity that I feel strong enough to embrace this wonderful opportunity. And it is an opportunity. To share, to love, and to feel. To “suck the marrow out of life”. I’m realizing that I should either throw myself into this and revel, or I should just give it up.

With all these epiphanies hitting me today, it’s been a bit of a shake-up. It may be a bit difficult at the time, but this is how we grow. To quote the Blues Travellers, “We grow in dirt.” Sometimes it takes a few hard truths to open us up to forward momentum.

So, what does this mean in my reality. It means that I have begun to reach out to another lady here. And will do my best to create the sense of sisterhood and community I’ve been missing. She will meet me for coffee soon and we will discuss how she goes about scheduling and organizing her business. And she has lots of questions for me, too. We’ve been talking through email and I think we’ll be fast friends.

And, I’ve asked one of my friends to help me with the business aspect of this ride. She’s amazing when it comes to organization and promotion. And, she is one of the first people I told about my life. I don’t know yet what kind of help I’ll ask for. . .that will take time. But she has offered unconditional support. Bless her sweet soul! I look forward to being able to hire her as my business manager.

Of course, I won’t stop being cautious. Flying under the radar is my only option in this life. But, I’m ready to be proud of myself. I think it’s been a long time coming, and I’m not afraid or ashamed anymore! I’m SuperGirl! I’ve got my cape, my alter ego, and a bag full of condoms. There are people in need and I’m here to SAVE THE WORLD!

Warmest kisses and love to you all. . .
Lola

Also, I need to take a moment to say a huge THANK YOU to my wonderful Stablemaster. My first fan. My strongest support. I’m so blessed to have you in my life!

I have seen this gentleman once before. He was referred to me by a friend in the business. It always takes us a while to set up a time and place where we can get together, but the work is worth it. On our first visit, we spent the majority of our time talking. He told me about meeting his father when he was 30 and discovering that he had siblings and an entire family he never knew existed.

We had our second meeting yesterday. He is a one-shot man. Older. The first time we got together, the sex was over in less than 7 minutes. I wanted to make it longer for him this time. . .draw it out a bit with more oral pleasure and playtime. When he arrived, it was obvious that he was excited and ready, and I helped him undress almost as soon as he came through the door. I spent some time licking and loving his cock. . .but we had been at it for less than 5 minutes before he asked me to apply the cover and climb on. He reached completion quickly with some enthusiastic hip action and riding. And then we got down to what we usually do. . .cuddling and talking.

Yesterday, he confided that his mother married a pedophile when he was nine. He spent two years in Hell. At this point, we were naked in bed and drinking coffee. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy for him to share this, so i lay next to him and placed my head on his shoulder. I didn’t want to inhibit him by ”staring” at him, but wanted to maintain the comfort of physical contact and closeness. 

After his mother died, he began seeing a therapist for his uncontrollable rage. He had never been an angry man, and was starting to take it out on his wife. Not physically, but verbally. In the course of his therapy, memories resurfaced. And he found pictures of himself from that time that he never knew existed. Pictures that showed a child in pain. Hollow eyed and incredibly sad.

He went on to tell me about the lectures in which he has participated. He told his story, with no softening of details, to a lecture hall full of lawyers to help them understand what a victim of sexual abuse goes through. Increase their sensitivity. And he stunned the entire lecture hall into horrified silence. No rustling. None of the coughing and sniffling that usually occurs in such a large assembly of people. He left the stage to his therapist and sat down to quietly shake and shiver.

At this point he pulled me across his lap so that I draped over him. He was ready to meet my eyes. “I want to have you all over me, dear. Just lay there and let me look at your beautiful body while I finish this.” And he ran his soft hands leisurely over my curves continually as he finished his tale.

“When someone is abused” he said “they either become an abuser, or a care-giver. It was the most difficult thing I have ever done. . .telling that story. . .but if I helped just one person. . .it was worth it. I took the good path. I can’t even hurt bugs.” He had tears in his eyes when he told me this. So did I. I leaned in, kissed him gently on his forehead, his cheeks, and then his lips.

“Darling, you are amazing. I may not have known you then, but I am so very proud of you.”

He has never told his wife the complete story. He has never told anyone. This sweet, gentle man confessed his pain to me, and let me soothe and comfort him through our tears. And that is why I do what I do. The intimacy that naturally springs from sharing my body allowed me to be the confidante that he needed. To help him through his memories and remind him that he is a beautiful, strong soul.

I think one lovely lady said it best when she said that I am a “sexual angel healing others with my joy.” And what a blessing that is in my life. I am so very glad that I could be there for him. 
 

I have a beautiful circle of friends. We love to party and my guy had the glorious distinction of being the center of that group. This is the story of one lovely night spent celebrating two birthdays.

My guy and I met up with the crowd at a hotel bar downtown. Two of the lovlies were having their birthdays, and the night promised to be wildly fun. The evening started with drinks and talk. . .loads of ladies and only three guys. But before long, a group of Middle Eastern men showed up to party with us and were branded “The Entourage” for the duration of the evening. Swarthy men in pin-striped suits who really didn’t know what to make of me and my ladies.

There really wasn’t much dancing going on at this bar, so we decided to walk to the next hotel where one of the last cigar bars in town exists. Red velvet couches, live blues, and a tiny dance floor where everyone could get close and familiar. As we were leaving, one of the Entourage pulled me aside and asked if I would kiss his cousin. . .

“He’s very shy. He needs to open up.  Would you do that for me?”

I snuck a moment to talk with my guy. As everyone should know, honesty and openness are the only way to approach these kind of situations. “Darling, Farouk has asked if I will kiss his cousin. This night could get outta control. You know this will just put the match to the fuse. Are we ok? Are you comfortable with this?” Bless my man, his response was positive and supportive. And that is when the real fun started.

On the walk, Lyn took the opportunity that my swaying ass presented and swatted me with a riding crop (it was a birthday after all and spankings needed to be delivered).  When I finally stopped laughing, I pulled up my skirt to show her the welt she had raised. . .and the object of my impending kisses blushed furiously and hid his eyes. . .ooo, this was going to be FUN!

We entered the bar en masse and claimed some cushy red chairs by the wall. Not enough chairs for all of us, to be sure, but that is what laps are for. The Entourage peeled off to the bar and returned with drinks for everyone and cigars for those who enjoy them. Farouk’s cousin handed me my Vodka and soda, and I took that opportunity to place that first kiss. . .sweet, soft, warm. . .closed lips, but clingy and passionate. . .his eyebrows actually disappeared into his hairline. . .to his credit, he dropped all his shyness after that and just enjoyed the lovely dynamic that is our group. . .and the night just got better from there.

There isn’t one person, male or female, that was present who didn’t get their fair share of kisses. We were reprimanded by the bouncer for bringing the crop, so we had to put it away. But there are pictures of me licking one girl’s thigh, of three of the Harem members in a puppy pile on one of the chairs, of breasts and butts and dancing and debauchery of all sorts.

At one point in the evening, all the ladies were on the dance floor and the guys were sitting, resting, enjoying the show. A member of the Entourage asked my guy if he was ok with my behavior. He smiled and told them that he loves my open sexuality. . .”We both love to play. . .have fun. . .but at the end of the night, we’re going home together.” High fives were exchanged. . .I think there are lots of men who would love to have a girl who isn’t ashamed or shy, but very few who can accept the reality of a girl like me. Had I heard the conversation at the time, and not just gotten it second hand later that night, I would have joined in the High Fives. . .

I call myself a bigirl. . .but there is no terminology for that wonderful, rare breed of man who accepts and loves and embraces women like me. . .men who are secure in the love of a wild woman, even when she’s got her head buried in cleavage and someone’s hand on her ass.

There was a moment. . .I lifted my head from a kiss (a lovely lady this time) and met my guy’s eyes. . .the adoration, the awe, the beauty shining in his countenance as he watched me . . .I got up, walked over, and shared one of the sweetest, deepest, most loving kisses I have ever experienced with the man who can make my insides shudder from across the room. . .the state. . .the continent.

I don’t know that there is anything else I can share about the unadulterated love that exists in our relationship. I could wax poetic for hours, and still not capture the truth of it.  If you’ve had love similar to this, you know just what I mean. If you haven’t, no words could ever make you fully understand the true beauty of this kind of love.

Mandy is coming back to town! Margaritas, lingerie, pretty pictures, girl-talk and fun! Can hardly wait!

I’m laying in bed with a member of my “stable of stallions”. We’ve taken pictures, drank a bottle of wine,  had sex, and are in the cuddle mode. Talking. And he asks me who I’m seeing besides him. This isn’t the first time that he has made assinine inqueries. I drive an hour to see him once a week, and every time I do, he has some question about my private affairs. I told him the same thing I tell him every time. . .”That really is none of your business, and I can’t believe you would have the audacity to ask me that. ” He’s very needy. Always asks several times if I enjoy my time with him. He’s a 60-ish leprechaun of a man, and I guess he’s just a bit insecure. And helping with insecurity is just one more service I offer.

Sadly, I will have to stop seeing him.

He asked me to fly with him to Key Biscayne. He has a condo and would like to take me there. First class ticket, fine dining, gorgeous white beaches. I mentioned it to a girlfriend and she was so excited for me. It’s a very lucrative proposition, and the experience would be fabulous. I won’t be going. He said the one thing that I cannot overlook.
 
He said he loves me.

He said that he has never met a woman with my passion and excitement and simple joy for living. . . if he just hadn’t said the L word, we might have been able to carry on a mutually beneficial relationship.

He’s not the only one to lose my affection this way. . .I don’t say that to make myself seem irresistable. It illustrates the issue that I find most baffling in this profession. Jealousy and possession. I have never presented myself as a woman looking for a Sugar Daddy. . .there are entire websites devoted to women looking for that arrangement. Would you be jealous of your lawyer having other clients? Would you try to make your masseuse abandon her other patients and see only you? Granted, the service I provide is a bit more personal. But it is a service, none the less. I am a girlfriend for hire. For the duration of the time that I am with a gentleman, I cater to his desires. That is not to say I subject myself or am in any way false. But the reality of the situation is that the very thing these gentleman “love” about me. . .my free spirit and openness. . .is the very thing that would make them hate me if I were to enter a “relationship” with them outside of my profession. I am who I am. To my gentlemen, I am a lovely butterfly who flits in and out of their lives. And they want to clip my wings.   

Now, if you turn that record over, the flip side plays the same song. This business works on a referral system. A gentleman contacts me and provides the name and contact information for two companions he has had the pleasure of sharing time with. This is the safety net. . .to let me know he isn’t violent, or unclean, or disrespectful. And to let me know he’s legit. I have had companions drag their feet on replying to requests for references. So much so that the gentleman in question gives up out of pure frustration.  That’s the passive form. The aggresive form is the girl in town who cannot know about my time spent with a certain gentleman. She would throw me under the bus in a heartbeat if she knew. Destroy my business. Turn me in. Ruin my world.

Is there anything more incomprehensible than a jealous hooker? Every man in town who engages in this Hobby has seen at least 2 or 3 of the local providers. This is business. And there is plenty of dick to go around. And plenty of money. I profit from the old axiom. . .variety is the spice of life.  I really have no control over who contacts me. Why in the world would a prostitute expect her clients to be monogamous? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the Hobby? My job is to provide all the fun and connection and pampering of a girlfriend without any of the work. I will never ask where he was last night. I won’t be hurt if he doesn’t remember my birthday. I don’t expect a Valentine’s Day gift and won’t remember anniversaries.  I won’t ever ask him “Where is this going?” or ”Why were you talking to that girl?” If they wanted that, they would go the traditional route and get a real girlfriend. Heaven knows there are enough girls who will hand him that bullshit for free.

Bliss, you asked me what was most surprising about this business. I already covered the orgasm factor in an earlier blog. I was talking with my guy about the question, and in the course of that conversation, uncovered this. . .this strange thing. . .really mystifying. That people who are in the business of exchanging affection and sex for money would be some of the most possesive, jealous people I’ve ever met. Your average six-year-old understands that people can have more than one friend and it diminishes no one. . .amazing that adults can so easily forget that fact. 

That trip to Florida would have been great. . .but as my guy put it. . .i’ll choose my butterfly life and just “keep flying”.

Kisses
Lola

(I just realized that I’ve hashed some of this in earlier blogs. . .consider this a compilation, then. A more complete rant on the Leslie Gore “You don’t own me” tip.)

Recently, I started coming out of the provider closet with a few of my most accepting and understanding friends. I’ve just gotten tired of keeping secrets. Having no one local to talk to about my life. My guy has always known about my life, but he’s not here to hold me and look into my eyes when we talk. . .

So, I chose a few very select people to share this reality with. Without exception, they have all been wonderfully accepting and understanding. There has been some concern for my well-being, but that was to be expected. I gave each friend the option of walking away. I realize that this is not a “normal” existence. I wouldn’t be at all offended if my friends didn’t want to associate with a prostitute. I have been amazed and humbled and honored by their generosity.

Two of the people I chose to come out to are the owners of my favorite sex store. This was the least scary of my conversations. The store even offers a sex worker discount. I knew they were “sex worker positive”, as they put it. . .and they even asked me to help them. They offer referrals to their customers who are looking for alternatives to the standard sexual fare. They have info on swinging, and BDSM, and anything else you can think of. . .but they had no in with the escort scene. So, I sent them the links to the local boards. 

They were impressed with my website. . .and they mentioned the one thing that makes me giggle the most about this whole situation. Let me set the stage. . .I’m sitting in a sex store, wearing osh-kosh overalls, a pink t-shirt, tennis shoes and a cute little head-band. Working my soccer mom groove to the fullest while I show them my nude photos and reviews of my service. ”We just love it that you hide in plain sight as a good girl.”

So, I just buzzed my way to the store. . .needed to pick up my diploma from the class I took. . .BJ101. I completely forgot that Monday is the only day that they are closed. But I had a good time. . .when I drive around, I tend to blast innapropriate music and car dance like a stripper. . .it makes every trip just a little more fun. I’m driving down the street, blasting Pink’s Cuz I Can, dancing and enjoying life. I just love the looks I get. The flirting. . .the smiles and laughter. Even if they are laughing at me, I spread some joy and good times around. I just love making people smile, and nothing does that better than something totally unexpected. And I really get a boost to my spirits when people don’t notice that the light has changed because they are staring. . .too funny.  

So, that’s my little insight into my day. . .give me a topic to discuss, and I won’t bore you with this kinda stuff again!

Kisses

someone give me a question or a topic. . .I can’t think of anything worth while to share and I want to write. . .

I usually don’t write so much in such a short time, but I have had one of those days. First, bear with me for some high school drama back-ground information.

While I was on vacation with my guy, a friend called me to see if I would be willing to do a duet with her on this coming Monday. She’s been acting strange toward me since she returned from her hiatus a few weeks ago. I thought that if I agreed to boost her business; help her out in a situation where one girl is just not enough, that it would go a long way toward mending whatever has gotten her knickers in a knot. I explained to her that I didn’t have computer access while I was out of town, and would contact her when I returned, but that she should count me in. She said that she would expect to hear from me on Wednesday and would assume it was a go whether I emailed her or not.

As it turns out, I waited until Thursday to contact her and ask for the specifics of the date. What time, where, what would be expected. She returns a terse note stating that this particular customer has been hinting that he would like some anal play. . .and though she did offer that as a service, she wasn’t yet comfortable enough with him to share that with him. . .so that would be a definite must between me and the client. I was astounded. . .insulted. . .and more than a bit confused.

I make no secret of the fact that I like visiting Greece from time to time. If you’ve had a conversation with me even once about sex, you have a better than average chance of discovering that little gem of knowledge. When I first started talking to this friend, she was my advisor. She told me never to share that information with a client. That if I decided to go there, that was fine, but I should not offer it specifically because it could cause certain expectations that I would then be obligated to fulfill. But even without that advice, I would not have offered that knowledge to clients. I have gone there in the course of business, but it is definitely not something I would promise to someone I’ve never met. Some day, I’ll write my Ode to Ass and explain my adoration of anal lovin’ . . .but for now, let’s just say that it requires a certain list of criteria be met before anyone is invited to my backdoor.

What leaves me insulted is that she would offer my ass to a man she won’t accept at her own backdoor. I have never met this man. I have never advertised that service. I was advised by this woman not to offer that service. Furthermore, before I ever agreed to join her in the bedroom, I read her webpage. Learned what services she commonly offers, what her rates are, how she checks her clients for legitimacy. . .she obviously did no research at all. She didn’t even care enough to see what I offer before putting me up on the sacrificial altar.

I told her that if she had promised this man he could have anal sex with me, then she had better cancel the appointment, because I would not be put in a situation where that choice was taken from me. She came back peeved because I was a day late contacting her and wouldn’t follow through on what she thought I should do. . .WTF! So, I politely declared that we should just forget the idea of performing duets and just be friends. I’m hoping that we can just let it go, remain politely distant, and move on with our lives. . .

But this brings me to my pet peeve. . .and it doesn’t just apply to us working girls, but to any woman who openly embraces her feminine sexuality. . .the assumption that being a sexual woman means I really couldn’t care less what happens in my sex life.  I like sex, so I must neccesarily want to have sex with every breathing being on the planet in any way they want, cause I just want to fuck. My sexual liberation and self-determination are not indicators that I am some mindless sex-drone. . .I still have this silly idea that I should be the one to decide what gets inserted into my ass. . .silly me. . .what was I thinking?

And perhaps the saddest part of this is that I was treated like a piece of meat by someone who should know better. You’ve heard me wail before about the lack of kinship in this business. . .I have no sisters. Because, with very few exceptions, I’m finding that there’s something about this line of work that attracts the slightly off center, the addict, the emotionally needy. . .and instability is a way of life in the biz. . .

I like to think I’m different. . .but who am I to say?

probably whined enough for now. . .night, all
sweet dreams and kisses. . .