I Can’t Even

I know it’s been a while since I updated regularly. I feel an upswing of inspiration and motivation on its way. I do apologize that my first post after a long silence is an angry rant but I do hope it’s taken in the way it’s intended: not as something that makes me hate anything or anyone but as an astonished, incredulous venting of what, after a week or so of telling the story to friends, has given me some great material. the “Too Long; Didn’t Read” summary is that someone tried to mansplain my clitoris to me and did it in the absolute dumbest way possible so I fired him. Sigh. I love dudes but…

 

Not all men suck, but when they do, they all suck the same way.

When I decided to start offering full service again, I knew a few folks who had a middle ground between sensual massage and piv sex. I thought about it, and decided against it. Receiving pleasure is much more emotionally taxing for me than giving pleasure. My entire body is extremely sensitive and can only handle so much in any given period of time and my mind and heart are far more interested in doing than being done to. So, instead of offering a middle ground session at a lower rate, I decided that that reciprocal touch that includes everything except would simply have to fall under the umbrella of reciprocal touch that includes everything. I know there are people who would see this as paying more for less, but that is a pretty clear sign that our attitudes about sex don’t match up well. Oral sex, digital sex, its all still sex and it all takes it out of me, physically, emotionally, etc.

Given everything I’ve written and said and decided regarding oral sex in fbsm, enter Patrick.

It started in his first form submission. His comment made it clear that he was looking for mutual masturbation in a massage setting. I replied with a little blurb acknowledging the request but denying it, including an excerpt from the blog post I wrote about it. Over the next dozen emails, he went back and forth between agreeing to FBSM and that my limits were fine, to being ‘confused’ about my definitions of FBSM, to finally insisting that he could give me so much pleasure if only I let him and it would make his fantasy so much better. Throughout all of this I am getting less and less opaque, making it very clear what he should do moving forward: either book a more expansive session or chill the freak out and let me do what I do best.

A this point, I should have known better. No one needs this much explaining. No one reasonable, anyway. People with head injuries and English as their second language have an easier time navigating my boundaries and needs than this guy! But I like to give people the benefit of the doubt and I felt that it *could* go really well for him and worst case scenario for me he gets handier than I like and I ave to redirect.

So Patrick and I are in my apartment, slowly undressing, kissing, exchanging pleasantries, getting ready for some table time, and he brings it up again. Not in a ‘you should change your mind’ kind of way but in a ‘if you only listened to me you would understand that you’re wrong about your own clitoris’ kind of way.

It’s an intimate scene. I’m undressed and he’s down to shorts, we’re embracing, kissing, ready to start a lovely, luscious sensual massage in a few moments, if only he will stop talking. I am irritated in several ways by the arrogance of this person who kisses like a wet limpet and never stops talking to listen, who insists on stifling my voice with unskilled and indelicate face mushing, and who now has brought up a topic that had been set aside. Cue a spike in my blood pressure.

Guys? Guys. This guy tried to mansplain my own. clitoris. to me. Like, wft? You can fuck right off, at that point bro.

His thought was that *very gentle* clitoral stimulus can’t possibly be in the same category as penis in vagina sex. And he’s not *entirely* wrong; a lovely little tease can be a nice interlude and is welcome under the right circumstances. But he is assuming 1: that he has a magic face that is capable of gentle pleasure, 2: that what I mean by ‘wear and tear’ on my body is confined to literal physical damage, 3: that I don’t understand that he can’t keep an erection in a condom long enough to have PIV sex and so 4: he shouldn’t have to book a FS session, 5: that oral sex isn’t sex, and 6: that he isn’t asking for free extras and it doesn’t make him look real cheap.

And I would have happily explained this to him if I got more than a few words out at a time. It’s as if this guy doesn’t know that I spend most of my life thinking about, learning about, and catering to cocks of various sizes, styles, tensile strengths, and functionalities. As if I didn’t understand that age and ailment can make it harder to hold onto an erection. As if I haven’t put any thought into the decisions I make. As if I don’t already know exactly how I feel about receiving oral. None of what I do is arbitrary and here comes this brick wall with a mouth spouting nonsense and completely ignoring all attempts at communication from me.

So I kicked him out. For the first time ever in my six years as an entertainer, satisfier, erotic specialist, and tolerant person in general, I kicked someone out mid session.

I don’t get that pissed off that often. Especially when I empathize with the guy. It sucks to reach a point where an orgasm takes so much time and energy to achieve that they can only come few and far between. This is an expensive hobby and of course you want to get a satisfying experience for your money. That’s fine and I don’t mind at all when people feel that way, or even when they ask once or twice, or hint at it, or try to bribe me, or whatever. What pissed me off this time was the combination of me *knowing* that his jackassery was coming but hoping I’d be wrong, and having such an incredibly personal experience dismissed as if I simply didn’t understand my own. Fucking. Clitoris.

Of course I gave him his money back. I’m sure many folks would say I didn’t have to and I did regret it the one and only other time I left my fee behind, but it was clear that it was necessary this time. I hold myself to an unreasonably high standard in these matters and I wasn’t about to let this person have any hold over me.

I am proud of my behavior. Furious as I was, I simply put on a robe and said nothing. Well, nearly nothing, I caved a few times and tried to engage in further discussion but I have been in these arguments before; every word I say is a weapon in his arsenal. Plus I only got a few words out before he reminded me why I was kicking him out. He asked me out to lunch, to talk over a cup of coffee, as if I wanted to let him continue to explain to me that I just didn’t understand and interrupt me every time I started a new word. I would rather eat dirt.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to eat dirt, I got to sit on my couch and listen to my lovely music, relax, wait for Adelle to come over so I could vent and we could snuggle, text my partner and my assistant to vent, and write this long angry essay about someone who would be right at home on the US Senate.

I just… It’s hard to believe, in some ways. I could *feel* my face getting red and hot, my pulse starting to race, my voice starting to shake, in the beginning of the conversation. Every time he interrupted me it was just fuel on the fire. A perceptive human who is interested in what other people have to say can see those logarithmic increases. I can see them. He couldn’t.

He apologized, of course, and I’m sure he regretted whatever it was that made me kick him out, and of course I forgive him for his mistake, but forgiveness doesn’t magically erase the adrenaline. With 45 minutes left to get him on the table, off the table, showered, and out, I wasn’t about to give the worst, most angry, half assed massage ever. I love my work and I’d like to keep loving it. Continuing a session after something like that is a good way to make me hate my work.

Post Script. It’s been a week and I’ve had time to both cool down and get angry all over again a few times. I’ve been through the stages of bad behavior: disbelief, anger, incredulity, anger again, resignation, and as of the publication of this post, release. I have received a few follow up emails, all equally as tone deaf as the first. This guy thinks it was his words that pissed me off, haha! But I’m finally at my computer long enough to block his email address and, with luck, I will never be reminded of him again. And I still don’t regret giving him his money back. I wouldn’t have regretted keeping it, and I was well within my rights to do so, but this is someone who made a fuss about 330 being an odd number and he had to go get change at the coffee shop. Tone. Deaf. Ha!

In the week between, I have met and re-met incredible people. The vast majority of people I meet are fantastic, or at least only odd, and I rarely have to deal with someone so boorish. Most of the time my darling clients are kind and gentle, generous, thoughtful, intelligent, bearing gifts and charm, grace and appreciation. As time goes by and this incident recedes into the realm of ‘funny stories I get to tell at the right kinds of parties’ bad behavior will take up less and less of my mental space to make room for my beloveds, the sweet gentlemen who, as always, make my life more pleasurable and more interesting.

Here’s to listening to my gut more often, haha!