Author: C S

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The Roaming Ho

I made it!

 

I’m sitting at home at my desk surrounded for the first time in eleven days by familiar sights and smells. I had a pile of packages awaiting my return, new pants and a new watch that I wish I had had for the trip. Also bills but such is life.

I’m so pleased by the sunshine here! I spent much more time than expected in the one pair of jeans I took with me. Considering the bulk of the trip was in Southern California, I spent very little time feeling warm. The cool weather followed me down and back up again until finally, on the night before heading home, I got pounded by an icy deluge on the way to dinner. Sigh.

Highlights! Florence, OR is beautiful and I could have spent several days there. I will put it on my list for the next, shorter, road trip as a destination and I will absolutely venture a few miles south to revisit only the best deli I’ve ever been to! In Reedsport, just on the other side of the Dunes coastal park, is a place called Back to the Best and they smoke their own everything. I had a half a Reuben with home cured pastrami and fennel seeds in the soft, squishy rye and ran off with a half pound of chewy, sweet and salty jerky. Meat candy at its best.

After Florence was Redding, boring and blah, but during the hop from Redding to Sacramento, a tourist attraction sign reading “Olive City! Olive Oil Tastings” caught my eye and subsequently my wallet. I don’t usually get distracted by silly street signs but when you’re on a road trip through central California and you can’t do wine and drive, oil is the thing to try. Lucero Tasting room in Corning, CA has a huge selection of oils they harvest and press on site within hours of picking. They let you taste and assess different types and my olive oil education more than doubled. It has subtle and delicious flavors just like chocolate or wine. I walked away with a vinegar, three oils, a jar of olives, and some fantastic mustard. If only I had the pastrami from two days before!

After a quick turnaround in Sacramento and a medium drive to Pasadena, I registered for classes and had a fairly relaxed visit. I learned about pediatric massage and sat through an… interesting ethics class. Sex work always comes up in massage ethics classes because it’s often done under the guise of massage and so some clients expect licensed practitioners to provide sexual services. You get some truly odd interactions sometimes and I had to bite my tongue often during the four hour conversation. I learned a few new self care techniques and met a few lovely local therapist, and some from as far as the East Coast. Very cool.

The best two locations in Pasadena are Union, a tiny hole-in-the-wall that serves excellent food and personable conversation. The wait staff was not only beautiful but highly competent. Comparable to a few of my favorite places around here and by far the best high-end food I had the whole trip. The best bar to my taste is Der Wolfskop. The downstairs was dim, quiet, cheap (for California), and played old movies with the captions so I could watch while I sipped my brown liquor. Oh, and for lunch one day I decided on a ramen joint with a long line out front. I figured the line was a good sign and oh my god it was. Rich, salty broth, fatty pork, and a soft boiled egg with some hot green tea hit the spot perfectly after sitting in a chilly classroom all morning. I can’t wait for Seattle to catch up with the ramen craze. The last time I tried ramen in Seattle it had fermented bamboo shoots in it. No good.

The plan was to stay an extra night after my classes were over but I got done at noon and had had just about all I cared of Pasadena. I called my AirBnB hosts at the next place and asked them if they had room for us a day early. She made some adjustments and slid us in two nights instead of one. Morro Bay is an adorable little seaside town ten minutes north of San Luis Obispo with happy people and a tiki bar that serves 32 ounce cocktails for 12 bucks. It also has easy access to walking trails, beaches, and more. Even more fun, however, is just up the road at the Libertine Pub. 72 beers on tap and incredibly chill waitstaff made for a pleasant evening, capped with barbecue from a little joint around the corner.

Wandering around in tide pools that I’m pretty sure we weren’t supposed to be in, I noticed a wet shiny blob that looked suspiciously like a stranded sea creature. Sure enough, a closer look revealed a fly-covered octopus about the size of my hand. My heart moved at the poor creature’s plight so I nudged it onto a seaweed sling and moved it to a little pool close by where I watched. At first, there wasn’t much movement. I figured I was probably too late, the exposure had done him in and all I did was delay the inevitable. After a few minutes, though, I saw some movement. His color changed and his siphons started fluttering. Then he inked at me!! I figured that was a good sign and sure enough, a few minutes later, he struggled to push himself deeper into the collected seaweed and away from my line of sight. It felt a bit odd to celebrate a cephalopod’s survival like that but I felt it was good preparation for my future wildlife rescue efforts.

Later that day we toured Hearst Castle, the magnificent and unfinished home of media magnate William Randolph Hearst. I would have been happy with one of his four bedroom, two bathroom guest cottages or one half of one wing but when you have that kind of well funded imagination I suppose theres nothing to stop you from creating a magnificent castle in the California desert. Some people simply don’t know when to stop but then again, if he had, it wouldn’t be there for us to ogle some half a century later.

The next day ended at Monterey, standing a few miles north of the bridge made famous in Big Little Lies, watching a pod of whales and a flock of seabirds demolish a shoal while seals and sea otters frolicked in the foreground and the bright orange sun sank slowly behind. There are some moments that are simply magical and that was one. Cold, windy, scrubby cliffside gave way to a glittering marine tableau… Its exactly the kind of drama I like in my life, haha.

After Monterey I only had a couple more days, one in Arcata, tucked in among the Redwoods, and another halfway back, in Springfield, OR where I had the third best food on the entire trip. I may have been biased because it was my first salad in a while but it was at this little joint called Plank Town Brewing Co. Good beer, good food, and really good cocktails.

I could have planned better, but I really enjoyed the more relaxing pace of a flexible schedule. I’m definitely going to have to revisit the Redwoods. By the eighth hour of the longest driving day, I was not sorely tempted to get out and hike for another few hours so I feel as though I didn’t give that leg the time it deserved. Ah well. There’s always next year.

This is just a summary. It’s difficult to convey in text the exhaustion, boredom, awe, curiosity, and pleasure I felt by turns along the 3000 miles getting to know my Prius better. Once I get settled in and start reconnecting with my beloved clients and my darling colleagues, once I sit back and work on some tasks, and once I get back to normal eating habit again, I’ll have more time to reflect.

Thank you. One of the greatest things about doing what I do is the ability to take off for a couple of weeks, knowing that when I get back, my beloved clients will be eager to get together, my bills will be paid, and having the freedom to change my plans at the last minute and afford it without stress. I love that I wasn’t trapped in my schedule by a tight budget and I want to thank you for making that possible. I live a magical, beautiful life.

 

Now for a salad and a long walk.

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An Open Letter To His Wife

To My Client’s Wife,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry that the world set you up to think you could get everything you needed from one man. I’m sorry that you’ve been shamed for your sexuality and his interest in sex doesn’t fit your needs anymore. I’m sorry that somewhere, something broke down and you don’t know how to fix it. I’m sorry that he pestered you until you fought over it and that his hurt and confusion blinded him to yours. I’m sorry that I’ll never be able to hug you and tell you that it’s ok, that I’ll take care of that so you two can focus on the rest of your complex, full, committed life together. I’m sorry that you haven’t found an outlet like this so you, too, can take a break, relax, and return to your marriage more focused and refreshed.

I haven’t seen your husband at his worst. I haven’t laundered countless socks, sobbed quietly at the hurtful and angry things he said, celebrated his success at the cost of my own, sacrificed my youth to bring him pleasure, cooked for him, cleaned for him, or God forbid been on a long trip with him. I have no idea what series of events led you two to where you are now, I only see his sexual frustration now in front of me and it’s my job to take care of it and send him happily back home to you.

Because he loves you. You’ve raised his children and captured his heart. He needs you. He has watched you work miracles with his home and his family and himself. He has built a beautiful, strong, loving life with you. He has fought within himself between his desires and your needs and this is his solution. Leaving is not an option. You fill his life and fit him in so many ways; his choice is not between staying or leaving, it’s between resenting the lack of connection or recharging his physical and emotional batteries in order to be more completely with you.

I know, that sounds crazy! If he loves you, why would he be seeing someone like me? It’s precisely because he loves you that he’s seeing me once a month instead of shattering your life with constant anger or a foolish affair.

And believe me, if he thought he could tell you, he would. If I could tell you I would. If you could know that there’s no pressure, that cuddling doesn’t have to lead to sex, that if you aren’t in the mood you don’t have to feel guilty, that sex is an invitation, not an expectation, what kind of freedom might you feel? To have that source of constant fighting evaporate, or at least ebb long enough to come together… what might that do?

I don’t want to steal your husband, I want to heal him. I’m sexual first aid, applied as often as necessary to allow deeper healing between you two, if you’re willing. I’m a prop, a listening ear, a safe space for him to feel sexy and sensual and comforted and heard so he can meet you where you are without tension or resentment.

Thank you for your patience and understanding.

With hope,

Your Husband’s Favorite Escort

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You’re my first

I remember my first. We were young and good Christian kids so we trusted ourselves (or more accurately our shame) to keep us from going farther than just the tip. It was dark, under covers, and I’d been fighting myself for over an hour as our naked bodies did everything but. His stupid teenage cock was rubbing all over my lips and when he asked me if he should go all the way I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t. I nodded and the next thirty seconds were pure heaven.

Even earlier than that I had learned the frustrated pleasure of a hand or cock rubbing my inseam and younger still I tried to fulfill my pussy’s yearning with my friends’ hands and labia and pillows. I was only 12 when I learned to masturbate so I’m amazed that it took four entire years after that to finally feel real penetration.

I remember my first older man.. I remember my first orgasm with a partner, I remember my first client, my first duo… I remember my first everything.

So will you. If you come to me for your first time, or even to be one of your first few, you will remember me your entire life.

What an honor. Thank you.

Because if I’m among your first, it means you chose me, you decided I was worth living in your memory for as long as your memory lasts. When our firsts just happen, we don’t always choose when and with whom. You did and I am humbled.

About me: I have a lot of experience, as you may have guessed, but you are different and interesting and unique in ways even you don’t know. I’ll want to get to know you and I’ll want to know that it’s all new for you. I’m excited to help you get comfortable and learn.

About you: You care, you’re curious, and you’re willing to take your time learning this whole girls and sex thing. Welcome.

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Pale Fire, by Vladimir Nabokov

I have a few friends who keep trying to get me to read Lolita, saying it’s one of the greatest pieces of literature available. I have a hard time with the prospect of getting in a pedophile’s head so one friend offered me an alternative: Pale Fire.

Pale Fire is some of the best brain candy I’ve read in a while. Brain Candy, by my definition, is a book that doesn’t make you look too deeply. You read it, it’s fun, you enjoy it, but it doesn’t make you uncomfortable and doesn’t require a lot of post-reading musing.

Written in two parts, a 999 line poem and exhaustive liner notes, Pale Fire tells the story of a poet and a king. Our narrator tells the story both of his friendship with the poet and a story of revolution and exile in his home country, a fictional place somewhere near Russia.

I can see why my friends are so excited; Nabokov’s turn of phrase is beautiful. I love authors like J.G. Ballard who make similes where you least expect them, adds jarringly appropriate adjectives, and evokes a rich bookscape for readers like me who create images of the action in their minds as they read. I feel the reactions of the other characters to the narrator’s self-centered, overly proud behavior at the same time he justifies it. I imagine that his poet friend sees him less as a good friend and more as a source of amusement. I can tell even before it’s revealed that the poet is much more adept and perceptive than the narrator and I love the feeling of being in on the joke with Nabokov and his poet.

The method Nabokov has used to tell his story is really interesting. I’ve never encountered a novel in notes before. I read the liner notes first, then the poem because the poem becomes much richer when you know what it’s talking about. The notes also tell the story part of the novel, an action and satire-packed adventure of revolution, escape, exile, and assassination.

And the poem stands alone as a beautiful, whimsical, highly self-aware autobiography of the poet’s childhood, marriage, and the untimely loss of his young daughter.

Aside from the easy, beautiful words, I seriously enjoyed, as I mentioned earlier, being in on the joke with Nabokov and his poet. Nabokov does an excellent job of writing a man totally unaware of his boorishness. He’s just polite enough that no one really says anything but the way he describes other people’s behavior makes it clear to the socially adept reader. I always have fun guessing the twist a while before it happens; the less in advance I guess it the better. I only beat Nabokov by a chapter or two on the major twist and not much more on the more obvious one which made the book more enjoyable.

Overall, I recommend this as a shorter, less uncomfortable example of Nabokov’s mastery of language and uncanny ability to understand a man who doesn’t understand himself. It’s not too long and it’s not too heavy so it’s good light-ish reading for summer days.

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Back to Earth

Well, I made it. Two weeks, 65 pounds of beast flesh, 22 guests, and a whole lot of beer. It’s time for a cleanse, haha! Knowing myself, I’ll last about four days.

But seriously, though, I’m going to be taking it easy for the next little while diet-wise and making myself more available to my beloveds for fun and games before my next grand adventure. Yes, that’s right, I’m only here for 17 days before I leap once more into the unknown of gasp a road trip!!!

I’ll be driving down to LA and back, hoping to hit up Crater Lake, Big Sur, and the Redwoods somewhere in there. It’ll take me just about two weeks and then I’m back for real. I might take a few long weekends in some warm places and there will be one more trip out to Eastern Washington but this adventurer is going to settle into some more domestic ones for a while.

I’m already looking forward to cold nights covered in quilts sipping mulled wine and watching the fire crackling in the fireplace. Long evenings reading quietly and assuaging cabin fever with a little vitamin D, if you know what I mean, har har har. Ok, yeah, that was bad.

While I am here, I have a lovely lady friend visiting for PAX (Penny Arcade Expo. Big nerd convention starting next Thursday). My newsletter recipients have seen a glimpse already but she’s not going public until she’s had a chance to test the waters, as it were. We were chatting a few weeks ago and she mentioned she’d always been curious to try this work but as a social worker, she’s only ever seen ladies of the night at the end of their ropes, never stable and reliable. So she and I are going to try a few fun things and we’ll see where it goes! If she decides to get going for reals I’ll make it known.

Not much else to announce. I’ve been doing a lot of reading and thinking but haven’t written much of it down. Some of Claire’s meditation practice has rubbed off, I think, as I’ve been more quietly thoughtful recently than I’m used to. It’s an odd feeling, almost like getting high, where I take the world in but feel no pressure to process it and respond.Very peaceful. Hopefully I can turn it to good use.

I hope to see you sometime in the next few weeks but if not, we’ll make time again soon, I’m sure.

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REV: Cunning Linguist

My relationship with pussy has been tumultuous. I’ve always been a straight girl and I was so not into my own body that over several formative years, I never asked anyone to go down on me and the one time someone offered to, it was his first time and he didn’t like it much, so I never asked again.

Oh boy, do you guys like eating pussy! I never would have thought that it would be so popular or that the smell, the taste, the sensory feedback would be so intense.

The first time I tried going down on another girl, it was in a duo. The poor girl had razor burn and I had no idea what I was doing but she was a good sport and put up with my tongue mashing as my client’s thrusts from behind pushed me around. I came, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t.

Until recently, it’s been pretty much like that: my inexpert lip smacking bringing not pleasure, exactly, but at least a great show!

In a few recent duos, I’ve had the chance to give some un distracted, 1:1 attention to my lady friend while our boy is recuperating and watches. Taking Nina Hartley’s how-to video into account and listening to breathing patterns, bucking hips, and some verbal directions, I was able to experience the art of lickin’ on the clits. WOW!!

First off, I was vindicated in my own grooming practices. Hair makes a difference in face comfort when administering the oral and tidy is better. Mine is thick and curly so I keep it trimmed short in the living room and stripped bare in the dining room. It means I have enhanced sensations which is nice in some ways but when it comes to bristling mustaches, not having that protection can make for a scratchy ride. Girl faces don’t have that problem!!

Also, pussy tastes good. Or, more accurately, it tastes like sex and pussy and pleasure and all those things are good so by the transitive property of sex, pussy tastes good. And it tastes different depending on how turned on she is. I could taste a metallic tangy difference between just the way it is when fresh from the shower, when she’s turned on, and after coming.

And the coolest part is feeling the sensation of muscles clenching against my chin and thighs quivering by my ears and the sounds of gasping and moaning and crying out…. Just wow. Yet another lovely reason to promote duos! I only wish I had a cock so I could feel those muscles and that slippery wet…. Sigh.

Now not everyone likes eating pussy and that’s totally fine. If you’re not accustomed to the smell or the taste it can be a bit jarring at first. Sometimes you come see a provider specifically so you can just kick back and enjoy the ride. This isn’t to convince you, it’s to let everyone else know that I finally get it, haha.

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Take Care

Sorry this is late. Thank you for your patience!

Jameson was reading when Angela got home. She’d had an easy day, only one client, and she’d made some cookies, tidied the bathroom, and had made significant headway in her latest novel when the lock clicked and her wife followed it.

Immediately she knew something was up. Angela was usually bubbly and chatty when she got home, eager to share stories or commiserate over the day’s events. While Jameson was a homebody, ascribing to the less is more philosophy of working, Angela fostered a vibrant clientele which sometimes got overwhelming. It made for a decent sized and fast growing nest egg for their young marriage but sometimes she overdid it.

“Hey, sweetheart, welcome home. How was your day?”
“Ugh. I feel like shit. I feel like a dump truck ran me over. Why am I so dumb!”
“Why? What happened?”
“Oh the usual, I overbooked myself. I know better than to see Carpal Tunnel Guy and Coke Can Cock on the same day. Then I ate too much at dinner again so I feel gross and bloated. When will I l earn!?!” Angela collapsed on the sofa with a wincing sigh. She met her wife’s concerned eyes and suddenly the walls fell. Fragility replaced irritation and tears spilled over her cheeks.
“My darling love, I’m sorry. It’s ok. It happens sometimes. I know they take it out of you. How about a bath?”

Jameson sometimes did a bath ceremony with her clients but she liked nothing better than to give the healing touch to her soft, tiny wife when she burned out. She’d insisted on the right kind of tub when they were apartment hunting all those years ago and Angela thought her fixation absurd. Until, that is, the first bath.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do that. It’s my fault. I knew better…”
“Shhhhh. You just chill while I go get stuff ready.”

Jameson’s first stop was the fridge for a glass of white wine. Too much would simply feed Angela’s low mood but one glass would keep her busy while Jameson drew a bath and lit candles.

Fifteen minutes and their bathroom had been transformed from the boring white and blue pit stop to a refuge, full of fragrant steam, flickering soft light, and low music. Jameson went to fetch her tiny wife and the process of covering her in soft, feminine sensation.

First, she sat next to Angela and simply took her hand, caressing it gently all over. Angela’s eyes closed and her breathing started to slow under the hypnotic movement. Jameson took the glass and set it aside, then began slowly, gently undressing Angela, taking time to rub, feather light, over each bit of skin as it was exposed.

“How does this feel?” She asked as she caressed near a nipple. Neither of them ever knew whether they would respond or reject Jameson’s touch after the well intentioned but rough handling by clients. “ok? Maybe later? Not today?”

“Not today. That sweaty, prickly…”

Jameson cut her phrase short with a delicate finger to Angela’s lips. “Shhhh. Only answer, don’t think.” Angela smiled. It was a good reminder. She began again to clear her mind and let Jameson do what she did best.

Jeans and underwear gone, Jameson finished her whispering touch with a brief, firm foot rub and then took Angela’s hand and led her, mute, to the bath.

Lavender and low light continued the process Jameson had begun on the sofa and over the next half hour, Angela soaked and enjoyed as her pale pink life partner slowly, carefully, gently washed every inch of her with special soaps. With Angela’s eyes closed, Jameson felt no self-consciousness just looking at her wife. It never got old.

Angela was short, only a bit over five foot, and hippy for someone so petite but it gave her a lucrative body that was enough mother goddess to inspire lust while staying trim enough to fit today’s body narrative. Her hair was dark and fell to her shoulders and her limbs fit with the rest of her: a bit short but right in the middle between skinny and strong. She had shape that appealed broadly enough that she was in high demand, and her rates reflected that.

But Jameson’s favorite part was her skin. Some mix of olive and orange that made her look like a quiet sun shone from inside. In the dim light she looked dark like chocolate but in the sunshine she glowed gold and the red undertones shone from her hair. Soft, smooth, her few blemishes placed so perfectly you’d have thought she had someone put them there, her skin was a work of sensuous art and it was a shame she had to drown it out and ignore it so often. Clients were always so well-meaning but they’re men and men rarely are as delicate and sensitive as women. Their rough cracked sweaty bodies guzzled from the well of Angela’s bubbling femininity and she loved providing that respite from the sensory desert most men live in. But it took a toll, particularly when they were large, scratchy, or particularly emotionally intense. Today had been all three.

As she carefully sloshed soapy water up to Angela’s chin, she saw with satisfaction the near-sleep expression on her face and smiled. “Ok, sleepyhead,” she whispered, “time to rinse off.” She started the water draining and stepped away long enough to set up their massage table in the living room. By the time Angela was toweling herself off, Jameson had the living room similarly transformed. “It’s the deluxe treatment for you today, my darling.”

Angela’s dreamy expression never left her face as she moved, pleasantly sluggish, from place to place as directed. It was so easy to serve such a willing, passive client. They’d been sex workers long before they met, Jameson working with a massage table and steep restrictions, Angela working too hard, and they simply clicked. Their shared desire to please served them well as they took turns taking the client/provider roles and adapting the work they usually performed on men to their life together.
Jameson finished the evening with a long, slow body rub. Beginning at her shoulders, she kneaded and stretched muscle until she felt the tension start to leave.

“Draw your attention to my hands. Feel the tension leave you. Feel my focus on you and soak it in. Allow your body to open to the sensation of my fingertips, my palms.” Jameson kept up a low monologue to remind Angela to stay present, keep her mind from drifting to the next day, allow deep relaxation to occur.

All down her back, kneading her butt and thigh and calf, then the other side, all while reminding her to breathe, be. The work was familiar but the sensation was so different with such perfect skin under her hands. She worked lotion over every inch of her beloved wife and soaked in the love that filled the room, fragrant as the steam from the bath.

“How do you feel?”
“Mmph.”
“Haha, that sounds about right. Ready for bed?”
“Mmph.”

The two women climbed into bed together, unclad, and cuddled as close as they could.

“Thank you. You are incredible, you know that right?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight”

And they fell asleep, breathing each other in, preparing for another day.

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Sticky Sweet Sweat

“Gross. I hate getting sweaty during sex.”

Oh girl. You don’t even know…

When we start, we’re both clean and dry. My studio might be a bit warm but a cool shower brings our temperature down and some cold water or iced tea serves to quench the heat as we reacquaint ourselves.

Words turn to kisses, kisses turn to caresses, and sooner than we imagined we’re skin to skin and a flush has come to our cheeks. Every now and again I’m lazy and relax into your touch but I am no passive lover and before long I add dripping, cooling sweat to the sensations you bring me.

My thighs gripping your hips are slick and I move across you quickly and easily. We move effortlessly against each other, shiny where my breath gathers as I moan and swear and heave. I can feel the cool ripple of your sighs across my back as our bodies fuse in a hot, wet, slippery lake. And icy drop falls from your forehead onto my back. You watch the color and sheen rise on my chest, neck, face, I oblivious to my tells. You’re salty with fresh sweat, the sweet healthy kind you get from a heavy workout. I’ll lick my lips after we’re done, cooling in the afterglow, and smile at the visceral reminder of our flesh together.

The smell of sex and hot skin drifts around the room and eventually out the window. We catch our breath and start to mumble sweet reminders. We drink more, now warmed by the room and time. We start to feel sticky. A simple, cool shower rinses away the salt but not the glow.

Tomorrow you’ll break a sweat for some reason. The weather, a long flight of stairs, a nerve wracking meeting… Doesn’t matter. Maybe it’ll feel good, workout sweat, a flush of heat, a sensation that mimics what we shared the day before. Maybe it’ll be terrible, sticky and inappropriate, and you’ll long for the unabashed nakedness and the cool shower of yesterday.

Sweat, among other things often seen as gross byproducts of a pleasurable but shameful act, is one of the sexiest, most rewarding, literally hottest signals. When your knees wobble and your face flushes with cooling heat, when you drip on me and stick to me and then wash it away leaving only beautiful memories behind, I am rewarded. I, with my authentic sexual power, have done this to you. Oh man, that feels good.

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Special Circumstances

First off, let’s establish that I hate the term sugar daddy. I don’t like being in an imbalanced power dynamic and I’m certainly not going to call anyone daddy. I’m going to say patron for ease of use.

I’ve tried seeking arrangement and what I’ve found is a pool of men across all demographics who have one thing in common: they want to find a girl who behaves professionally, but doesn’t charge professional prices. They want her to be on time, always ready for sex, free of complications such as boyfriends or health issues or personalities. They’re looking for someone who will commit to frequent multi-hour appointments as well as communication in between while only asking for a few thousand a month. Sometimes they want to ‘mentor’ young women which might be truly helpful for some but in my case, I don’t like unsolicited advice. Other times they don’t want to offer real money, even such small amounts, so they offer gifts that might be nice to have after bills are paid but until then are simply baggage. They want their ‘baby’ to prove herself without proving themselves in return and they want to be thanked for it.

I find that kind of behavior infuriating from both sides. A successful sugar baby walks a line where she gives enough to whet the appetite but holds out for more. One provider I know did it in college with something like “I’d love to go on a date with you but my power bill is stressing me out so much I don’t think I could relax enough to enjoy it. You’re willing to pay my bill for me? Oh my goodness thank you SO much!” Once word got round that if you paid a bill for her she’d put out, she didn’t pay her own bills unless she wanted to. I just don’t have the skill to tease it out like that. Girls have to play dumb to make it with these guys and I don’t know if you’ve met me yet but playing dumb, well let’s just say it’s not my strong suit.

That said, when a client evolves into a patron, it forms one of the most fun, pleasant, mutually rewarding dynamics I’ve ever known.

I my experience, there are three general phases: client, regular, and patron

First, we jump through each others hoops. You’ve undergone screening, didn’t haggle, showed up on time, etc. I’ve showed up clean and on time, provided services as advertised, look like my pictures, etc. After meeting a few times, we’ve gotten to know each other, maybe you’ve tipped or offered gifts, maybe I’ve been more flexible for you… This is when we move towards regular status.

Generally we get along. I like smart men who like smart women. I like ribald and thoughtful conversation. When we’re together, it’s easy. We’ve seen each other either long enough, often enough, or under unusual enough circumstances that we share some inside jokes now. We’ve maybe tried something different and our sessions have morphed. If it’s been a while since I’ve seen you I notice it and wonder after you. You care and you mean it. You’re a regular client.

Most of the people I see are people who have settled into the regular phase. It’s comfortable and lovely and when I see your name on my calendar I get excited. Then there are a very few who created a special arrangement. Either explicitly or organically, you became my patron. These arrangements don’t look the same from person to person but they all are based on mutual respect and appreciation and a great deal of self awareness and clever witty banter. They also involve more commitment on both parts, so they’re not a good fit for most people which is why it happen so rarely.

When I was negotiating with these potential ‘daddies’ on SA (and can I say, some of them were just gross. Give daddy his new baby? That is not cute), in the back of my mind I had this sense of shame. What was I doing, putting up with the suspicion and constant need for attention and lack of follow through when I had this beautiful group of regulars and patrons who never asked that of me? How disrespectful to my clients was it to tolerate this crap from others when they have never asked me to? I lasted about a week before deleting my profile.

This was sparked partly by a TNA discussion on finding a girl to patronize, partly by my seven day dabbling, and partly because I’ve talked to people about arrangements like this before and really, they only work well when they evolve slowly. I can’t enter into a special agreement without equality and mutual respect and that rarely happens without spending time together first.

As always, I owe a great deal to my regular clients and my patrons. My financial security, my ability to assert myself, my strengthening sene of self, and of course a fair number of orgasms, haha. Thank you for jumping through my hoops so I could learn to trust you, for allowing me to pamper you with all I can muster because with your attitude and affection, you’ve earned it.

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Le menu du jour

I’m not sure why I don’t get this question very often but my friends often do: some variation of “what’s on the menu?”

I haven’t had a menu for a long time, partly because it wasn’t normal on the old board, partly because I was doing massage only and it’s generally understood to be pretty restrictive, and partly because I don’t want to promise the same thing to different people.

As I get back into the swing of things, I’m learning that I have a cycle of desire. I sort of knew that already; there were days when my body responded with near irresistible desire and others when even people who usually turned me on weren’t doing it for me. I’ve only in the last week started actually recording these swings because it finally became really important.

I’ve talked to a few people about this; how some days I’m just not excited for sex but other days I can’t get enough. Without fail, everyone wants to come over when I’m insatiable. This sounds great to me, too! The problem is, so often, I don’t know until I’m in the moment. It’s been a few hours since my last orgasm and I’m already craving another, daydreaming about my boys and which one I’d like to have over, but it’s too late to coordinate an actual get together. I can’t expect you to be at my beck and call when I find the inverse irritating.

So I’m keeping track, finding correlation, and I’ll be letting people know when it comes up because it dictates in a big way what I’m willing to do for the day. Now, I’m always good, giving, and game. I’m always up to bring you pleasure, you don’t have to worry, but I’m not always able to come, I’m not always able to selfishly receive, and I’m never able to just fake it till you make it. If you see ‘shark week’ on my calendar, it’s because I’m in a fucking frenzy.

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As a tangentially related note, receiving sexual touch authentically is probably one of the hardest parts about this industry. There are many ways to receive sexual touch authentically, and they don’t all look the same. For a few, it means only having sex when they’re in the mood. For some, it’s about only doing things that are if not pleasurable, at least comfortable. For others, it’s about doing whatever is necessary to provide a great experience for the client. For many, it changes from session to session and each person holds different things from their clients for themselves.

I do know there are a lot of lovely darlings out there who love to please and pleasure. You like cunnilingus and intimate massage and playing with my body to bring pleasure. There are some of my esteemed colleagues who offer a middle ground between one-way sensual touch and full service. I considered this for some time and ultimately decided not to. My beloved givers who I empathize with so deeply, yes, you may pamper me as much as you desire and I welcome your ministrations. Goddess worship, mutual masturbation, reciprocal oral, all these things are wonderful and welcome. I strongly feel that there is no less intimacy, trust, and energy required to receive your hands or tongue than to receive your cock. I do not value your touch any more or less because of which part you use and I hope you will not value my time any more or less in return.

Most of my clients want to see me enjoy myself. I appreciate that my pleasure is important, I’d much rather be with someone who cares that I’m at least comfortable. This is why this conversation is important: my desires aren’t always for sexual stimulation, just like you. I cannot promise to come every time. I cannot promise to want sexual pleasure every time. I cannot promise you any act every time (although there are a few I rarely skip). I can’t even promise you’ll get off (though I will do my darnedest) in exactly the way you want every time.

I can, however, promise to always be present with you, not distracted by my phone or my personal life. I will always be ready to help you reach your orgasm in whatever way I can. I will always let you know if something isn’t good or right so you can help me receive pleasure. I will always communicate about our needs and desires. I will always take care of myself so that I am ready to take care of you in turn. And I can promise that every once in a while, I will ask you to not worry about my pleasure and simply take yours, freely given, with joy and respect.