The Blog

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On Men and Women

I recently had an interesting incident. I received a reference request, responded with a qualified yes, and heard back from the provider later the same day. The young man had behaved inappropriately and had been put on their ‘Do Not See’ list.

When I saw the young man, he didn’t necessarily behave inappropriately, but I did not feel as though a real connection had been made. That sometimes happens due to language barriers, shyness, unfamiliarity, awkwardness, time restrictions, or incompatible expectations. In those cases it is understandable and when I don’t see them again I am not surprised. In this particular case I felt as though the lack of connection was because he saw me as no more than an object; a means to his end and as many ends as he could get.

I don’t often feel objectified in this line of work. Scoff all you want but even when doing naked yoga specifically for the purpose of providing visual stimulation I do not feel reduced to a pair of tits and lady bits. In the moment, that is what is more important, but overall I know that regardless of how perfectly my look fits your fantasy, if we can’t sit and chat intelligently you’re not coming back for an hour and a half of sitting awkwardly on the couch or avoiding eye contact while on the table. My hands are good, but they aren’t that good. In this particular case I felt as though it didn’t matter that it was me, it mattered that I had a pair of hands and could get in as much action as possible in the allotted time. I’m not averse to getting a quickie out of the way so we can have more leisure once the main event arrives, but feeling like my other skills and my personality meant nothing was… well, a little degrading in retrospect. I don’t often feel uncomfortable and when I do it sometimes takes me a while to tease out why. Such is the case here; I felt odd but I couldn’t tell why. Once I realized that it was because I felt taken advantage of and objectified, I started requiring social time with each new person before we moved to touching. I needed to feel like I wasn’t simply a body.

I don’t know how he behaved with the other provider. Perhaps there was a language barrier (this was a scheduler for a non-native massage provider) and she felt he was dissatisfied. Perhaps, as with me, she felt as though he didn’t care for her, only for her ability to give him action for the entire time he was there. I’m sure if he displayed the same attitude of entitlement with her as with me she probably picked up on it and felt uncomfortable. Again, I don’t know anything about what he did, said, didn’t do, or didn’t say. When I questioned the other ladies who had seen him they seemed perfectly happy and in a follow up email from the provider who referred him she said that they see each other all the time and he is just sometimes in a bad mood. I’m genuinely pleased that the two of them have a connection and that he has a young lady who enjoys the time they spend together. I don’t expect to see him again because I don’t know if I provide the experience he is looking for. I am perfectly fine with that. The whole episode, however, raises some interesting points.

First: communicating with references, not only before but after if a client seems odd or off. There was an instance recently where a handsome, charismatic man saw a few young ladies and then used those references to gain access to providers who were then abused, in some cases violently. I know of another anecdote in which a provider had to move locations to escape a too insistent client who then changed his name and email address, saw a few new ladies, and used those references to book with the provider he had been stalking. It is extremely important for us to keep each other safe. This is why I refuse to accept references from providers who don’t screen or who use meet and greets to screen. I don’t even trust my own instincts, I can’t afford to compromise my safety and that of providers I send referrals to by slacking. I would like to know that either one of his references knows his real name or that he has at least been vetted by a total of six other girls. If someone is willing to reveal their full name to me and verify it with a driver’s license or some other legit ID then I am willing to take the risk of seeing them even with no provider history. I find my self in compromising positions almost daily and am in no way willing to rick my safety. I have no protection but my own wits and screening helps bolster that.

Second: providers are people, too. This isn’t about the feeling of objectification, this is about how boundaries are so different between providers. Some providers work from home and require only a phone call to schedule. That works for them and awesome. I refer people to them all the time when they are unwilling or unable to provide references for me or verify their ID. I’m pleased that they have remained safe and successful over the years. Call me paranoid but in the moment, when I suddenly realize just how much stronger you are than me, I take comfort in knowing that you trusted me with your name and so I can trust you with my safety.
Boundaries also vary between providers as far as what is covered under the blanket terms PSE, GFE, and FBSM or FBST. There have been dozens of discussion on The Review Board and one thing they all can agree on is that no one really agrees. To get an idea of what a provider offers in her sessions, read her website first, then read reviews. Often the provider and the reviewer have at least consulted and given each other feedback. The advice/direction I give is: we all know what you did, the only time you need to mention sexy activity is when it is exceptional or absent. Mention things that are out of the ordinary and mention how you felt. If I don’t say on my website that I offer french/pm/gfe/russian/whatever then I would obviously prefer that people don’t expect it. I get extremely uncomfortable when people approach this with expectations and they often leave dissatisfied when those expectations aren’t met. There are dozens of providers in Seattle. Someone out there offers what you want. Again, if you don’t see it offered on her website and you want it, go to someone who does.

Third: Providers are people, too. This one is about objectification. So many of you gents truly are just that: gentlemen who simply wish to be pampered and touched, cared for and listened to, and perhaps get to spend some naked time with a pretty girl. So many, in fact, that when I see discussions on The Review Board on conduct, I think “everyone knows that” and move on. The truth is, not everyone knows that. Not everyone realizes when they’ve made someone uncomfortable and some even thrive on causing pain and discomfort. Fortunately it’s never happened to me but it does happens. While I’d rather never be uncomfortable ever at all, I do appreciate the times when I get to open someone’s eyes to behavior they were unaware of, much as I appreciate when people open mine to my own actions. Every provider is a human being with emotions, families, and their own motivations for what they do. Some do it for money, some for friendship or the semblance of love, some do it because they have few other options, and some do it strictly for the sex. Most providers are some combination of the above. That shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t change the time you spend together and it shouldn’t effect your appreciation of her as an individual. Perhaps there is a language barrier or she’s shy or the activities you engaged in didn’t meet your expectations. Doesn’t matter, she should always be treated with the respect due a human being. Unsure if you’re being respectful? Check in. Ask her how she feels in the afterglow during your pillow talk and let her know that her feedback is appreciated. I will always be honest and trust me, if I am willing to schedule with you again, it means I had a great time and I’m looking forward to meeting again.

I could go on forever on topics such as this. Respect, consent, honesty, and joy are some of my highest values. I hope you find yourself free to express yourself when you are with me. I’m looking forward to the next time we are able to share moments in the cozy comfort of my little studio. I’m waiting for you with patience and a smile.

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Loose Change

I was talking with a friend of mine last night who is a recent bride. She and I aren’t close so I was surprised when she began to confide in me: her father is having an affair and has been for nine months. Her parents had kept this information from her so as not to spoil the wedding, but revealed later that her mother had known three months into the affair and so had been living the last six months knowing her husband was actively unfaithful. This young newlywed also mentioned that her new husband’s parents were splitting up. I could tell she was upset. I had no idea what to tell her. My parents and grandparents on both sides have been together for 32 and 54 years (my grandparents married on the same day of the same year, seven states apart) and while I am aware of infidelity on both my mother and father’s part, it has resulted not in separation but in a tighter bond and stronger resolve. What my friend is seeing is a dissolution of both her model marriage and that of her husband. I can tell it has shaken her faith in her own marriage, though they have both resolved not to let their marriage suffer or weaken, despite watching their parents’ marriages dissolve before their eyes.

I tell this whole story because after telling me this she voiced an interesting opinion concerning fidelity: having sex with someone not your wife is one thing, cheating is another. Cheating involves lying or at least not discussing it beforehand. Having sex with someone not your spouse, if done safely and with at least the foreknowledge if not the explicit consent of your spouse, is not the same. I have felt this way for some time and hearing it from the female half of what I see as a very traditional couple (catholic wedding and all) was a welcome surprise. I find it fascinating that this opinion is becoming something I’m seeing more and more in traditional, vanilla married couples. I know swinging has been a thing since, what, the forties? Probably earlier, but it was an offshoot; something people thought of as sexual deviancy and offensive. Open relationships were part of the kink community and still are to a great degree. I imagine that the opinion I now share with my freshly married friend is common between couples who enjoy group activities or polyamorous/open interactions. What I see when I discover an opinion about fidelity that seems more liberal than the person who holds it is a key to the path of normalization and legalization. I like to think that at least the idea of sexual therapy and sexual surrogacy as a way to assist an ailing couple is on its way into the mainstream and that our more traditional values concerning marriage, sex, and how to heal a suffering sexual relationship are changing. Young men and women watching their parents’ traditional monogamous marriages falling apart and wishing to prevent that in their own might turn to more nontraditional methods to keep the sparks going.

That’s not to say I advocate running off and finding a fresh face every time you get bored or have a fight, nor am I saying that most or all couples should go outside their relationships for satisfaction. Infidelity, primarily the part of it that involves deception, has always seemed to me a symptom of something bigger in a relationship. Any couple that can’t discuss honestly their concerns is going to have a difficult time staying together. That being said, perhaps ‘The Session’ in which Helen Hunt plays a sexual surrogate for a paraplegic will become the next ‘Patch Adams’, changing the way people think about alternative approaches to illness or sexual dissatisfaction.

I wonder sometimes if some generations didn’t cripple themselves by marrying for love. Much as the doomed Romeo and Juliet, marrying for purely emotional reasons often leads to poor matches, lies, miscommunications, and ultimate tragedy. Some couples survive but many either do not or limp along, becoming less and less hospitable all the time. I find that the marriages I see as successful are those who maintain fondness and trust, though not necessarily passion and lust. I see two people working toward a goal who find each other’s company pleasant and who can trust each other to grow together. Sex outside of that relationship doesn’t seem as though it would diminish that kind of relationship. No amount of mind blowing sex can make up for years of quiet devotion and friendship though I’m sure it might seem so at the time. Of course I can’t say any of this from personal experience. I’ve never been in a relationship like that: ten years old, pleasant, but missing a spark. I do know people who are in marriages like that. People who wouldn’t dream of leaving their spouse but who seek sexual fulfillment elsewhere. To me that seems incredibly reasonable. Unfortunately the spouses, I imagine, feel differently. I hope that the conversation I had the other day with this fresh bride, concerned with the longevity not of the sex but of the marriage, is a sign of change.

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Childhood Dreams

Memories surface, popping into consciousness at the oddest moments.

I was talking with a good friend of mine, a provider who feels uniquely equipped for her work and can trace her desire to be a courtesan back even to childhood. I thought that was interesting but moved on as the conversation flowed. It wasn’t until later that a memory surfaced, clear as day.

It is a child’s drawing. Stick figures represent men and a woman. The scene is a bedroom, sparsely furnished, dominated by a four poster bed with elegant curtains and steps leading up to it because the mattress is so thick and well cushioned. The woman reclines on the pillows and a speech bubble contains a name; Stan or Will or some such. On the other side of the door is literally a line of men trailing away. If I had any concept of perspective they would be disappearing into the hallway and receding into oblivion, their only import that they have literally lined up to visit with this woman.

I drew this picture in middle school. I know the age because of the friend who was with me. She and I were only briefly friendly enough to draw together and the two of us were happily drawing extremely high volume prostitutes and admiring their elegance and the power they had to draw men to their door. They only had to lie there, sensual and desirable, and these stick figure representations of lust would come and lavish attention on them. They were glamorous. I wanted to be them.

The memory faded until some conversation jostled it to the surface. The amusing detail in the drawing is the thought bubble above the woman’s head. It contains a different name, as if she is under obligation to have sex with the men outside the door but she wishes for another. Amusing may not be the right word. Poignant, perhaps? Distressing? I don’t know why I chose to add that detail at age twelve. Perhaps I saw myself doing that someday and my conservative upbringing pressed it out of me, only for me to discover it later and use it to liberally season life later. I came to Seattle and at the first opportunity leapt feet first into stripping, then moved on to more one-on-one engagements, all the while flushed with pleasure.

I am exactly where twelve year old me thought I would like to end up. I didn’t know it until recently but this is exactly what I thought I would grow up to be. My provider friend said it this way about herself: “I though ‘I haven’t had sex yet but I bet when I do I’ll like it. I’d like to do that for a living.'” Which is far more deliberate than my fumbling in the darkness of ignorance until I found a place and a community. I have been fortunate in that I found a welcoming community of supportive friends, a safe space to practice, and a partner who supports me.

I find the whole anecdote amusing. When I told my college friends about my profession, most if not all were amused and supportive, full of questions, but respectful and absolutely not surprised. Not one of them thought it odd that I would go into this business, though some who hold to their religious beliefs find it ill conceived.

Now I sit here at a coffee shop, drinking chai, tip tapping away on my iPad with money in the bank and an eye toward the future. Despite my bachelor’s degree I find myself without debt and in fact I have been able to support myself and my practice as well as a modest but comfortable lifestyle. I think twelve year old me would be proud.

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Office Space

Don’t date coworkers. Isn’t that what they tell you? It’s bad for office morale when the guy in the cubicle next to you is getting some on the clock while the one to your right isn’t getting any at all. I suppose that’s just too damn bad then.

I first noticed him during a meeting that was going way too long. Some hot winded bigwigs were talking about efficiency and productivity, meanwhile taking us away from being productive and decreasing our efficiency. The irony seemed lost on them but what does one expect from corporate bs?

Anyway, he was sitting across and a few chairs down and looked as bored as I was until he caught my eye. He was cute in a normal person way. His features didn’t jump out except in the way he used them to start making funny faces at me. He rolled his eyes a little and winked. He mimed the speaker a little, just enough to make me chuckle inside and think he might be good company for lunch.

After the interminable meeting was over, I approached him to ask if he wanted to take an early lunch to make up for that waste of our time and he agreed. I kind of thought he might, but it still feels good to know I can walk up to a stranger and twenty minutes later have a friend. Because that’s what I was thinking at the time. He seemed funny and was fine enough to look at, but HR would have a fit if anything developed.

Over the next few weeks we started instant messaging each other at work and then texting when we weren’t at work. We had different schedules most of the time so little of our communication was face to face. Before long, though, we were fast friends and I was thrilled when we got the chance to work on a project together.

It was a little over a week into the job and suddenly work had become far more enjoyable. We shared the same schedule now and we both had stayed late almost every day. When we finally called it a day, we went out to drink and eat and talk. It was one of those nights over a couple of beers and a burger that a switch flipped. We were talking about relationships. He had a way of bragging without bragging that interested me. He was telling me about this girl he had been with recently who had a second orgasm while they were together. I had always had a rough time getting even one and the thought occurred to me: if he can give this little tart two (and good for her!) then I wonder if I can get one? With that thought I decided I was going to give him a try.

That night was good but the next day was great. I went home with him, drunk and interested. That first time is always a little awkward and the alcohol got in the way. The next day, hungover but extremely pleased with myself, I could barely contain the sexual energy that bridged the office space between us. Though we were both painfully aware that we were breaking the rules and tried to keep our contact to a minimum, just knowing that he was in the same room had me distracted all day. Our computer messaging was dirty, so dirty, and once just before lunch I had to retreat to the bathroom to do a little de-stressing. My panties were damp and strong with the scent of desire. I hoped the next occupant wouldn’t recognize me or the smell of sex but I couldn’t focus on my work without taking some of the sex drive out of me so I had to take the risk.

Every time he came to my desk to answer a question or look over my shoulder at the project we were trying to work on I could feel the warmth of his body radiating through the air between us. I could hardly think of anything except the two thin layers of clothing separating my skin from his. Very little work got done that day and by the time our coworkers were saying goodbye the heat generated by our friction made me weak. We stayed late to work, as we often did, but as soon as the last person left the office it was all I could do to unbutton his shirt instead of tearing it off.

I remember every detail. He slakes his thirst for my kisses with passion and care. Lips teasing each other, pulling, feeling; hands tasting the curves and planes of our bodies. I can feel the edge of my desk pressing into the back of my ass as he presses his hips against me. We grind together. The feel of his cock, hard and insistent sends a surge of warmth from my chest to my groin. My arousal is so strong and fast it almost hurts. I fumble with his belt until my hands find a break in the defenses and reach their prize. I would kiss it, lick it, pull it into my mouth until I can’t even breathe but my tongue is already busy with his and so I settle for stroking his cock, teasing the tip, using the precum slipping out to make my hands as wet as my pussy.

His hands slide up my skirt, one on either side of my hips to raise it above my ass. I may as well not even be wearing panties for all the good they’ve done to contain the flood. Later I will have to reprint those papers but the tips of his fingers drive the thought from my mind. Our breath and our voices mingle in uncontrollable gutterals. Our hearts pound as adrenalin races through us and between us forming the string between the cans; our bodies communicating through the sliver of space between us. I desire you. I need you. Please.

The moment of first penetration is always the greatest. His head is spongy but firm. It gives just enough to prolong the moment but remains rigid as I feel him slowly, almost painfully slide inside me. I lean back to lie on my desk, hug my knees to my chest, and close my eyes to savor the sensation. Every slow thrust builds a wave of ever increasing pleasure starting with him and flowing to the tips of my fingers and toes. Here, now…. this feels so right. Mind and body synch and flow. I can hear him closing in on his climax. I can feel him leaning over me, hands on me, everything all over me. My body finds its center without me. I’m reaching the cliff. I can see it. I can feel the vertigo as I look over the edge. I fall, no, I leap off the edge. A primal cry tears itself from my throat to mingle with his as we tumble through the air, two eagles in a courtship dance cartwheeling towards certain death.

The aftermath is funny and messy; a combination of shame left over from old social indoctrination and fatalism that something so wonderful and so necessary for the continuation of life is so slippery and goopy and full of endorphins and funny noises. The afterglow is a bond that every time reinforces our friendship.

I know I’m not supposed to date coworkers, but I don’t give a shit. This one is different.

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Connections

I have a tendency towards messiness. I keep most of it contained, but my kitchen had finally gotten far enough out of hand to warrant a quick tidy and some dish washing. As I bustled around my miniature kitchen area, I happened upon a shot glass. Those of you who have met me know I am quite short. At five two, I can barely see onto the second shelf in my kitchen, much less the next two. It was as I felt around, checking for lost items that I found this novelty glass. It’s the sort of thing you would find in an airport in Chicago. It tilts to one side as if a strong breakage had happened by during its creation and the slogan reads ‘Chicago blew me away!’ I don’t recognize it. I’ve never been to Chicago though my aunt used to live there and I don’t remember ever receiving this as a gift. I can’t imagine it belonging to me, so I must assume it was left by the previous owner.

That got me thinking about the connections we have to the passers by in our lives. Whoever lived here before me I will never know. It was probably a single person since they restrict these studios to one tenant. I like to imagine she was like me: a reader, a bit of a homebody, interested in traveling and perhaps better traveled than myself, affectionate, and hopefully happy. Maybe she has family in Chicago and she left Seattle to reunite with them. Maybe she fell in love and moved to be by his side. Maybe she, too, rented this apartment specifically to entertain her gentleman callers. My conjectures mean nothing in the scheme of things, but dwelling on this gossamer connection reminds me that we are also connected to dozens of other people each day. The driver who cut me off also has a life and a family, a job and a home. The woman standing in the aisle at the grocery store is considering how best to feed her children and conserve her finances at the same time. The cashier at the drug store likely has no idea who I am but still flashes me a big smile and makes sure I had a good experience. All these people change my life in tiny ways, a little at a time. That driver has his counterpoint in the conscientious motorist waving thank you and both will change how I feel about myself, my city, and eventually the people that matter to me.

Caring for people who I am invested in is easy. My partner earns my trust and love very day. My girlfriends show me how much they care and invite my emotional investment regularly. My gentleman callers invest trust and time in my feelings of security physically, socially, and financially. Investing in these bright flames is easy and pleasant for me. It is the momentary interactions between me and people I have no reason to invest in that I consider now.

I often find myself negatively effected by those small brushes of humanity. They are in the way of me completing a task or returning home and that irritates me. Because of this other spark of life, mine is inconvenienced. It is hard to not only remember that these sparks are much like myself but to keep that in the forefront of my mind as I live day to day. The tiny connections we make every day are moments of opportunity to empathize or to resent and we can blame no one but ourselves for which we choose.

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Gulp, by Mary Roach

Once again Mrs. Roach has a hit. Adventures on the alimentary canal indeed; traveling with Mary from nose to stomach to colon and into the darkness of history is an absolute joy! Never would you imagine finding pleasure and fascination in the coprophagic habits of rats and rabbits. Who knew that it’s apparently perfectly survivable to have a hole from your stomach to the outside world, much less that it is regularly done on purpose? For science, of course.

There is no real plot to our little journey from food to fecal matter aside from the logical progression from top to bottom. Reading a book by Mary Roach is like being stuck on an airplane next to an odd stranger who, while others slumber and the world slips past below, gradually ignites a fascination for something you wouldn’t normally even think about. It is the kind of interaction that, after you debark you exchange phone numbers and try to tell your friends about this awesome thing you learned. If you’re anything like me, however, you fail to convey exactly why it’s important that rats eat their own feces and humans think their own farts stink. Not exactly topics for polite conversation, but the voice from the page is so vivid and funny as it narrates her interactions with smell specialists and doctors who perform poop transfusions that her enthusiasm is contagious. We want you to catch it. She and I find the weird things so fascinating that we want to impress its awesomeness upon everyone we meet.

I can’t say much more about the book. Her voice is passionate, her facts are well researched, her asides are hilarious and engaging, it’s an easy read and I would say the subject matter is exceptionally appropriate for teen boys and young people of both sexes. I highly encourage everyone I meet to pick up a copy of any of her books, off or no other reason than to remind yourself of the bliss and joy of curiosity and the satisfaction thereof. It is glorious.

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The Birth of Venus by Sarah Dunant

As I walked to my studio the other day, I passed through freeway park to find a book sale put on by the library. One dollar for a paperback, two for a hardback. I couldn’t help myself and so five bucks later I had some fun reading for my vacation. Of course I didn’t have much time to read due to the storm cleanup and party preparations, but I did get one, long, gloriously hot day to sit and do nothing but take in the story of Sister Lucrezia. Historical fiction is almost as fun as actual history and this one in particular was, if not too deep, at least eye opening and interesting.

I described it to a friend as Jane Austen meets Assassin’s Creed. Set in Florence during the reign of the Medici’s, the story follows the youngest daughter of a wealthy cloth merchant. She is a curious and fiery young lady, resistant to ladylike pastimes but gifted with wit, learning, and a passion for painting. Of course this all was essentially forbidden to women, much less unmarked virgins so she navigates a relationship with her mother, a highly unusual marriage, and tensions in the city as the Medici’s fall from power, Florence goes through a religious revival, and power is eventually returned to the secular rulers.

The story is of particular interest to me for several reasons. First, it is a youngest daughter learning to please her family, husband, and self all at once. Obviously a young woman such as myself in today’s social climate has a far easier time, but the relationships between willful daughters and protective parents are timeless. I see in Alessandra reflections of my own past selfishness and willfulness and in her mother echoes of the wisdom and understanding of my own. I also see in the secrets and overlooked betrayals a reflection of the secrets in my own family. Revelations come to Alessandra as she comes into her own as a wife and mother and someone interested in huge political climate. Her father is not who she grew up with but in fact a powerful and recently deceased member of the Medici family. Her brother is a homosexual. The young painter her father discovers in a monetary turns out to have more talent for painting than anyone she has ever met and a powerful dynamic develops between them before his secrets of madness are revealed. Every layer that peels away reminds me of things I discovered as I got older. There are no perfect reflections but the feeling she expresses reminds me of some I experienced under similar circumstances.

Second is the social climate. Florence for some time was becoming ‘the new Athens’ and fostered wealth, art, and learning as ways to celebrate both life and god. During the years of interest in the novel, a friar in the Catholic Church begins preaching fire and brimstone, penitence and punishment. As is wont to occur in such zealotry, everyone goes overboard and this young, curious woman is affected very personally in several ways. Her family’s fortunes begin to fall, her brother is discovered to be a homosexual, something recently outlawed by the religious authorities, the young man her father hired to paint their home’s chapel begins to go insane, and her new husband turns out to be her brothers lover. The relationships are complicated and though the story wraps up a bit too neatly, it is explained away easily enough by the planning and influence of her mother and the young slave girl who has been Alessandra’s companion since childhood.

One other reason I appreciated the story is how the author anchored it to historical fact and when that was unavailable linked at least well known theories into her story. She wove a plausible history for great men and women and for great works of art that remain unexplained. It took a good five or six hours to finish but it was a compelling story with enough action and mystery and romance to keep the plot moving. The candid language was almost a shock to me but was refreshing, as were the suggested study questions at the end of the story. You could feel Alessandra’s discomfort and horror at her first sexual encounter with her husband (imagine trying to have sex with someone you find extremely unattractive. Now imagine being the unattractive one but not knowing why) and later you can feel her pleasure and enjoyment when she finds someone to share love and physical passion with. Her fear during the reign of the friar and religious authorities is palpable through the pages and can quicken the heart.

I would recommend this book fore either very light reading or for young people, between fourteen and twenty. It does have some valuable insights into the history of feminism and also the development of the Italian Renaissance. I know I enjoyed it, but I can’t promise anyone else will.

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The Evolution of an Atheist Sex Kitten

My parents and I don’t share much anymore. I used to share my life with them, my religious beliefs, and my genetic material. Looking back, I’ve always been a nonbeliever. I once confess edit pm y mother, crying, that intellectually I knew there was a God but I simply couldn’t feel that it was true. “I believe it in my head, but not in my heart.” Of course I believed in the god of Abraham, Moses, and David. I went to church every week and sang songs and heard stories. As a toddler I attended bible class every morning where they pressed the love of Christ upon us. In middle school I watched videos of ‘scientists’ shushing or explaining away evidence for an old earth, evolution, and inconsistencies in the bible. In college we were taught but not encouraged to believe the mainstream explanations for how the world has become so. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the science classes or the philosophy that led me astray. The history of our sect, the various interpretations of the bible, the inaccuracies and poor behavior of those interpreting it are what led me astray. When I learned that the bible is known to have been written by authors it is not attributed to (psalms not by David, Daniel not actually at the time of his life but long after his death, etc) I lost what little faith I had left. The layers of intellectual armor I had been give as a child fell away and I realized that if I didn’t feel it and I no long knew it, why should I believe it. And so, as the school board erected a quarter million dollar statue of Jesus and his disciples, I lost faith in the myth I had always held.

Then life got fun. My friend group shifted to include several lgbt members, a few struggling theists, avowed and hilarious atheists, and most importantly cute boys. I finally lived on my own and was able to host and provide alcohol for what we uptight religious kids considered quite the party. A total rager. We drank, like, a whole bottle of liquor! Between the five of us, haha. I decided that I enjoyed fun and I wasn’t going to let my parents god get in the way. Plus I had boys to entertain me.

I’ve always had a weakness for the stronger sex. For a year I enjoyed a fulfilling and fun sexual relationship with two beautiful young men who were exploring their first sexual experience. I was thrilled to be their chaperone on this journey. There was a great deal of fondness between all three of us. I rarely spent a night alone with the two of them around. One night I and the older one fell asleep under a blanket in the backyard. We woke long enough to make love and then fall asleep again, cuddled close to stay warm. Three or four times that night we woke and then slept again, each time coming together under the stars, just because we could. Another time, the younger and more adventurous one met me in the basement of the science building. I had some keys, no one was around, and in the single stall bathroom with one foot on the counter we fucked furiously and as quietly as we could, excited by our daring. On another occasion we bumped into each other late at night. He was coming from the gym after a few hours on the climbing wall and what started as an innocent hug turned saucy as soon as I smelled the fresh, salty sweat on his skin. Oh, those were the days: when I was the knowledgable one, experienced and in charge.

I always have felt good about sex. I was extremely proud of my first encounter between my lips and his cock. Im not proud of the circumstances surrounding it, but be that as it may, I was oblivious to any and all slut shaming that came of that and many of my other behaviors at that age. Fortunately I only had one young man all the way through high school or I might be in a very different place right now. Sex education was severely lacking in my sleepy small tow and though my mother helped dispel some myths, it didn’t occur to me to ask some of the more important questions. At least I kept out of the kind of trouble that follows you for the rest of your life long enough to make it a point of mitigating the danger. The fist time I had sex… Oh I remember it well. Years of horseback riding, running, falling, and some more recent sexual activity meant that I felt no pain. It was all pleasure. I had no second thoughts until after when we pledged never to do it again. But of course we did. All the time. Everywhere. Usually in the back of his pickup or in ibis bedroom, but also in the woods, at the drive in theater, in the back seat of my car several times in different locations, in the school bathroom after hours… just, anywhere we could find. Childish, fumbling, over-too-soon sex, but so much of it. By the time college rolled around I was a pro. Or so I thought. I still had much to learn but enthusiasm and openness makes up for lack of technique in many ways. It also helped that my partners were all equally oblivious.

And so, I share little, if anything with my parents anymore. I love to hem, of course, and find them intelligent and able to hold great conversation, but without a god to share and withholding a large part of my life from them, I find that memories hold us together. The genetic material thing is a story for another time. Feel free to ask next time you come over 😉

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Car Wash part two ;-)

You answer her question with a moan and a nod. Her focus on your naked hips and jutting cock is all encompassing. You let your head fall back onto the couch as you feel her tongue teasing your smooth head. Her tongue makes a long stroke from base to tip, leaving a trail of slick wetness. She cups one hand under you and wraps the other around your shaft, using that wet trail to slide her fingers up and down, teasing you. “Mmmm, that cock is gorgeous. I can taste the salt of you. I want more” she murmurs. Her hand on your cock’s shaft slides towards the tip, drawing out a bead of thick, slippery precum. She makes eye contact and slowly licks across and around the head of your bulging shaft. Her tongue presses just under the head of your cock. Now her lips tease you, opening just enough to take in the spongy tip. Her tongue sneaks out to lick and press against you and smoothly but suddenly she engulfs you. You can feel her lips just brushing your pelvis as she tries to take all of you into her. You can feel the head of your throbbing cock pressed against the back of her throat. You look down to see her focused, determined to deep throat you until you can’t handle it anymore. She alternates between deep, intense strokes and lightly flicking her tongue around, across, and under you. Those eyes, those hands, that gorgeous womanly form kneeling at your feet, watching your face and smiling around a mouthful of sex at the sounds she draws from you, all is driving you wild.

Yet still you’re not sure to let go or to hang on…

With a sudden decisive move your body almost chooses for you. You stop her enthusiastic movement and pull her up onto the couch with you. At some point during that transition, your shirt has come off as has hers and the two of you work to remove those hot white shorts. The warm scent of her arousal draws you in and with no hesitation you position yourself comfortably with your face between her thighs. You can see she’s already dripping wet and her soft lips are dark red and engorged. The first stroke of your tongue, delving into her hot sex draws a gasp and a heavy moan. Your fingertips gently pinching her nipples draw another and your other hand slipping inside her pussy draw still more moans. It is a wild ride indeed, following her hips as they buck and gyrate, sometimes wrapping your head in the strong hot muscle of her thighs, other times sliding back and forth, practically fucking herself with your tongue and hands. You focus on what she responds to and her moans of ‘yes, more!’ and before long you can feel, see, and hear the ripples of orgasm begin at your mouth and spasm through her legs, belly, and arms. The heart of her orgasm explodes from her lips with guttural, uncontrollable cries. You fill with pride and pleasure, knowing that you’ve brought her to the edge and more. Your cock also rises, full of hot blood and sex, ready to pleasure her if she’s ready for it.

A heartbeat later there is no doubt. She pulls herself up from the couch and wraps her hands around your face, kissing you deeply and reveling in the scent of her orgasm on your face. With words and eyes she asks to feel you inside of her, filling her, pleasuring her deep inside where your hands can’t reach.

In a moment you lie above her, poised. You pause for a heartbeat to take in her flushed cheeks and mussed hair. Her pupils are large with arousal and her hands and legs pull you towards her. Her lips and thighs are parted, ready for you. She is so wet there is almost no resistance as you slip the length of your throbbing cock into her waiting pussy. Your moans come in unison as you both slowly build up speed, her hips rocking up to meet yours as the sensations build. Her full breasts sway with you, their bright nipples hard and sensitive. You can’t help yourself and you reach for one to pinch and tease, drawing a gasp, a shudder, and a smile.

Your orgasm is building again. You aren’t going to stop it this time; it’s practically written on your face. “Wait. Like this” she grins as she disengages and rolls over underneath you to present her rounded ass. “My orgasms are always better like this.”

She closes her eyes and you can see her working her clit with one hand. No hesitation. You hold her hips with your hands and draw her into you as you slide into her. You can feel the entire length of your cock slide into her frictionless pussy. You can feel her hand pleasuring herself and teasing your cock as you thrust again and again, deep and full and pleasurable and ecstatic. Her breath comes ragged, deeper, panting faster with every movement. You can feel both of you building to a peak, a cliff of pleasure that you will happily throw yourself from. “Oh God. Shit! FUCKfuckfuck! I’m comi…ginfsdk!!!” she roars, the words caught in her throat. Her admission is the last straw. Over the cliff you go with her following, both of you on a high of lust, passion, novelty, and release. You complete a few more strokes to draw out your pleasure as best you can, then collapse as the tension leaves your body. For a long moment you both lie, panting, pressed against each other, separated only by a layer of sweat, cooling you both and bringing you slowly back to reality.

The humorous and sticky after effects of your passion take a few minutes to clean and tidy. You are connected by spontaneity and a sense of adventure.

“Lunch?” she offers. “I’ve just got sandwich stuff, so nothing fancy, but I know I’m hungry after all that.” The contented smile on her lips and the flush lingering in her cheek are irresistible, and you know, “a sandwich doesn’t sound half bad, if you’ve got good company to share it with.”

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Car Wash

Seattle rain has yet again turned your sleek black tesla into a gray shadow of its true glory. Instead of trusting the black gold that is the pinnacle of automotive engineering to some kid on the block, you decide to wash this beauty yourself, lovingly and carefully. Armed with a bucket of warm soapy water, a soft cloth, and newspapers for a streak free dry, you begin the delicious chore.

Your neighbor seems to have had the same idea. Her red BMW also lounges on the black asphalt of her drive but it’s hardly the car that catches your eye. Her white shorts show well shaped legs and the swell of her thigh, the bottom curve of her cheeks just hidden above the hem. Her flowered top clings when she turns to reach for the sudsy scrub brush and hints at a full bosom; a peek at her creamy skin visible around her neck. She catches you watching her and she smiles a little.

Flushed to have been caught, you busy yourself looking for hidden pockets of dirt and working on those stubborn dried bugs in the grill. The next time you sneak a peek you catch a glimpse of rounded waist, her shirt lifted as she reaches up to get the roof. Another quick glance and that curved cheek is showing below the hem of her shorts. A fourth look stops you in your tracks; several buttons on the front of her shirt are undone and she’s looking right at you. She knows you’ve been watching, and the sparkle in her eye tells you she doesn’t mind.

Her movements around the car become more exaggerated, she leans across the hood to show a fine view of her posterior and ‘accidentally’ spills some water on her white shorts. Is she wearing red under there? You can almost tell from your driveway, but something tells you she wouldn’t mind you finding out for sure.

Through the flirting eyes and her inviting smile, you manage to finish drying and shining your sexy car’s slick finish, even throwing in a few ‘come hither’ looks yourself. You saunter across the lawn to introduce yourself and offer a helping hand with the finishing touches on your gorgeous neighbor’s sparkling red car, even bringing over some microfiber cloths you ‘just happened to have lying around.’ She introduces herself in turn and the way her lips move when she speaks suggests other ways she might like to use them.

With the outside of the car shined and polished, the two of you turn your attention to the interior. A quick sweep with a vacuum hose is all it really needs but she asks you for your help so you obligingly climb in one door as she slips in through the other. Your suspicions are soon confirmed; it’s not the inside of the car that needs attention, it’s your gorgeous neighbor. Her ‘accidental’ brushes against you are followed with very deliberate looks. The bulge growing in your jeans is obvious. Her interest in it is also obvious. As you both lean over to reach a particularly difficult spot, she moves in and begins to kiss you.

That first kiss is incredible. Here lips are as soft as you hoped they would be and her tongue teases yours. Her hands begin to caress you and you oblige in turn. With hands roaming over each other’s faces, arms, and bodies the smoldering spark of lust is ignited and there is no going back. The vacuum hose falls to the floor, the high pitched hum goes on in the background ,drowning out the noise of the wind and the neighborhood as you twist around each other, reaching as if you can’t get enough.

You break for a moment to catch your breath and look at her with a question in your eyes. She laughs “I suppose we could take this inside?” her voice and eyes are expecting and receiving your emphatic acceptance. You flip the switch on the vacuum and roll up the hose while she moves the car back under the protection of the garage. Moments later you are in her living room, sitting on her couch, kissing like teenagers with her straddling your hips. Your hands slip under her shirt to tickle and tease her nipples under her bra. She moans as she presses herself onto the rock hard bulge under her, muffled by your lips against hers. The last time you felt this pent up was tenth grade… The combination of implicit permission and reminiscence of illicit teenage activity is driving you wild. She begins to unfasten your belt and plays her hands across your cock as she manipulates your clothing. Your desire for this near stranger is both baffling and intoxicating. Her mouth is hot against your neck as she moves down, down with your jeans to the floor. She pauses for a moment with a question in her eyes. ‘May I?’