Category: Metaphysical/Thoughtful

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Je Ne Sais Quoi

I can’t think of a way to write this without coming across as arrogant so I’m just going to start at the end. I am really good at what I do and while there are many replicable aspects I can advise on and share, there is one thing that makes me stand out and it’s not something you can teach. Charisma can’t be learned.

I’m using the word charisma because it’s vague enough to suit my purposes but it’s not just that. It’s not just a magnetism, it’s also enthusiasm, curiosity, confidence, and oddly enough some humility. It’s a work ethic plus emotional literacy, plasticity and an impulse for constant improvement.

Have you ever walked away from a session with a total stunner but felt oddly unsatisfied? Couldn’t figure out why? There’s a secret something that makes you feel amazing without even quite knowing why and she didn’t have it. Charisma, the Je Ne Sais Quoi that makes a 7 into a 10 with bells on.

You kind of have to know what you’re looking for before you can name it. It has taken me nearly 30 years of socializing before I finally sorted it, and even now I’m surprised sometimes. Sol is the perfect example of someone surprising me with their charm. She is unashamed and up in whatever faces she needs to be. She takes no shit, only names, and while I have not yet observed her behave in a way I would describe as classically charming, she has me charmed. The respect and admiration I have for her brain, her mouth, her work, and her constant growth know no limits. She is a powerhouse and no one I know of has left her presence unimpressed. Whatever ‘it’ is that makes someone compelling, she’s got it.

Adelle, too, but in a different way. Her charisma has led her not to outward strength or business gain but to inner growth and a core of authenticity rarely seen in this world. She surrounds herself with beautiful, interesting people and isn’t afraid to order oysters when everyone else is having fries. It doesn’t even occur to her to be self conscious in the first place.

My partner has it, the restless drive to create and produce, the interest in and ability to reflect on oneself and grow in that reflection. My mother has it, in a methodical, quiet way, and my father, in the classic ‘charm the pants off everyone you meet’ kind of way.

So you see why I was so surprised to find out that it’s not nearly as common as I thought? To learn that constant curiosity AND the social self awareness to not be weird about it is actually AB-normal? I grew up around it and spend most of my life with people who have it in spades.

It’s taken me a long time to write this post because every time I come to it I can’t help but feel that I’m being terribly arrogant. When I was a young girl, maybe around twelve or so, I saw myself in the mirror. Not just a collection of features, eyes, nose, mouth, etc, but as a whole. I saw my own face as if it were a stranger’s, almost like an optical illusion that suddenly pops out, and I realized I was pretty. Attractive, in a not-very-interesting way, just pale and freckled and pretty. I didn’t feel pride in that fact, it just was, like being brown haired and five foot one. I mean, I was happy about it, but it wasn’t my fault. This? This is like that. Yes, I went to college and my parents gave me a sense of responsibility as far as following through on my commitments but my writing and my work and my innate magnetism are no more the result of my own effort than the freckles on my knees or the thickness of my hair. It just is and it’s weird and cool and now that I know what it is I’ve been looking all over for it and finding it in little ways (and some big) all over the city.

Because while it’s unusual to have quite as much of it all at once as Sol and Adelle and I have, it’s in very nearly everyone, to some degree. It’s in the dramatic boiling clouds over the sound as the sun sinks through them and the stupid, broken bicycles strew about the streets, it’s in a candle flame and a good book and a sexy hour with a fun chick.

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The Literal Best

I am absolutely sure I’ve done this before but, given last week’s angry rant, I feel it’s warranted again. I’d like to write a love letter to my clients.

82% of all the appointments I had in the last 16 months have been with returning clients. Out of everyone who chosen to spend an absurd amount* of their hard earned money hiring my company and services, 82% had met me before, knew who I was, knew what I had to offer, and chose to come see me anyway. Not ‘taking a chance’ on me but spending good money on a sure thing.

Most ladies thrive on regular clients, those of you who come see us weekly, daily, or just once or twice a year. That such a high percentage of my working time is spent with folks I have developed rapport with isn’t exactly unusual, but I can also say that 66% of the new friends I made over the last 16 months came back at least once. So far.

I’ve been struggling and worried lately over the effects of SESTA and the shut down of a myriad of local and national ad platforms. Eros is harder than ever to get onto and all of us are all mixed up together. It used to be that those offering and looking for a quick, dirty fuck could go to one or two places online, make that clear, and go on their merry way. They avoided platforms that catered to the longer, chattier types and vice versa. It’s just not the case anymore.

I went nearly three years without getting more than a few useless inquiries in my inbox. My website and ads made it pretty clear who I was, what I wanted, and what I offered. The two or three wasteful emails a month didn’t bother me since they were easy to spot and stayed in the minority. I used to read in awe about other people getting such scintillating messages as ‘u avail’ and ‘how much for hhr’. And yes, the lack of punctuation is part of it. Now…. Well let’s just say I’ve put a few extremely useful email filters even between potential clients and Rose. Rose was my filter, sifting through junk before it stressed me out and sometimes even turning the junk into gold. Or something like it. Now even she needs one, too.

I’m not alone here, either. All of my colleagues, from the ones who already dealt with a high proportion of junk to the ones who do everything they can to turn most people off, are experiencing a higher than usual percentage of absolute junk.

In their turn, clients are seeing a higher percentage of junk ads. There are, now more than ever, untrustworthy and suboptimal providers taking advantage of the confusion and, in their own confusion, scrambling to find their clients. Their niche. We had a comfortable strata and now it’s all jumbled. And what we’re losing is the professional, kind, respectful client provider interaction I got used to. It’s still there, it’s just much harder to find.

I am in an exceptional position. I have people from years ago that know who I am and that they can trust me to do what I say I will and be where I say I’ll be when I say I’ll be there. I have a robust client base that allows me to eject infuriating clients without suffering financially. Part of that is due to the aforementioned living up to the expectations I set but there would be no living up to anything without the clients who continue to visit me. Without the funny, silly, serious, sexy, passionate, intelligent, blue collar, admiring, respectful, giving clients who fill a hundred days at a time with amusement and adventure.

When I was very young I drew a picture. It was a bedroom, a large one with a four poster princess bed right in the middle, sashes hanging elegantly from the corners, and a stick figure woman (in my imagination she is beautiful) lounging back. At the door, patiently waiting to be called in stood a man. Young, old, no one knows, and it wasn’t important. What was important was that he waited, patiently, for his name to be called. Behind him stood another man, and behind another, dozens of men, receding down the hall, all patiently waiting their turn to enter the room and see the lady.

You see, the lady was beautiful and sexual and highly desirable. The men were waiting patiently for her to sexually serve them with her unimaginable skills. Her pleasure was irrelevant, her desire, sexually, was of no consequence. She was SO good at sex (whatever that was, ha! I was twelve at the time) that it was her duty and her pleasure to service each man, in turn.

I wanted to be her. So desirable! So elegant! In her beautiful bed, with the power to demand that each man wait his turn and the skill to entice them to actually do it… That was my dream.

And the cherry on top? There was a speech bubble and a thought bubble, each with a different name in it. You see, she *wanted* Joe to be next because she desired sex with him but Steve was next in line and duty stood above desire.

Like, holy fuck. I drew a picture of a high volume prostitute when I was twelve years old and wanted to be her! I am quite literally living my own personal dream. I can’t see my beloveds one right after the other, and I am more selective than twelve year old me/prostitute was, but holding myself to the promises I make, the setting aside of my own selfish self (sometimes) to give pleasure, bestowing my sexual skills graciously on those who come to my door…

So my beloveds, my darlings, you doofy, silly, sexy as fuck, adoring, deserving dears, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, truly, it is because of you that I live my dream and I will spend my life thanking you. I will live in my house that you bought for me, with my friends and my loves, my cats and my dogs, tilling my garden and trying to teach a younger generation. And I will thank you every day for what you helped me build.

When you first arrive, you intrigue me. When you go, I miss you. In between, I enjoy and adore you. I cannot imagine my life without you.

*Given the nature of the market and where average rates sit, every penny of what I ask is legitimate, but it is a pretty absurd amount of money given today’s wages. I wish it were different but sadly it is not. Know that I acknowledge and appreciate what sacrifices need to be made for me.

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Uncomfortable with Rights

I don’t know if you all have heard of the ‘incel’ movement but it’s an interesting social cancer and I see a lot of chatter about it on reddit and twitter. As long as I have no need to interact with these incels I find them fascinating, though if I actually had to meet on win real life I would be terrified and angry by turns.

An incel is a self proclaimed ‘involuntary celibate’, a man, usually a white man, often with bad self care, and always with a chip on his shoulder over female rejection. He has been ‘forced’ to be celibate because no woman will consent to have sex with him and when he watches others having sex, reads up on sexual marketplace theories and its place in Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs, he gets angry that he’s not getting laid.

The normal reaction when you try something several times and it doesn’t work out is to examine your premises and perhaps make some changes. In this case, perhaps stop expecting sex from women who aren’t sexually attracted to you. Perhaps work on that hygiene issue or your entitled attitude. For an incel, their reaction is to blame women for their ‘involuntary celibacy’. If only women weren’t sluts who won’t have sex with them then they would get laid. Some even go so far as to suggest that women be forced by the government to have sex with them in order to meet their physical need for and right to sexual satisfaction and in order to redistribute resources in the sexual marketplace.

These thoughts drift through my mind sometimes because I do encounter clients with bad hygiene, who are overweight, older, less attractive, medical issues, all the excuses incels use to justify their right to be angry at a lack of sex, and I *do* believe that they have the same right to access erotic services as anyone else. However: they have to be nice to get it and that’s what the men in this social movement* are missing.

In Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs, we have, in order of importance: physiological needs such as sleep and food, safety, love and belonging, esteem, and self-actualization. We will sacrifice safety in order to get food or water but we *should* not sacrifice safety for love and belonging, though many of us do. Very few of us achieve self actualization, but love and belonging can be conflated with sex and safe sensual touch and in today’s world it is not uncommon. This is what people mean when they say that warm touch is a need and a human right.

So let’s talk about rights now. I listened to a podcast the other day about curb cuts and one of the things advocates said while fighting for them is that wheelchair bound or otherwise impaired individuals have the right to get around freely and safely so they need curb cuts. In the sex worker’s rights movement I hear people say that we have the right to work unimpeded and safely. Even our country’s founding documents cite inalienable, god given human rights. Unfortunately, no one has a right that he hasn’t been given by others. I have the right to make free use of my apartment because the owner *chooses to honor that right* not because he is forced by god. The owner of my building has rights to it’s use as long as others *choose to honor it*. It could be taken by imminent domain, by force, or by the big earthquake and the owner has no recourse unless others *choose to allow it*. You see where I’m going?

With food and sleep and safety, you can theoretically rely entirely on yourself if you live in a place with no other people around. As soon as you search for love and belonging, however, you must behave in a way that encourages other people to *choose to honor* your right to physiological needs being met, your safety being secure, and your belonging. In turn, you must choose to honor their rights to safety and health and here is where the ‘right to sex’ argument breaks down. Your corn nuts don’t give a shit whether you’re an asshole or not, but your lover absolutely will. If you want your needs to be met, you must in turn meet the needs of others. Sometimes what you offer is safety from a bad home life, sometimes it’s love and belonging in return, often it’s a cure for loneliness and still more often it is financial stability (yes, even in marriages). You can kill and eat a creature without its consent or grow and harvest a garden without asking permission from the plants, but if you want to live with someone and make love to someone, you either force them, which I think we can all agree doesn’t work out well, or you work with them to reach an agreement.

This ties in with the argument that payment negates consent; that it’s a type of forcing. That because I say ‘no’ to sex but then change my mind when offered compensation, I haven’t really changed my mind, I have been coerced into sex which falls under the umbrella of human trafficking.

There are two reasons this argument is awful, the first being that it tells potentially predatory folks that once they’ve paid me, my consent it irrelevant. It encourages people to say things like “I paid her so it wasn’t rape” or “I paid for you so you’re doing it even if you don’t want to.” This is an awful mindset and as irritating as it can be from a consumer perspective to know your service provider can revoke consent in spite of payment, it’s an important thing to reinforce.

The second reason this argument sucks is because it singles out sex as the only exploitative labor. There are a lot of things I have done that I wouldn’t have without being paid. Cleaning the girls bathrooms in college, standing at a desk seven hours a day checking in hotel guests, staring at a computer for hours trying to figure out these stupid charts… None of these tasks were ones I ‘freely consented’ to. If your reply to that is ‘but you’re inviting a stranger into your body, it’s different’ then you are both right and showing your hand. Sex is different than cleaning shower heads and I am happy doing either, depending on the circumstances. But you have just revealed that it isn’t labor or payment or even exploitation that you have a problem with, it’s sex, and unfortunately that’s something you should be taking up with your therapist, not US senators.

*I say social movement because sometimes as young men mature and educate themselves they outgrow these attitudes. I don’t think anyone should be condemned for feeing lonely and angry when they’re young and trying to find a community of support. That said, a recent terrorist attack in Canada [https://www.vox.com/world/2018/4/25/17277496/incel-toronto-attack-alek-minassian] tells us that this, like many other movements backed by anger, is not innocent.

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Moms are pretty great

At least mine is. We don’t always see eye-to-eye and I know she wouldn’t be happy with this particular life choice I’ve made, but we talk. Real talk. And despite out opposing ideas on how exactly to reach our goal, we both have the same one: make life better.

 

A lot of folks don’t have moms, either ever or anymore. Still more folks have moms who make their lives, if not worse, than at least not better. So I count myself among the lucky folks who love their moms and believe that they wouldn’t be the strong, interesting people they are without them.

 

My mom spent some time as a survival sex worker in her teenage years. What little I know of it leads me to believe that it would very easily fall under the ‘defrauded and coerced’ elements of the human trafficking definition, aside from the fact that she was still basically a kid. That a woman with that in her past managed to turn me out is a pretty clear sign that sex work, even the involuntary and abusive kind, doesn’t render women helpless or unable to make good choices moving forward.

 

She’s a thoughtful woman, taking her time with decisions, though some still come out not quite right. I’m learning to emulate the things in her that I admire: calm, quiet conversation, a self deprecating sense of humor, loyalty, faith in a cause, hope for the future.

 

I don’t want to dig too deep into my history, or my mom’s (gotta save something for the memoir, ha!) so I’ll leave you with this: I hope there’s a mom in your life that can lend you inspiration. It doesn’t have to be your mom, god knows there are other inspiring moms in my life, but someone who has been through the unique and all encompassing trial of creating life, bearing it, raising it, and loving it even when it fucks up. Step moms, moms-in-law, grand-moms, aunt moms, adopted moms, and the mothers of your chosen family. Take a moment to remember the things that make you smile.

 

And also order flowers today for whichever woman you’ll catch hell from if you forget! 😉

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Adulting

I enjoyed ComicCon this year. I didn’t actually buy tickets and attend but I did spend Friday afternoon downtown sharing drinks and small bites with a good friend. We poured airline bottles of fireball into hot apple cider and watched costumed masses parade up and down the lobby stairs. It’s not as heavily cosplayed as SakuraCon but the variety is much wider so I actually recognized a fair number.

Alex and I mused on good couples costumes for next year: she’s much taller than me so pairs with a height difference came up like Rick and Morty, Morticia and Wednesday Adams, maybe Captain Mal and his surprise wife Saffron (I don’t have the right figure to be Inara).

We talked late into the night, maintaining our buzz with cheap white wine, sitting on the floor in her living room.

I thought of this moment a few days later when someone asked “What makes you feel like an adult?” I don’t often feel like an adult, despite doing many of the things adults are often accused of. I’ve generally got my shit together, I’m considerate and thoughtful and competent at a variety of things. But none of that makes me really feel adult-like. This conversation made me feel adult-like.

I’ve always been a talker more than a listener. Over the years I’ve identified good listeners like Betty Martin or Paz @ExquisiteOasis or Claire. People who ask questions and listen to the answers; people who make you feel important and interesting. I love the way those people make me feel and I’ve always wanted to cultivate that skill. I’ve gone out of my way for nearly two years to remind myself to stop talking and start listening.

It’s always felt forced. I’m doing it for a client who has never had a chance to mourn the end of a relationship he wasn’t supposed to have or shyly explore kinks and consent with a young man still learning. Or I’m doing it because I want to be that kind of person, not because I am.

This time, this Friday evening, I was that kind of person. I was authentically interested, listening to her without filtering it through my own experience. I didn’t notice for a while that I was even doing it and it was awesome.

Thinking of that moment and realizing that it’ll keep happening more and more as I practice, made me feel like I’d arrived. I felt, for once, like I could be the kind of person I’ve always admired. It’s only taken me almost thirty years, ha!

So when did you finally feel like you’d arrived? When did you feel like you were an adult, not just like someone pretending to be one?

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Double Standards

You may or may not have heard but the actor who used to play Barney in the popular children’s show is a male prostitute. Google “Barney sex work” to find dozens of articles thereof. I don’t have a problem, obviously, with people who offer sexual services for a fee. I think it’s healthy and fun and can be truly therapeutic if done carefully. I am happy for him and his clients and wish them well.

What angers me is that he is a ‘tantric sex therapist’ who insists on unprotected sex with his female only clients at 350$ per session and the only thing anyone is worried about is his past as the ambulatory force behind a giant purple kids entertainer. No one is calling him a victim of economic forces outside his control or brainwashed by the patriarchy to believe he’s consenting when actually he isn’t. He’s not getting slammed with jail time and called a scammer for operating his sex business like Tracy Elise and her temple. Were I to so openly advertise the exact same service, I would get thrown in jail.

I hate this double standard. Can we please just agree that there’s nothing inherently unethical about hiring out sexual skills for a generous wage? Can we please stop drawing lines between good sex work and bad sex work? Can we please just get the fuck over ourselves already!?!

 

Also, any client having unprotected sex with a sex worker should perhaps rethink their priorities. One of the reasons sex workers have a lower incidence of STIs than the laity is because, you guessed it, we don’t fuck clients bareback when we have the choice!

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Cuddles

I’ve been hearing about cuddle parties for a while now. There’s a decent amount of crossover between all the touch communities but I don’t often hop the lines. I don’t get too deep into kink or poly but I’m familiar with them and same with cuddle parties. As part of some background research I’m doing, I tried it out.

They are careful to keep confidentiality so the facilitator does remind us to talk not about what other people do or say but about our own experience and response. Telling my experience will include outlining behavior and impressions of others but I’ll be vague. I hope that’s not too frustrating.

I did have some expectations going in. Since I know a facilitator, I have heard some of the more helpful catchphrases and principles and since I read the website thoroughly, I knew what the rules were and kind of had an idea of the kinds of people I would meet. I was, as always, open to surprises.

When you first arrive, they show you around the space, in this case a private home, give you a chance to change clothes into full coverage, flexible, preferably not form fitting clothes, and let everyone kind of mingle. A few folks have been to parties before, one or two of them have been to many many parties, and about half are new or within their first few. We’re all a little awkward, even me. We chat a little and when the time comes, the facilitator goes over the rules. She goes in depth, making sure there can be no misunderstandings, and we do a few exercises.

First, we ask to kiss each other. You turn to the person next to you and ask them if you can kiss them. They reply “no.” Not “I dunno”, not “maybe”, not “no way”, not “gross”, and not “yes”, no matter how much they’d like to. One of the core concepts and the most helpful catchphrase from a cuddle party is “no is a complete sentence.” That may not sound revolutionary on the surface but there are hundreds of people across this country who can’t look someone in the eye and say, simply, “no.”

They also talk about how ‘no’ is useful information. It tells the hearer that they need to ask for or try something else or, if they hear it often enough, that they may want to try with someone else.

And they remind us that we can change our minds at any time. We may think we want to say ‘yes’ but when we get what we agreed to, find it isn’t to our liking. Or perhaps it’s good for a while, then isn’t anymore. That happens to me all the time and I try to let you lovely boys know when it happens. It means staying in touch with ourselves which isn’t always easy but it’s lovely when it happens.

My experience was useful but not one I’ll repeat. After the reading of the rules, we kind of pair off, much like the naughty parties I like to go to. Except instead of making out and banging, we snuggle. My usual role is caretaker so I made a conscious effort to ask to be taken care of. I asked for a simple shoulder rub, just nice thumbs into my rhomboids, a little muscle rolling over the upper traps, maybe some kneading down my back but nothing fancy. I should have known better.

It started ok but my partner got bored quickly and roamed around to places where their inexperienced hands weren’t delivering effective touch. They attempted a stretch but had no idea how to deliver a deep, pleasant one so it was lots of weird bouncing and my whole body got confused. I was sitting cross legged and I thought I might prefer to lay on my tummy so I interrupted and asked to change. My ‘cuddle’ partner immediately straddled my hips and got to work. It was a little more relaxing but also more uncomfortably sexual than I was prepared for. It’s difficult to tolerate mediocre massage when I know how much better it can be. When it’s slower, in rhythm with your breath, deep and rhythmic and satisfying instead of nervous and frantic. Then small talk leads to the inevitable: “I’m interested in learning tantric massage.” Sigh.

While tantra is a life discipline of existing in your body in the moment, people who don’t know anything about tantra think it’s about having better sex. Not a topic I was interested in covering then and there. Realizing that I legitimately would enjoy myself better in the teaching role, I asked to switch places, gave them a few pointers, then left to find a less sexually charged partner.

I ended up snuggling comfortably and chatting safe topics for a while, deliberately censoring myself and my stories to avoid sexual topics (not easy for me, haha). That said, I think it’s become an instinct for me to be the perfect girlfriend for the moment. When I eventually left I felt sadness, like this was a bandaid we had applied to my cuddle buddy’s emotional pain and my departure ripped it right off again.

The others, though… I noticed by watching that in general, the women were nurturing, satiating their desire for non sexual loving touch by giving, long, sumptuous, sacred strokes on the arms and chests and backs of the boys. The men were in heaven, enjoying totally safe touch, freely given with love and affection, without pressure to achieve any goal. One in particular looked like he hadn’t been so happy in months and given the long luxurious touch he was getting I don’t blame him.

I felt very much like I was working. I love, love, love what I do. I truly believe it is valuable and useful when done right. I think loving touch, freely given, is a joy and a treat and helps us return to the world better people. I absolutely understand why these women attend these events and lavish their affection on strangers. It feeds the soul and I am so glad it’s available.

I’m also glad that I get to do it in the privacy of my apartment with individuals who are free to express their sexuality as well. While the structured, nonsexual setting was perfect for many attendees, it wasn’t for me. Knowing that I passed up the chance to share time with two phenomenal beloved clients to attend this event didn’t make me happy and I won’t make that choice again.

Recommended?

For my occasional female identified/gender fluid readers: there are women only cuddle parties if that suits you better and you can always choose to cuddle only with those giving off female energy, I know I can only do that with my female-identified friends who give off a lot of male vibes but we all have different desires and attractions. It’s worth looking into if for no other reason than it is very good practice saying yes and saying no.

For my male/male-identified/whatever readers: I do encourage it as part of a broader self care routine. If you are in a life where you do not wish to leave your situation but also do not wish to live your life without loving touch freely given, this may be something beautiful to explore. It can also help those learning how to negotiate intimate boundaries. While there is no sexual activity here, it can help you get used to reading body language, asking permission, giving permission, and learning to love ‘no’.

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It’s No Fantasy

Feelings happen. Often, when feelings happen, they are confusing. We are told that feelings come from specific places and mean certain things. When we experience feelings we weren’t expecting with a provider, that can be confusing. We try to put them into the framework of monogamous, marital love and that does not fit within sex work boundaries. New clients discovering this industry, particularly with excellent providers, can easily confuse the feelings of safety, comfort, loving physical contact, sexiness, acceptance, and sexual pleasure with feelings of love and romance. Often, those feelings of love and romance are then projected onto the provider when it might be healthier to integrate them into the client’s identity.*

In this industry, managing feelings comes with the territory. The easiest answer to the question “Does my provider have feelings for me? I only ask because [special treatment]” is “of course not, it’s all fantasy.” In my opinion, that answer is too small.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have mostly self-aware clients. You educate yourselves, you read what I write, you enjoy the level of intimacy we share without forgetting that it’s only possible because of our boundaries. You appreciate the industry and what it can do while also making yourselves aware of the risks and downsides. When we come to trust each other and some of my boundaries relax, you take pride in being a client who makes my work easy, or if not easy then at least rewarding.

You also know very well that I don’t create a fantasy for you. I don’t pretend to be your girlfriend, nor do I put on the airs of a trained companion or ‘high end escort’. I don’t fake my pleasure or tolerate discomfort any more than I would for any lover. I spend hours thinking about how to best manage our expectations and I get genuine satisfaction from our encounters. I am genuinely, wholeheartedly pleased to have you as a client.

You, my client who cares about my pleasure and my expectations, bring me gifts and cards and bring my friends over to fool around with. You, my client who gives me financial freedom and with it a sense of safety and security. You, my client, whom I cherish and adore and who can never and will never be just friends.

We met under amazing circumstances. I got to dance with you on my table and roll with you in bed. We’ve cuddled and fucked and told each other secrets we can’t tell anyone else. We will always hold a special place for each other in our memories and in our lives. No way can I give that up.

Someday I will leave this work. You will find love or death or another beautiful woman in another beautiful city. Whatever the reason, you and I will end our precious relationship. I will wonder what you’re up to and you might wonder the same. I’ll toss that scarf around my neck or wear that sweater and smile at the memory it holds. And that memory will stay beautiful, more valuable than diamonds, because we didn’t try to make it what it wasn’t meant to be.

So the next time someone somewhere asks “Does my provider have feelings for me?” We can answer “Yes, she does. She feels passion and joy and comfort and safety and pleasure for her awesome regular client. Enjoy the special treatment, don’t read into it, and never take it for granted.”

*I’m never more pleased than when a client begins to love themselves and realize that I only facilitate their experience, it is their own body which creates it.

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A Moment

Frizzy grey ponytail, face both aged an vibrant, we chatted for almost an hour before the story came out. I knew how it ended before it even began by the cracks in his calm comportment. I can see grief, its unmistakable in the quivering corners of his mouth, the shaking gestures, the palpable heat going between us.

Humans invariably view others’ experiences through their own sense and I struggled to focus on his grief as images of an empty apartment and cold bed popped into my head. my own projected future grief for the inevitable day I, too, am left alone swelled in response to this man, too young to be this old, living it every moment. I couldn’t look him in the eye and not cry so I threw myself on him and we wrapped each other in comfort.

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What a View

I write from the old couch before a new window. Heat makes the gauze ripple gently at the corner of my eye. Cold warm light filters between the skyscrapers to make my carpet glow. I want to curl up on the puddle of light like a smooth cat, luxurious and purring.

As the clouds gently drift up, up over my head to disappear behind the wall, the bits of blue between them wink at me. I love the blue sky. It reminds me of warmth and wide open spaces and happy summer times. It’s so quiet up here. It’ll get noisy again as neighbors come home and the ssshhh of their shoes slips under the gap in my door.

I’m warm but not quite comfortable. The table is just too high and I can only sit in a position for so long before I have to adjust or the joints at my knees and hips and ankles and back start to stiffen.

Haha, stiffen. I’m a middle school boy at heart. I think boners and butts are funny and I can’t not make a “that’s what she said” or “your mom” joke when the opportunity presents. For all that I take myself far too seriously, I can’t take myself seriously. Doubt prickles my boundaries, constantly seeking reassurance. Funny that people literally putting their money where their mouth is only works for so long before you start doubting Their judgement, haha! Does that little doubting T ever go away?

My water is green. I’ve been concerned about the way I smell lately. Every time you kiss me there I have to wonder if you’re only doing it because you think you’re supposed to. I kiss you after and sometimes it’s strong enough that I can’t imagine. So I’m drinking chlorophyll on the advice of Matisse of the immaculate figure. It’s incredible how much time we spend thinking about each other. My day revolves around how to best please you. Is it the bold, confident side of me that quivers you the most or the quiet, meditative me? Perhaps the nearly childish, giggler in me or the sultry, smoky seductress. Sometimes the woman at the door simply carries you along with her, the music or the moonlight leading the way and she dragging you along behind. Others, she watches and waits for your vibe to show and follows your lead.

Three hours ago, when you were in a meeting or clearing the nocturnal accumulation of digital converse from your device(s), I was planning for you. Mentally mapping the day so I could be everything for you, including on time. Or at least no more than five minutes behind. Does this have garlic in it? Better not eat it until tonight. Do I have time for the micro abrasions in my mouth to heal before lavishing your cock with oral attention or will mouthwash and gum have to suffice? Better make sure the laundry is dry so I have a clean, fresh towel for you.

This is why I like my days to end early(ish). My morning is yours, even if I won’t see you until late.

I’ve finally got my books mostly organized. My system makes sense. I can’t wait to see if anyone can guess it. It’s fairly broad; categories more than individual titles. Then I found a stack of books that I shoved in a closet last week. Sigh. No more room in the book and breakfast. I may have to buy a bookcase.

But I don’t want to! What I want to buy is a nice bar, with a dark wooden top on it that opens to reveal funky infusions like bacon and sage vodka or a proprietary orange liqueur. I would make room for that. And use of it. I love flavors and booze is a great vehicle. Plus the pieces just look nice. Ah, someday.

I broke a nail moving furniture the other day. My nails are pathetically fragile but I insist on painting them still. After watching all four or five or however many seasons of Lost Girl, with their perfect makeup and perfect hair and perfect nails, I figured I could nail at least two out of three consistently. Haha, nail. They grow back, of course, but it’s no less of a pain because it’s temporary.

Life is pretty good. The rest of my month is reasonably relaxed, full of lovely people and pleasant experiences. The move is pretty much done, though there are still gaps to fill here and there, and I’m looking forward to a contemplative winter. I just feel…. Good. Stimulated and satisfied and accomplished and loved and just, good. Funny how creativity, for me, strikes at my moments of deepest contentment.

Happy Winter Holidays, everyone.