Hands-on education for students of the body
My lovely, periprofessional friend quoted this to me. In my drunken reverie I found it not only worthy of posting but near necessary. Rate details are in the next post; this was too good to wait.
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul –
by Emily Dickinson
long live the book
“I am sometimes amazed that such wrenching cruel pain can be inflicted without the slightest hint of intent or even awareness. When that girl lit up on seeing her boyfriend, she didn’t imagine it could cause anyone pain. Obviously you aleady know this, but I just find it astonishing.
The way her eyes lit up, her face, her impulsive joy…to see that, and know it can never be you. To see that, and be forced to comprehend the immense gulf between you and a normal guy, between his experience in life and yours.
And you can’t say anything about it, you can’t complain or even just express a quiet sorrow about it. Even here, someone will come along and bitch about you thinking you’re ‘entitled’. And even if they didn’t, there’s no point in complaining anyhow. There’s no one to complain to; no one made any decision and no one can change this.
You wish someone’s eyes would light up like that for you. That’s all. It’s very simple and sad and empty. But you can’t seem to make it happen. Somehow, advice about lifting weights and being yourself falls a bit flat when 10,000 girls in a row have seen you and their eyes have remained unanimously unlit.
It isn’t something you can ask for. What a bizarre conversation that would be. “Hey, would you mind having your eyes light up when you see me? Thanks”. Seriously, what would be the point of that? It isn’t something she could decide to do on purpose.
Such exquisite shame and hurt, inflicted in total innocence. It’s just the inevitable result of being around people without really being one. Constant reminders of what you are and what you are not.
It would be easier to refute and resist such messages if they were delivered on purpose. If someone openly jeered and said you were unworthy, that might hurt but not nearly so much. When kind, decent people inadvertently show you what you are, the very fact that they didn’t mean to hurt you, makes it hurt more. You know they mean it. You know full well that girl had no idea of causing you pain at all. You know full well that her eyes would never light up like that for you. She’d never say such a thing. It’s just a brutal, silent truth.
No girl is ever going to have or express a conscious opinion that you don’t deserve to have someone love you. If you ever asked, they’d all insist that someone will but just not them right now sorry. But conscious opinions have nothing to do with it.
She didn’t see her boyfriend, muse over her options, and choose to react with joy. It just happened. And when girls react to you, there’s no real deliberate choice. It just happens. And what happens is, he gets joy and love, and you don’t. Other guys do, and you don’t.
You can’t even comfort yourself with bitterness or anger toward women, because you know they are just people reacting and feeling what they feel. You don’t want someone to force themselves, to pretend, to take pity. You want someone’s eyes to light up. And you have a sick horrible fear in your gut that it really might just never happen.
You came into the world as stupid and hopeful as everyone else. And you are learning the cold lesson now. You bounce up like a hopeful puppy, sure that you’re a part of this, sure that you get to play like everyone else, and you slowly learn you’re just not welcome. Nothing personal, you just don’t get to have that kind of reaction, that kind of experience. Nothing personal, you just have to be alone, and would you mind pretending to be ok with that? You’re not supposed to complain about it and make people feel bad.
Just live your life alone, don’t experience love, don’t hold hands, don’t have sex, don’t have children. And don’t bitch about it, you entitled creep.
Now go lift some weights.”
The above was not written by me. I peruse Reddit.com quite a bit. I have browsing apps downloaded to both phone and iPad and have to restrict it to wifi only so I don’t use all two gigs of my data redditing. Amidst the myriad chaff, I occasionally come across something that dramatically shifts my worldview. The above passage opened my eyes to something that resonates with me.
Much is said against the forever alone guy. He is pathetic. He is a white knight. He is entitled. His lot isn’t that bad. Suck it up. Et Cetera. The author of this passage is obviously familiar with what he describes, whether he feels it himself or he has a friend who has broken down and confided in him. He, forever alone, is one reason my work matters and why it’s so damn rewarding. I’ve talked before about how, the first time I went pro, I was able to relax more easily than in my personal life and how my arousal response went through the roof. Getting paid for my time freed me to sink in and enjoy it. I had made my decisions, I had taken my safety precautions, I was free of doubts that plagued me through regular relationships, and I had a blast. That feeling hasn’t changed. The feeling of freedom to focus on you and the feeling of exultation at a job well done. Every time you walk out happier than you walked in, I feel that joy and gladness.
For the forever alone guy writing about his situation with introspection, understanding, and forgiveness I offer this: my eyes will light up when I see you. Because your financial assistance frees me while we are together from outside concerns, my eyes light up. Because you reward my every move with a smile of appreciative desire, my eyes light up. Because your conversation assumes my intelligence, my eyes light up. Because your body responds to my touch with sensual focus, my eyes light up. Because you come back again and again, my eyes light up. Because you feel comfortable and safe and sexy and concerned, my eyes light up… for you. Whoever you are, forever alone guy, I hope you find someone who lights up for you, whether it’s within the realms of civilian relationships or the stolen moments of a professional, I sincerely hope you find it. If you’re in Seattle, I’d like to help.
I worship cock. I always have. In all their variations, cocks fascinate, intrigue, please, and entertain me. I love how an erection can be an instant eraser of intelligence I’ve seen, great care I’ve felt, and deep conversations I’ve seen interrupted mid-sentence. That being said, the intelligence, conversation, and care are absolute prerequisites for that worship, intrigue, pleasure, fascination, and entertainment. Establishing a connection as two human beings who have something in common other than compatible genitals is critical for my personal enjoyment. Once that connection has been made, and sometime it comes in the aftermath, my interest and pleasure skyrockets.
Without that connection, I am capable of providing a high caliber service, but at that point it becomes a service. It ceases to be the genuine back and forth of an expanding relationship and stays firmly in the realm of a provider providing a service. I am capable of that experience and as an actor of both skill and talent it will be a service of caliber and quality, but it will not be the kind of session that makes me want to keep you late, nibble on cylindrical meats, chat long into the lazy afternoon, play with you again until you cannot rise, and fall asleep gently on your shoulder.
That is the session I most often share. I started to write the word ‘offer’ but I share it with you as much as you share it with me. I like to describe it as GFE, but back in high school. We’re both good kids, not doing anything that’s actually sex no matter how much we yearn for it. We kiss and kissing leads to touching, leads to more touching, leads to the kind of exploration that doesn’t focus on some kind of finish. It focuses on the touch, the tease, the closeness, the surprise finish that’s fun and sweet and rewarding but not a disappointment if it doesn’t show. It brings us both to a combined frustrated and satisfied frenzy and that’s when I worship your cock.
I want to touch it. I want to look at it and observe similarities and differences. I want to explore it and the surrounding area. I want to tickle your feet and see if it moves you. I want to trail my fingertips across your chest, searching for previously undiscovered spots that send shivers and tingles through your belly into your cock to make it twitch. I want to test your reaction to my excursions. I want to explore the textures, bends, folds, fuzz or lack. I want to watch your face and breath for peaks of intensity and valleys of relaxation. I want to feel the swell and regress of your glorious cock as I find patterns and rhythms that please you but don’t quite satisfy… not yet. I want to hear you pant and feel my breath rise with yours as we both get sucked into the hot, wet intensity of our arousal. I love the mental and emotional swell I feel when your physical cues tell me you’re walking the edge. I want to feel myself throb between my thighs as every thought and movement is for sex and sensuality. I want to feel you struggle to watch both my arched ass rock across your torso and your cock, barely visible in the gap between you and I as everything I have that can reach your cock caresses it, strokes it, slips across it until, after ages of touch and tease, I finally feel the pleasure and satisfaction of your hot, sticky, slippery cum all over me. I don’t even need that ‘finish’; I still want to worship and pleasure your cock, regardless of the outcome. I want to bring pleasure and excitement to your every moment. I want to cover you with warm slick oil and bring you a bliss that requires only your appreciation to plaster a grin on my face.
I’ve discovered in myself an intense internal reward system that fires when I am appreciated. It only takes a moment, only a thought, to share that appreciation. I don’t require, nor would I want, some epic of care and thankfulness. I wouldn’t press for thanks as my services are given in a fair exchange, regardless of the attitudes (barring the pushy or downright unsafe) of my beloved clients. Thanks and appreciation are only to give me pleasure, something I regularly and often receive. They enhance my experience and quickly turn a pleasant session into a memorable one I long to repeat. Once in fifty sessions I will have a simply pleasant experience. Those other 49 are rewarding in thousands of ways. Flowers, exotic cheeses, wines, words of admiration and appreciation, acknowledgement of time invested and time stretched, contented smiles, exhausted poses, repeats and returns, long conversations that have nothing to do with either of us, those are the things that bring me pleasure and joy and intensify just how much I worship your cock.
Who among you doesn’t desire appreciation and to be desired? When I meet you, as a human with thoughts, cares, a history, a life before us, I appreciate you. I appreciate that you may be nervous. You may be cautious. You may be carefree, celebrating a recent life event. You may be an old hand or brand new, you may be thick or thin, tall or short, old or young…. Every one of you has something that I appreciate. You are shy and I care for you. You are bold and I admire you. You are clever and I laugh with you. You are serious and I am careful for you. You are curious and I am excited for you. You are verbose and I convers with you. You are young and I teach you. You are old and I learn from you. You are kind and I am nurtured by you. You are misinterpreted and I understand you. You are unsure and I am sure for you. I am suited to my work; I am suited to you.
I long ago vowed that I would only interact with penises attached to awesome people. While I have sometimes bent this rule and have once or twice broken it, my experiences in the last few years have been absolutely consistent with this motto. Thank you, to those who have and those who continue to help me uphold my personal motto. You are the greatest of men. You deserve the worship of a great woman.
Lately my published words have been few and far between. The kind missives of good old friends have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. My words have not evaporate or even, in fact, lessened, but the time in which I have to mull them, roll them across my tongue, write and rewrite them has been sparse and preempted by assignments and money making schemes galore.
However, on occasion there is such overwhelming feeling and thought that no barrier of time or priority may interfere and so it is that tonight I write of a night.
The air is so still the clouds high high above have barely moved. Though I cannot see the city her blush spreads across the sky, ready for a devious night of passion and adventure. And a weeknight no less! haha!
Sweet strains drift from the record player to my ear, outside on the balcony, able for the first time this year to enjoy the outdoors after dark in only a sweatshirt and pink fuzzy slippers (and pants! naughty boy!) The intermittent sounds of grilling cheese sandwiches are an alternative music to my tipsy and dehydrated ears. My after hours mojito sits next to the mint plant it came from and a modest myriad of companion spices, foods, and flowers. Some dipshit rides his (or hers. women can be assholes, too) petulantly brazen motorcycle through my quiet streets, momentarily shattering the beautiful calm that is this evening.
Life is good, my loves, even great. For me particularly because I know and care for you, because my life is safe and full, because the night is calm (aside from ghost rider over there) and full of the scent of mint and rosemary and freshly melted cheese and fried butter. Please, wherever you are and whatever you do, whether we meet once, again, or never, see in your life something worth seeing. It’s there, I can promise you. Look and find a moment, a smell, a memory, a future plan, a present joy, anything you find pleasant and lovely, and dwell on it for a moment
Good night and all my best, always.
He was tiny. A few weeks old, eyes barely open. He was perfect.
I always had pets growing up and as pets are wont to do, one died. I don’t remember it well but it was my mom’s pet, it had been a month or so since, and as is the way with our family, it was time to find a new companion. Friends of ours had adopted a puppy from my brother’s dog so we returned the favor when one of their wild cats had her own brood. The kittens had been irresistible to me as soon as the adults allowed us to play with them. A cautionary chorus of ‘gentle’s and ‘hold them carefully’s followed us through the house as we watched and helped them develop motor skills and explore their world. By the time they were old enough to take one home with me I already knew which one I wanted. He was a cute tabby with a white chin, chest, and tummy and little white socks. He was playful and exuberant and the perfect fit for my hyperactive, hyperfocused pre-teen self.
We brought him home and I could’t leave him alone. While my family watched TV and polished off dad’s Top Ramen Tuna Fish Casserole I cuddled our newest addition and sang phrases from songs I though might be comforting. Ostensibly he was mom’s pet but that first evening and my subsequent fixation created a bond that was to last until his passing sixteen years later.
His kitten year was adorable and fun; all the things that children and kittens like. We played with strings and feathers and I spent hours giggling and shrieking with delight at his leaps and spins. His ‘teenage’ years were full of mischief and mayhem. He used to relax on the steps between the first and second story, his twitching tail the only action. Innocent stair climbers would soon discover a coiled spring that would launch itself mercilessly at passing ankles. Those of us who were most often home learned to step wide or to the side, but there are family members who still harbor a grudge against the little stair monster. When that grew boring, he would lie on the ledge at the top and to one side of the stairs and swipe at whatever eartips and scalps presented themselves.
As the result of a urinary territory battle with a new arrival, he became an outdoor cat as all our cats have inevitably become. Despite the added danger and the succession of missing and DOA pets, we could neither deny freedom nor his ferocious tenacity as he grew into an affectionate and scrappy adult. Birds and mice were a common gift from the cats to our doorstep and we quickly learned to look first in the morning when heading to school lest we hear a tiny crunch underfoot. I once came across him toying with a mouse on the lawn. I rescued the little creature and brought it inside, only to have it escape in the kitchen. It lived in the kitchen long enough to create some highly amusing stories concerning mouse traps, fingers, and midnight snacks but it wasn’t until we invited my mighty hunter back inside that the now thoroughly fattened rodent took its leave.
I used to climb into the neighbor’s apple tree with a bag full of apples, oranges, water, and a thick book to sit in the warm summer sun, reading and snacking. On rare occasion he would come join me until my incessant petting became annoying and he left.
On the evenings we let him into the house, we would fall asleep together, his fur and my long hair an inseparable tangle of fuzzy, cuddly affection. Many of my pets had an affinity for hiding in my hair but he spent the most time by far on my pillow with me.
Leaving him behind when I went off to college didn’t feel like a betrayal or abandonment, it felt like an interlude at the end of which we would fall back into old patterns like the best kind of friends. Finding him wherever he was on property and giving him a snuggle was part of my home visit routine until I finally got a place where I could bring him with me. I had a little cottage type place out far enough that I felt fine letting him roam around and the little old couple who lived next door would give him little treats.
He and I lived it up that year. We had boys over and parties where he and I both earned the affectionate title of ‘snuggle sluts’. I remember one evening when he went from person to person until he had received adequate pets and snuggles from each attendee, then went back for seconds from the best cuddlers. Even my allergic friends couldn’t resist him, if just long enough to start sneezing before they had to shuffle him to the next person. By this point he was ten or eleven and had settled into a calm, alert, but relaxed regality that ruled our social circles from whichever perch he chose.
It is this age that I remember the most clearly. His full, round belly, thick, ropey muscles, easy, strong purr, and alert, brightly green gaze glowed with health and stability. I can see in my mind’s eye my hand cupped around his face, his eyes closed in ecstasy, his breath hearty and rumbly as my fingertips found all the right spots: under his chin, behind his ears, and that one spot that made him scritch like a dog with his hind leg. He always met me at the door in the morning and when I came home. A few times I even saw him racing me home as I turned the last corner to the little side street we lived on.
There’s something about that perfect combination of total independence and devotion that only a cat you’ve lived with your whole life can share with you. Dogs are wonderful and I’ll have them, too, when I can, but they have an element of neediness that cats lack. Many cats have that aloofness that keeps you from bonding but when you share the better part of two decades with them, there comes a point where that aloofness wears off. You share vulnerability with each other, you share strength when it is needed, and you become family in a way that still leaves you both room, free of judgement, to pick fights and make mistakes and still come home to someone who loves you.
My life thereafter didn’t lend itself well to pet ownership. I ran out of money and left him in the care of a friend ‘just until I can take him back.’ A year passed, two years, three, and I was finally in a place to bring him home with me but by then he had become a source of strength and joy for her in her times of need. He had become a loving grandfather now. He stayed indoors and slept a lot, he lost some weight but his eyes still took everything in and radiated wisdom and calm in return. His teeth started to loosen and fall out and we saw less of each other. Every time I saw him it was a surprise. The kind of surprise you get when you see you your parents after a few months away and suddenly they have gray hair. It’s been silvering for a few years now but you missed a few months of it and now suddenly you notice. His immune system started to fail but both I and my friend failed to get him the care that he needed.
Tuesday morning I got a text. “I just got home from work. He’s really bad. Can you come?”
…
I knew it. I’ve had pets before and they all find their end sooner or later. I went home and emptied out a cardboard box. I lined it with ragged towels and put it in the car. My eyes blurred as I drove and that image of his face pursed in ecstasy and joy came to my mind. I knew what I would find when I arrived and I knew none of us were prepared. I’m not proud of what I did when I bundled him up. I couldn’t deal with her grief on top of mine and so I left her behind, unable to make a full cathartic goodbye. I took him and he never came back.
I felt for the people at the vet’s office. I walked in, carrying a sack of bones and bawling, knowing what had to be done. They expect people to hang on, to be sentimental, to demand extension of their beloved pet’s life and so they didn’t understand that I knew. I knew that he and I weren’t going out the same door that morning. I knew that his run was over, probably sooner than it needed to be. I knew that I had failed him by leaving him in the care of a friend and not checking in. I knew that regardless of what regrets I might have or damage I might have averted six months ago, it was too late now and he was already gone.
His belly heaved with each breath. His spine was a serrated knife, ready to tear through his thin skin. His fur was still soft and fine but now tiny parasites crawled in it. His gaze was directed inward, focused or fighting I will never know. I stayed alone with him until he began to grow cold. I had left him before and I would leave him now but not until he had left me first.
Mortality is a funny thing. We all have it, we mostly deny it. I’ve expounded to some on the research being done into hallucinogens as treatment for end of life anxiety and other mental disorders. I wonder if there was something more I could have done. His eyes that final morning did not hold the bright, outward gaze I got so used to but instead held the inward focus of a starving creature in pain. I had a thought of a cat on LSD, taking a guided trip to help him come to terms with his end and his pain. That wasn’t my only moment of wry, morbid amusement as the morning came and went. I thought of the last really bad hangover I slept through. It was all encompassing. I felt feeble and weak, wanting to eat and vomit at the same time, able to do neither. If that’s bad I can’t imagine what he must have felt and feared. The thought brought a chukle devoid of joy.
They say time heals all wounds and I’ve got a remarkably robust mental immune system so the pain of yesterday is already a shadow of what it was. The life that left us yesterday, however, was not, and I felt it important to memorialize that life. Words are my punishment, my joy, my artistic medium, and my platform and so in words we find his memorial.
My Kitty, I know you never could understand my words, but the feelings behind them must have rubbed off a little. I hope that you felt my love and my need for you and I hope that all cats go to heaven too.
Not often does one have the chance to observe. I tried it once, because it seemed like it would help, but it was merely uncomfortable for all involved. Today I had a real chance to observe.
The light was strong, slanting through the window so fully the edges were shattered, diffused through the room, lighting every detail for my inspection. I had only a few moments; both participants were so consumed, so passionate, so thoroughly prepped that the moment was gone almost as soon as I realized I had it.
It occurred to me, as I watched and brainstormed how to be with this preoccupied pair, that there was no need for me to be. I had done my part and there is a moment when the third becomes third in truth as in conceit. The advantage to our situation was that the edges of our interaction had been delineated prior and so there was no need for insecurity or egotistical fragility. I knew that they would, at some point, reach this pinnacle but I had not yet decided, or even considered, what to do while they were consumed by each other. So I watched.
First I observed his face. Expression is difficult to describe when you have only a moment and that moment is split into micromoments, each filled with its own expression. The impression I came away with was complete rapture. Eyes open, gaze far away, internally focused, filled with the intense concentration that arousal confers; lips parted, no effort spared to close the jaw or turn a frown or a smile, breath quick and shallow, not yet raspy but hints of what might come should they continue long enough.
I notice her back, striped pink flush and pale flesh stretched across ribs. The pattern repeats as she tosses her head back and low but throaty cries force themselves from her throat, the wild horses of legend tearing down a canyon: raw energy irregardless of its surroundings. Her face reflects her arousal: a deep and bright flush that I can only imagine he feels as she envelops and draws him into her. Her hair falls in that combination of perfection and tousle that comes only from the application of vigorous activity. She could have just come in from a run or a swim, but the circumstances are obviously otherwise.
I notice my own body, curiously absent from the action but a direct contributor to the circumstances in which it is occurring. I feel anxious and calm at the same time. I feel an impulse to insert myself into the interaction but immediately on the heels of that impulse I feel an assurance that my participation, while understood and welcome in spirit, are unnecessary. The pleasure of that relief is cathartic, opening my focus not to myself but to them. Thus the observation; the watching.
All too soon it is over. Her orgasm pulled from him his own and the flush begins to fade out as the broader focus fades in and the rest of the room comes to their attention. My moment of observation has passed and my attention is required again as she and I reassure him that he is the kind, lovely, generous, handsome, and trusted gentleman we have always known. The vision of her back, his face, the two entwined, haunts me as I go about my day. I wish for it again. I crave the opportunity to observe two people fucking, not for any voyeuristic pleasure but for the satisfaction of my Kinseyan curiosity.
I have confidence it will happen. Someday I will again watch two people, brightly lit by afternoon sunlight, completely enraptured in each other’s basest desires and shameless of it. Someday I will again watch.
I shouldn’t have had the whole pizza. That’s the thought my body tells my brain as I sit in the aftermath of a hungry decision. You know how it goes: you’re super hungry so you get more than you need because it all sounds so good. Now you’ve demolished everything you ordered simply because it’s in front of you and the feedback from your insides is not friendly.
Speaking of friends: the reason for my descent into mozzarella-based madness is a letter to a good friend. My friends have always been better at keeping in touch with me than I have at keeping in touch with them, but a stalwart few have called and written until their hands cramp and their lungs run dry. Thanks to those constant companions I have fodder for thought and also an excuse to go to my neighborhood pizza place and eat an entire medium white-sauce pizza.
In this case, the fodder for thought is love and sex, as usual, but in a slightly different context. Most of you know I grew up surrounded by conservative, Republican, Christian soldiers, raising up the next little army in a small town in Montana. There are several wonderful benefits to growing up in a small, remote town in rural Montana, but social development and cultural exposure are not among them. As a child of the creek bed and a horse riding, gun toting, bible quoting, evolution denying, Jesus freak, my exposure to sexual relationships was unusually broad among my peers. My parents regularly kissed and fondled each other in the hallways, I was 13 when I first learned of my father’s, then my mother’s indiscretions, I hid around the corner to listen in on Monty Python’s ‘The Meaning of Life’, we watched a british TV show about sex and relationships as a family when my peers were being carefully sheltered from any mention of sex, sexuality, or sex’s role in romantic relationships. The way my mother talked to me, frankly, without shame or sensationalism, about her sexual history, her opinions about when its appropriate, and many other topics, shaped my view of sex as something that is fun, normal, healthy, useful, and interesting. To me, frequent and gratuitous physical affection was normal, even in relationships where fidelity isn’t always present and love and like sometimes don’t agree with each other.
Upon my ‘maturity’ around age fifteen, I had been masturbating for three years so I knew what was possible given the right circumstances, and I had latched onto a phrase my mother shared with me that made sex ok as long as it was with the right person. She even went so far as to say it’s ‘usually your husband’ which didn’t make sense until later. Given this ‘license’ and my natural curiosity and inclination, it is no surprise to me that by the age of sixteen I was sexually active and loving it. Of course that’s where things went, not exactly south, but definitely not ‘north’. During one of my many uneventful encounters with my long term high school lover, I began stimulating myself. I hadn’t done either of us any favors months before when I told him he had given me multiple orgasms when in fact there had been none, not even close to one, but this sudden change from only needing him to climax (so he thought) to needing extra stimulation was so emasculating he stopped his thrusting and began pouting. I never again attempted to actually have an orgasm with him involved and simply continued masturbating in the privacy of my bathroom all throughout high school and college. I accepted that it was my lot in life to have orgasmless sex and I would simply do my wifely duty and take care of myself on my own. It wasn’t until a later sexual partner encouraged me to do whatever I needed (partly so he could figure it out and help, partly just to get me where I would be happier), that I discovered a fleeting ability to share climax with a partner.
I am among the fortunate. Many of my peers feel into early marriages, children too soon, and regrets. The idea that sex, love, and friendship are all separate is foreign, unlike the idea that some deity can end all woes and right all bedroom wrongs. The congregation I spent most of my time listening to espoused the notion that a god fearing couple who waits until marriage to consummate their relationship will find the sexual fulfillment of their dreams and everyone will live happily ever after. This becomes a problem under most circumstances but the two I have seen most often are the married bad sex and the unmarried bad sex. In the married relationship, if sex isn’t magical and perfect right away, that puts their devotion to god in question. Instead of seeing it as trouble in communication or a natural discrepancy in the sexual appetites of two people, any incompatibility undermines everything their world is based on. Bad sex is bad enough, but bad sex that means you’re not a good Christian is worse. The other scenario has the extra special sauce of shame and guilt before sexual activity even happens. Unmarried christian kids having sex for the first time can easily misinterpret natural awkwardness, discomfort, or dissatisfaction as punishment, reinforcing the negative attitude towards sex that they brought to the table in the first place, and further crippling future relationships. In circumstances where the sex is ok to good, the aftermath is less crippling, regardless of whether the sex is married or unmarried.
Some of these thoughts and scenarios may be familiar to you but perhaps, hopefully, you haven’t had to go through something like this or watch a close friend go through it. First experiences are formative and due to their import as firsts, what might be mediocre can feel traumatic and influence future experiences. A fleck of one of the conversations I had today involved this concept of formative firsts. We were talking about his experiences with several local providers. None were negative, but all but one lacked the liveliness and connection he was looking for. That one whom he felt a connection with happened to be his first. Had his first been any of the others, there likely would not have been a second foray into the hobby. I wish for everyone who makes their way in the world that their firsts are fabulous, and if those firsts aren’t amazing that they have the courage to try again, within reason. I, for one, will do my part to make all my firsts the best they can be, as I have for many years.
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.
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.
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.