Category: Professional Relations

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A Cat’s the Only Cat Who Knows Where It’s at

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.

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I Watched

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.

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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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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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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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Naked Ladies!!! On bicycles!

The Fremont Summer Solstice Parade is on June 21 this year and I hear there’s a fun tradition preceding it. I’m making plans to ride my bicycle in the parade as per tradition since that first streaker so many years ago. I’ve always wanted to dress as Lady Godiva for Halloween but October is a bit chilly to be running around in one’s skivvies. Plus, you know, children and such.

Anyway, I haven’t purchased the costume elements yet but I’ve got a few weeks to acquire one of those little toy horsehead-on-a-stick things to affix to my bicycle and a long wig to wear with it. I’ve got a mask to help maintain my anonymity but those of you who have seen me in this arena will likely recognize me more by some other assets than my face.

Who will be my peeping tom? ;-P anyone who might like to make arrangements to ride as well, be a painter, or meet after I’m open to suggestions.

I have an update: I might be out of town that weekend. Check my calendar the night before to make sure one way or the other. Thanks 🙂

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Like Ripples in a Pond

Our actions influence more than we think. Like ripples in a pond what we do and say around people we may not care for can have a devastating effect on people we love. I’ve always been both oblivious and indifferent to most people’s opinions which means it’s hard for me to understand that while I may not care, others do. This came home in a big way a few weeks ago

I’ve been exchanging letters with an old college friend of mine. He’s the epitome of nerd academically, socially, and culturally. He’s one of the most loyal people I’ve ever known and counting him as a friend is a privelege. Our friendship was always platonic. I asked him once, just to be sure, “You aren’t interested in me, right?” because I’m all too used to having my male friends either become sexual partners or drift away because I’m not sexually interested in them. Over the course of our letters, I asked him how much, exactly, he wanted to know about certain parts of my life. I know he’s very conservative and also he has me compartmentalized into a friend box; he’s not the kind of person who can easily cope with the madonna/whore duality and so he chose not to indulge his curiosity. As part of his rationale he told me a story from school, when he was hanging out with some of the guys. One of those guys was kind of cute and I had a one-time fling with him. No farther than a little french lesson, but I was proud of myself, as usual, because I rock at it and he was blown away. Of course, it didn’t even occur to me that he might tell other people and have a negative opinion about me because of it. I’m used to sex positive people who enjoy getting together and pleasuring each other without attaching labels. Anyway, I came up in conversation and was immediately labeled a slut. Not that I’d deny it, of course, but that’s pretty ungrateful talk for the other half of the slut-party. Stuff like that might surprise me but I’m nearly immune to things like that. To me, it’s water off a duck’s back. This young man’s opinion wasn’t important to me so I don’t really care how he feels about our encounter. However, my good friend, loyal, kind, rich in acuity and affection, was horrified. Apparently he vehemently denied the label on my behalf and was a little torn up over it. I read that and was furious on his behalf. Fuck the attitudes that tell my friends that their affection and trust is misplaced. Screw the guys who are perfectly willing to kiss and tell, and not in a good way. The least you could do is be fucking decent about it. Throw it in my face all you want but leave my friends out of it.

Early last year I began a relationship. We work together and kept it quiet for a while but not long after it became public, several friends from the management team privately warned him that I’m loose and of low morals and the I have a reputation. I had fooled around with one other coworker once and it was mostly common knowledge that I was an exotic dancer at a club on occasion. That was apparently cause enough to warn this nice, upstanding boy to stay away from this skank. Fuck that. You think that you’re protecting your friend from what? A woman who isn’t ashamed of herself? Someone who finds sexuality rewarding to herself and her friends? A girl that chooses sexual partners that other people don’t like? Say it to my face if you’re going to express that opinion and leave my friends out of it.

When I moved in with my partner and his two housemates, one of them objected on the grounds that I “might bring the wrong kind of people around” as if my sexuality breeds junkies and crime lords. We had even met several times and those of you who have met me know I don’t fit the stereotypes that involve drugs and sleazy managers and whatnot. It didn’t take long for him to realize that wasn’t going to happen and now we’re friends. Same thing with my friends at work: the longevity and seriousness of my relationship has given me legitimacy and silenced whatever talk was going around.

I’ve have always been very sexual and proud of my sexual prowess. I remember my first kiss, the first time I went down on a guy, my first (and only) simultaneous climax, my first experiment with bondage, my first client, and my greatest lover. I love it all. I talk about it, I think about it, I share it. I once slept with an incredibly sweet young man simply because he’d never had sex before and I wanted him to know how great it could be and to learn how great he could be also. I am that girl. I am unashamedly a slut and I don’t care who knows.

I didn’t care. I do now. Negative opinions of me reflect on the others in my life. I’ve always been so sure of myself that it didn’t occur to me that others’ might not be. My friends could be vulnerable to anger, sadness, or shame because of my behavior and I won’t even know unless they tell me. I can do something that to me is fun and exciting with no shame and bring shame to people who have no involvement. I hate that. I fucking hate that. The social climate that tells these beautiful people that there is something wrong with them for putting their trust and love in me. The conviction that a woman who has slept with more than some arbitrary number of men, or who isn’t ashamed to admit it, is untrustworthy is despicable and angering.

I have since attempted to limit who knows what. Not really for legal reasons and not for myself but for my friends and family who would be subject to public shame for my actions. Like ripples in a pond I spread across the circle of friends, loving them and doing my best not to make them dirty, as society often sees me.

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It’s been a While…

It’s been too long and I apologize. I’ve been distracted by many little things and a few big ones. The pressure to post was too great. I drafted a post some time ago but it because such a monstrosity that I couldn’t bring myself to return. A few people have asked to see if I’m ok which prompts me to return to my blog and share a little about what’s been going on lately.

In the last month I have established a cuddle closet. I’m not 100% on what I’m going to do with it yet, but I like it. I’m hoping to get some photos up soon but I have yet to establish a good time with my photographer so that’s up in the air.

I have also watched five seasons of the crime drama ‘Bones’ which is adorable but doesn’t inspire the kinds of thoughts that make good blog posts. I do recommend the show, but don’t try watching and eating at the same time. Melting ice cream and melting flesh have similar visual textures and for some reason my desire for ice cream has dampened of late. I have also invested far too much time into a cute game called Plants Versus Zombies which I do not recommend because you will never escape the urge to play. Because of those two diversions I have only finished two books over the last month, one of which is a sequel to The Last Policeman. I will review it but it will be short and mostly an addendum to the first.

I leased a car so I have faster transportation. It was almost necessary because my incall has a laundry room in the basement but not in-unit. I prefer to take my laundry home rather than pack quarters around and hang out in the basement of the old building I practice in. Having a car makes that far easier.

We went out of town for a week to visit family and get away from cell phones and such. Of course my partner spent most of the week elbows deep in plumbing, replacing a great deal of old copper piping, and the whole time we didn’t have hot water, but it was good to get away. The last night we spent in a hotel in Spokane (hot showers, Oh My God) and went out celebrating the end of vacation (I may have celebrated a bit too much). I met the most interesting young woman at a tiny bar in downtown Spokane. She makes her money by traveling between growing cannabis in Hawaii and selling it in Spokane. She and I got along quite well and both of us lamented that in almost every instance, the women we wish to invite into bed with us and our partners already have partners of their own! I’m pleased for them, but it leaves me wishing that perhaps there were more single women in the world that aren’t me ;-P In any case, it was an eventful week.

I’m currently training a new night auditor to take my place. The end is near but not yet in sight. Once she steps in, I’ll have Sundays and Mondays available at my incall. Currently I spend those days sleeping so I’m not a zombie at work which would make me a less than ideal companion for my gentlemen callers. Once I no longer require day-sleep I can offer my time alert and engaged at times that are hopefully more convenient.

The marvelous Adelle and I have been getting together to share experience. She is a great teacher and quite the professional. I do hope to do another duo or two with her over the next little while. Haha, honestly part of me just wants to sit back and watch; she is a magnificent sight with her toes pointed and her back arched as she dances across her patron’s body. She is far more acrobatic than I and her wit and opinions are quite delightfully pointed. I’m hoping to organize a nice little spa day with her and I and a good friend of mine as well. Sometimes we need to take our turn getting pampered after spending all our time pampering you gents 😉

So that’s the big update. Again, I apologize for the lapse in updates and posts. Now that I’m back in the swing of things I hope to get back to regular posting.

 

XO

Christina

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Authentic Courtesan Experience

There has been a lot of talk over the last year about GFE. What does it mean? Why do we use it? Where did the term come from? I’ve always been a little confused about the term. Most of the people I see already have or had girlfriends or wives. If you want an experience with a girlfriend, why go outside the relationship? I guess that means that it isn’t really a girlfriend experience they seek, it’s something else.

Maybe it’s a polite way of finding a menu. In past discussions some have mentioned that GFE means kissing and hugging, talking, and making it all the way to home base. it’s a way to ensure the client knows mostly what to expect so he can choose a provider whose preferences match his. In the more polite corners of our little world, it’s not really ok to ask what you are and aren’t allowed to do, you have to go by reviews and then just kind of let the situation develop and hope you find someone who clicks. A provider calling herself GFE helps outline the basics of her services, making it easier to choose. Valuable, but not really girlfriend-like.

Perhaps it’s more to indicate the feel of the session. She says GFE so that means she’ll treat you with love and enthusiasm. You can be sure, within reason, that your time together will feel genuine, but not so genuine that she complains about work or has a headache today. It helps build the illusion and smooth over the awkward moments when the economic part of the relationship becomes obvious.

I am of the camp that the GFE acronym is overused. The meaning is too broadly applied. Undefined. I think what people are looking for is the Genuine Escort Experience. We see much of it here in Seattle and we are lucky. We see versions of it in Adelle, Tanuki, Chloe May, Myself, Sarah Nicole, Larissa, and dozens more I can’t think of off the top of my head. All the previous I have met in person. They are women who love sex, love people, and provide a genuine experience. We aren’t your girlfriend. We will never be angry with you because you’ve been away too long, we relish that you have returned. We do not poison your day with venom and spite on our coworkers, we provide a calm space to relax and vent. We do not bore you with routine, we dedicate space and time to your comfort, your relaxation, your desire and lust. This is not a girlfriend experience, this is an enthusiatstic provider experience.

As an enthusiastic provider, I love what I do. There is no farce or facade, there is only a joy and pride in what I do. When I anticipate your call, I am thinking about what will make you feel good. What will make you comfortable. What will make you feel sexy and relaxed. Not to say I don’t make that effort for my partner, but the day to day living makes special occasions harder to find/make. For client and provider, that hour, that moment, is everything. It is the entire relationship. In lieu of GFE I would advocate Courtesan. She knows who she is, why she does this work, and how to do it well. That is what I think we are looking for when we ask for GFE: a genuine experience with a sexual woman who isn’t a girlfriend but who is a professional companion. There is no awkwardness in the economic aspect of the courtesan relationship because it is beautiful and respected. There is no need to cloak it in relationship terminology.

I am all in favor of abolishing acronyms. Perhaps ‘Courtesan’ is a good replacement.

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New space, coming soon

I’ve been frightfully out of contact for some time and I apologize. I’ve been waiting until my new location is settled. As of last week I signed a lease on a little studio on First Hill. It is painfully rudimentary, but operational and I hope to entertain as early as this Tuesday. I won’t have much by way of furniture but the necessities are there.

I’ve been having both a painful and joyful time of it. The building is a bit on the older side and there are quirks but the location is great, the size is fine, and the price is right. I’ve been going over design ideas and I’m excited for artwork, artistic mirrored tiles on the walls, fresh romantic paint, and a delicious vintage style couch. For the first half hour I sat on the floor and looked at the walls, imagined the warmth and intimacy they would bring to my guests and myself, and I felt a posession, an ownership. I think for a while it will be a work in progress. Much as many of you have been able to watch my progress in the hobby, you will be able to watch as this little slice of heaven evolves into a romantic love nest, warm, comforting, sensual, and intimate.

In the meantime, please forgive my reticence. I’m not ignoring anyone, I’m simply busy between working my ‘day’ job and putting all this together. I have a list of emails to send to those I have already seen or screened. Once I feel I have given my returning callers a chance to reserve time with me I’ll solicit appointments from new friends and once I’ve responded to my patient callers I’ll make a general announcement that I’m ready to open my space to new solicitors. Thank you for your patience and eagerness. The pressure to be operational is a good motivator. I hate to keep you boys waiting.