Defunctitude

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Thursday, January 26, 2012

Money for nothing and the chicks for free?

I have written a bit, and will write more, about my experiences in the land of paid sex.  In this post, though, I’m not going to write about my experiences, or about that land – I’m going to write about my relationship to the women, and to the money, that I used in my pursuit of pleasure.

First, a sort of reductive understanding of the basic psychic issue that I sought to resolve through my sexual acting-out:  my mom left me (really, she walked out, and took a backseat, but active, role in my upbringing) when I was young, and she died when I was an adolescent.

As an adult, I simultaneously desperately want to feel desired by women, and fear being authentically desired.  Feeling desired gives me that thing I most lacked, and most craved, in my childhood; but every instance of bona fide desire is a powerful rebuke to my mother, a statement that she didn’t love me – and that’s an indictment I fear.

So I came up with an ingenious plot:  I would get the desire I so craved, from women whom I paid.  But by paying them, I’d protect myself from the danger that they really, authentically desired me.

But I’m clever, see:  I managed to undermine both sides of this equation systematically, repeatedly.  I would have sex that I wasn’t paying for with women I was paying.  I would give women whom I wasn’t paying things of value.  Somehow, I was caught in a desperate, vicious cycle:  I had to have sex, and there had to be an exchange of value.  On the one hand, paying allowed me to have the sex I wanted, when I wanted it.  On the other, it prevented me from ever concluding that there existed bona fide desire for me.  But on the other other hand….

Here’s a quick tale:  I’m in a massage place, getting myself jerked off by a young, gorgeous Russian.  She’s characteristically impressed by my stamina.  (As I’ve said elsewhere, I have the unusual characteristic of being able to go forever, and to cum on a dime.  For a while, I had a nickname at one massage parlor – “The Count,” because the women there liked, at the end of my hour, to count down from twenty and see if I could cum on “one.”  I almost always managed it perfectly.)  But back to our story….

The young, gorgeous Russian – call her Svetlana – is rubbing my cock.  She’s nude.  My hand is on her ass, squeezing, rubbing.  I slide my hand under her, and into her.  With my hand in her cunt, I’m now in a grey area – this is a place that tolerates “extras,” but fingering a masseuse is kind of a freebie between the “included” services and that which is extra – it’s allowed entirely at the discretion of the masseuse.  So my hand slides into her, and she eases onto me, moaning.  It’s not the theatrical moaning I’ve said I loathe elsewhere – it sounds, it feels, authentic, as if I’m doing her right.

“Do you want ‘full service’?”

“No,” I say.  “Do I want to fuck you?  Yes.  Do I want to pay to fuck you?  No.”

Now maybe I was being a dick – this was, after all, her job, and I was asking for free merchandise.  But I was speaking honestly.  I only wanted to fuck her if she wanted to fuck me, and I certainly didn’t want to pay for the privilege.  Doing so would strip it of any pleasure for me.

She went on with the massage.

“Why don’t you lie down on the table,” I said to her.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

So we switched places.  She lay on her back.  I dripped oil on her firm, small breasts.  I traced light circles around her nipples.  I dribbled oil down her stomach, to the base of her pubis.  I rubbed the oil around, massaging her abdomen, pressing harder just above her cunt.  I tickled her clit lightly with one finger.  Once again, a finger entered her, first just for a moment, and then, more urgently, harder, deeper.

She rose up to meet my hand as I thrust and fucked with my finger harder, pushing down on her with my other hand.  Then, I pulled out.  I licked my way down her chest, sucking, biting her nipples, licking her sternum, licking her belly button, and down….

And then I was licking her cunt, slurping, lapping her up.  She tasted faintly of hand sanitizer – probably from my hand.  Her thighs closed around my head, and she convulsed.

“I want your cock,” she said.

“I’m not paying,” I said.

“I don’t care,” she said.  “I want your cock.”

And so she had it – first, in her mouth; then, in her cunt.

I’ll stop the fluffery here to say, look:  this is me, this is my relationship to women and money in full flower.  On the one hand, I’m seductive.  I set out to seduce a woman and slowly, gradually I did.  On the other hand, I picked a really odd target.  I didn’t go to a bar and find someone.  I didn’t go to a club, or a restaurant, or a park.  I went to a dark, dank apartment – a place men go to let a little piece of themselves die.  And I picked a woman whom I was paying – who couldn’t, who wouldn’t, leave the room – but who didn’t have to say “yes.”

AND, perhaps most important, who, once she gave in to my seductive wiles, didn’t allow me to feel the full pleasure and pride of seduction, for, after all, I was paying her, she wouldn’t be there with me but for the money.  There was no getting around that.

And this was my way:  I would seduce women I already was paying.  It’s a bizarre feature of my relationships with paid sexual companions that I got off on getting off for free, or rather, not for free, but for nothing extra.

There were only a few women that I actually fucked in all my peregrinations, and in every case, the fucking was something that happened well after the economic arrangement between us had been negotiated, well after it was clear that, in fact, fucking wasn’t part of our arrangement.  The women I saw repeatedly were the ones who allowed me to believe (was it true? I can never be sure) that, in addition to being paid by me, they genuinely enjoyed their time with me, genuinely enjoyed, even wanted, sex with me.  These were the ones who gave me the most of what I craved.

Am I unusual in this way, in the way that I used money not just to facilitate a certain type of interaction, not just to maintain the right to direct the action, but to maintain a certain distance between me and female desire?  I still don’t understand the hydraulics of my fear of such desire, and I see it receding in my current sex life, but it was so real, so potent, for so long….