She's not what you think of when you think of a professional weight lifter. She's maybe 5'4" tall, blonde, petite. Well, not perfectly petite: her hips are a bit wide, her thighs muscular, her ass meaty. Her breasts were delicious A-cups, tiny, pert, but she decided that for her career, they needed to be D-cups, and for several months now, they have been. Yet another way in which the tyranny of the lovers of the big breasts has harmed me.
Once or twice a week, I meet her at the gym. She dresses provocatively for me (well, she dresses provocatively when I'm not there, too, I'm sure. But she takes requests from me). I like to dress her in ways that show off her thighs, her ass, and the tiny little patches of light one can see between them. That's one of the best things about her body: when she wears yoga pants, her ass pops out, her thighs bulge, and then, just below her pussy, there's a tiny triangle of light where the legs don't touch.
She's never read this blog, but she knows of it. She wants me to write about her - it's her inner exhibitionist showing. I've told her that, while I know lots of intimate details of her life, I don't know anything that really would fit here: here, I told her, I write really about two things - things I think, and things I do. The boundary between the two isn't always perfectly clear, even to me. But those two categories capture pretty much everything.
"But what about that time I told you about, when I fucked that guy in a gym, after hours? In the pool? The hot-tub? The sauna?"
Nope.
1. Wasn't me.
2. Actually, what would make that interesting isn't the bare-bones outline of it, or even the gory details – whether provided by her or imagined by me – but the surroundings. What’s sexiest, as I’ve written elsewhere, is the context – the emotional context, the power context, the physical and relational context in which it took place.
AND - it's not really that interesting to me to write about sex someone else had.
What is it about sensory deprivation?
I imagine you with your senses limited to touch, taste, and smell – and cognition. You are blindfolded, hands tied, legs tied, earphones in your ears. All you know about what I’m doing to you is conveyed by and through your flesh.
You don’t know if the next touch will be a gentle caress of your neck, a violent pinch of a nipple, a kiss, a bite, a lick. You can call up your memory of past interactions to imagine what’s next, but I keep you on your toes, vary my routine.
You don’t know if candle wax will drip on your belly, or an icy drop of water will fall on your clit.
Whether the next hit will come from a hand, or a paddle, or a belt.
Whether the next bite will be soft or hard.
When my finger, or cock, or tongue, or toy will dive into your mouth, or your cunt.
Or how long it will stay.
You don’t know when I’ll start, when I’ll finish, whether I’ll cum, whether you’ll cum.
The phone rang.
“Get in my office!”
The secretary walked into the boss’s office.
“What happened to that presentation I left for you to copy?”
“Presentation? What presentation?”
“The presentation. I e-mailed it to you at 10 this morning.”
“You did?!? I … I must have missed it.”
The boss paused, opened the computer.
“Wait… it’s not here. I didn’t send it. SHIT!”
I have known monsters.
I have known, and loved, people who have committed egregious offenses against humanity, against any notion of decency.
I could tell you stories that would make your blood boil, your spine shudder.
Gentle dom seeks sub for playful relationship. No pain, humiliation. Just sensual good times.
She wrote back an hour after the ad was posted. She was, she said, 21, brunette, buxom. She sent an unimaginably hot picture. Exotic-looking, olive-skinned, long brunette hair, a tight dress, an unbelievably hot body.
I was sure she was a dude, just playing around: she sounded too good to be true, and there’s no such thing as that good on CL.
“Ok.” she wrote.
Fleshbot just published “Distant Rendezvous.” They previously had linked to “She Kneels Before Me.” I like it when Fleshbot links here. They run a great web site, and introduce lots of people to stuff they wouldn’t otherwise see. So if you got here by way of Fleshbot, welcome. This isn’t your average bear among sexblogs – it’s got its fair share of smut, but it’s also got some musings, some personal history, etc. Let me know what you like, what you don’t, what keeps you coming back. And read on….
Oh yeah – here’s the picture I would have put on top of the Fleshbot article:
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….
In this post, you’ll get a little tour of a few different such places – both types of places, and places themselves. To begin with, there are, of course, the famed “Asian Massage Parlors.” I am not an expert on these. I’ve been to exactly one in my life, and I went exactly one time. The whole time I was there, I had the distinct sense that my attendant had been separated from her passport, and wouldn’t be seeing it any time soon. For some guys, this is not an impediment to arousal; for me, it’s saltpeter.
As I recall that place (and I don’t recall it well), it felt sort of like a cross between a spa and a brothel – a nice locker room with an attendant, a selection of a few women among whom to choose, and then private massage rooms. Once in the room, I had a 55-minute long massage, after which the (bikini-clad) woman asked me a question that, in retrospect, I understood had been, “Would you like me to manipulate your penis in a thoroughly unsexual way until you ejaculate?” In the moment, I didn’t really understand what she had said (though I had a good guess), so I said, “Yes!” (Here, imagine Steve Martin replying t
Next up, on the ascending scale of happy endings, was a place that went by a variety of names, but currently, I believe, is Sensual Reiki. This wasn’t really a massage parlor: rather, it was a service. They maintain a roster of fifty or more women, some of whom (say, ten or more) are available at any given time, to meet at one of a couple of dingy studios or offices they rent for the purpose. The whole thing is gross-feeling: the photos of the women are misleading, the phone interactions unpleasant, the logistics difficult, the venues dirty, and the women themselves unhappy. I used this place’s services maybe two or three times, and each time, I was struck by how unpleasant the whole thing was. Each of the women I saw was distinctly unhappy with me for not wanting to pay more in exchange for… well, for more. And honestly, I never wanted more.
Our next stop is a place that only existed for a short while (to my knowledge) – the Soho Touch. In many ways, this was a lovely mix of the variety of Sensual Reiki and the more upscale feeling of the places yet to be described. The Soho Touch, at the time, had a large loft space in Soho, in New York. On entry, you would be seated at a full bar, where you could have a drink with the various women who weren’t “in session,” as well as with any other men around, either before or after their sessions. On the one hand, this resulted in a nice, relaxed feeling of camaraderie. On the other, the last thing I wanted was the pleasure of running into someone I knew in such a place, so that aspect always worried me a bit. The women who worked there typically were in their early to mid-20s, and were white immigrants, typically not from Russia or Eastern Europe, but rather, from the EU. These women were friendly and seemed, for the most part, to be relatively happy to be working there. Of course, in the land of sex work, everything is at least potentially an act – both among sex workers and patrons. But at a minimum, women here understood that part of the service they were offering was the sensation of enthusiasm. So customers would select from among the available women, finish their drink, and retreat to a private massage room. One of the things I loved about this place was that the “available women” were dressed in their street clothes at the bar. It wasn’t until you were in the private rooms that they disrobed. Massages would typically be close to professional quality massages, but would end with a handjob. I don’t believe that “extras” – blowjobs, mutual masturbation, or oral, vaginal, or anal intercourse – were available, as a rule, but I can’t be sure. In any event, they never were offered to me.
Then, we enter the realm of the primarily Russian and Eastern European workers. At any given time, there are a number of parlors – typically owned and operated by a woman in her 30s or 40s, who may or may not once have been a sex worker herself. These parlors have rapid turnover, and typically have 2-3 women working at a time. They’re open from sometime between 10 and noon until sometime between midnight and 2 a.m. You call and select from among the women described, or, if the place is accommodating, there’s availability, and you’re not a known scumbag, you’re provided the opportunity to choose when you arrive. The women are dressed in lingerie; the apartments range from spartan to vaguely luxurious, in an Ikea sort of way. Extras are sometimes an option, sometimes not, depending on the place, and the woman, and the guy. (I never got extras – not my thing. More on that in another post.) The cost at these places in my city is on the order of $180-220/hour.
From there, we move on to the realm of the parlors that employ primarily native-born Americans. Here, the rates range from $200-300/hour, the women are grad students, or actresses, and are, by and large, intelligent, thoughtful, interesting people who have a critique of what they’re doing that they’re eager and willing to discuss. In a different world, I might well have made a number of friends among this crowd, and there were two or three women over the years with whom I was somewhat friendly in a way that extended beyond simply the relationship on the table. These parlors typically are nicer apartments, decorated somewhat lavishly. The women typically range in age from mid-20s to mid-30s. They’re more mature, in an entirely good way (as far as I’m concerned). Extras typically are frowned on severely – grounds for firing – by management (again, typically, but not always, women in their 30s or 40s, and in at least two cases, by women who themselves continued to work shifts). The one of these I went to most often was called “Sacred Beauty.” A quick check just now tells me that their web site no longer functions. I wonder if they’ve been shut down.
For a few years, there was a place called “Pears” in Manhattan. This was just like the places described in the paragraph above, with a twist: they only offered “doubles” – massages by two women. Otherwise, the description in the last paragraph is accurate. Pears had two locations – one, in Stuyvesant Town; the other, in a sumptuous apartment in the East 60s. The apartment in the East 60s had a ginormous gong in it – a gong that was “liberated” by a disgruntled employee shortly before the place shut down. I had the sense the management was sliding at that point.
At all of these places, save the AMPs and, perhaps, Sensual Reiki, there obtains a simple economic arrangement: the working women typically pay the house something on the order of $70-100/hour, and keep the rest of whatever they collect. So a woman who’s popular, who does well, could make well over $1,000 in a day if she works hard and has good luck. On the other hand, she could be there for hours and not see a client. It’s all a bit hit-or-miss, and the risk is squarely on the worker’s shoulders.
At all these places, as well, there’s a simple routine: the man enters and selects (or is introduced to) his provider. She leaves the room, he disrobes, and pays – either leaving money on the table or in an envelope. A few moments later she returns, typically having removed a layer of clothing, but still in lingerie and stripper heels. A massage ensues, after about half of which, he is invited to turn over. Depending on the masseuse, this massage may be done in lingerie, topless, or fully nude. And gentle touching is generally permitted (and, by many, encouraged). “Gentle touching,” in case you’re not sure, usually means “no fingers in vaginas.”
Finally, there are independent practitioners – people who typically operate out of their own apartments or studios, and charge $300-500/hour. These people typically advertise on Eros, or elsewhere. Among this crowd, there’s substantial variety – in age, background, services provided. And of course, there’s a long, slippery road between here and conventional escorts. At one end of this road are “sacred muses,” sex surrogates, and the like – people who take seriously the art of sensual healing and companionship. And at the other are escorts, people who are a bit more transactional in their relationship to the services they provide.
In my time, I got to know all these places a little, some better than others. Another time, I’ll write a bit about the operations of some of these places, about some of the lessons I learned about my own sexuality over the course of more than a decade of patronizing these places, and about my feelings about them.
(And finally – there’s a woman who has worked in such a place, albeit in a less urban setting than mine – who writes an interesting blog detailing her experiences from the other side. I recommend it.)
… sex truly represents a second system of differentiation, completely independent of money; and as a system of differentiation, it functions just as mercilessly…. Just like unrestrained economic liberalism, and for similar reasons, sexual liberalism produces phenomena of absolute pauperization. Some men make love every day; others five or six times in their life, or never…. It’s what’s known as “the law of the market.”This is a typically abstruse, French way of making a fundamentally valid point (although eliding the interesting question/s of the differences in the operations in this “market” between the sexes, and sexualities).
I sit in the bar, waiting. It’s dark. The piano player is in his cups. My phone vibrates with your text: "I'm at the airport. Be there shortly."
I told you what to wear (a tiny black dress, heels, thigh-highs, black boyshorts, strapless bra, a choker and diamond earrings). I bought your plane ticket. And now, I am waiting.
The distance from the airport to the bar seems infinite to both of us. We send each other filthy texts. My cock makes moving from my seat inadvisable.
As your cab nears the bar, I text you: walk straight to the bathroom when you arrive. I want to see your ass.
Finally, finally, you walk in. And right past me, without even meeting my gaze. You walk to the bathroom. My neck cranes to follow your magnificent ass as it passes me.
An eon passes. You emerge, a smile lifting one corner of your mouth. You sit next to me, peck my cheek, and stick a balled hand into my pocket as the other reaches down and squeezes my hard cock. Hard.
The hand in my pocket opens, and emerges. I feel a ball remaining in my pocket and I know what it is. The thought of your dripping panties, smelling of your cunt, so close to my cock drives me mad.
I slide a hand under the table, up your thigh, into your cunt. You’re slick, and ready. You slide forward, onto my hand. Neither of us seems able to maintain particularly good posture.
The waiter arrives. We shimmy up in our seats. I’m sure he can smell my hand, that he can see your wetness on it, as I rest it on the table. “Check please,” I say.
My original plan had been to drink a few drinks, tease one another a bit, before retiring.
But fuck that.
We’re going now.
We walk the two long blocks, you just a few steps in front of me the whole way, so I can watch your ass sway. As we approach our destination, you drop your keys. You make an ornate show of bending down to retrieve them – a process which seems to take a minute or two – and then, into the building.
Into the elevator, where I press up against you and once again, my hand is deep in your cunt. We’re lucky we’re headed to a high floor. Your mouth tastes of whiskey – so does mine.
The door opens – my hand slides out of your cunt as you pull your dress down over your hips. Again, you walk in front of me, leading the way. In we go.
The moment the door is closed, I turn you around and throw you back on the bed. You squeal just a little in surprise. Well, not exactly surprise.
“Wait here,” I say.
The music switches on, Delta blues.
You can’t hear me.
Did I go to the bathroom? Am I getting undressed?
A song finishes. You’re getting impatient. You were ready; now, you’re just a little peeved.
The music stops. What the fuck?
Again, another smack, another sting, this one deeper, with more of an after-burn.
You wait for the next one but it doesn’t come. Instead, you feel my hand gently caressing the rising welts. My tongue runs along the ridge of a red line on your ass. It drags down your thigh, toward your cunt, but stopping far short.
And then another stinging smack.
“OW!” you say.
And as you say it, my hand plunges once more into your cunt, deep, hard. You press against my hand, craving the pressure against you, in you.
I pull my hand out, and am gone again. It’s still, silent.
You think you sense me moving near your face, when you feel your head yanked back by your hair, turned to the side. You feel my cock hard against your lips as you breathe hard, straining just a little for oxygen. You open your mouth to take me in, and I fuck your face – hard, pulling you against me, my cock deep into your mouth, by your hair.
You can’t breathe, you gasp. You force your head back to let you get some air but I’m pushing forward into you. Your neck aches – this isn’t a good angle. Your lower back hurts – you’re arching up. You want to ask me to stop, but your mouth is too full of cock.
And then, as suddenly as it started, it stops.
My cock slides out of your mouth; my hand drops your head on the bed.
Silence.
A minute passes. Another one. The music starts again, just where it left off.
What’s next, you wonder?
After a hiccup (or hiccough, as I prefer to spell it), it seems L and I will shortly be back to our usual tricks.
Last night, I drank with her husband, and, suffice it to say, we're all good.
So now, I need to conjure a particularly entertaining adventure for us.
Suggestions welcome.
I'm at the bar. You should sit in the corner, on the bench, visible to me.....
We will be here for one drink....
We don't know one another. Yet.
Move your bag so I can see your legs. And you might need to walk to the bar to get a drink.
Start to play with yourself, spreading your legs toward me just a little.
I am so going to fuck you.
"I want a leash around my neck."
No talking (requests or commands are communicated urgently, petulantly, with her hands)
No breathing (as she gets closer, she stops breathing for longer, and scarier, periods of time)
And for God's sake, no penetration. Once the threshold of her cunt's lips has been crossed, by finger, cock or toy, she won't cum. It's as simple as that.
"I want you to yank me to you."
Where we draw our lines is so highly variable, and so vitally communicative about who, and how, we are. Lines that feel vitally important to me feel eminently transparent to others; lines that feel irrelevant, insignificant to me feel desperately important to others. And I find empathy – an emotion at which I generally excel – somewhat elusive around this issue.
I write intimate details about my sexuality, and my sex life. I write things some people would rather die than speak aloud. For me, the very writing of them makes me feel truly alive. And yet there is much I keep private: I do not write about my wife, our relationship, or our sex, except incidentally when discussing my or our sex with others. And while I write endlessly about certain acts, certain partners, there are others you will never read about.
Why does it feel affirming to me to share my experiences and thoughts with you, and terrifying or nauseating or simply unappealing to others?
I don’t really have answers to these questions, but I’m intrigued by them. Where do you draw your lines? How? Why?
Intelligence. Confidence. Complete submission. Wit. Laughter. Irony. Shortness. Vocabulary. Grammar. Diction. Yielding. Clothing. Availability. Enthusiasm. Creativity. Desire. Playfulness. Blondeness. Red-headedness. Brunette-ness. Grey hair. No hair. Hair. Curls. Revelry. Jeans. T-shirts. Lingerie. Flesh pressing against fabric, fabric against flesh. Yoga pants. Discrete/discreet. Self-pleasure. Self-control. Black and white. Color. Approaching. Receding. Anticipating. Planning. Experiencing. Remembering.I’m not your usual bear, for sure.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme.
I'm sad. I've lost something I really value, with someone I really care about. Is it made harder or easier by the fact that it's involuntary, that neither of us wants it to stop?
I'm not sure. Her husband needs it to stop, that's clear, and so it has, and will.
But now I've lost something I honestly never had before - a relationship with a fun, smart woman who was thrilled by my deviancy. A relationship that was weightless and yet fulfilling. Always in the past, weightlessness has been accompanied by, or a characteristic of, inconsequentiality. Not this time.
"Now you'll just replace me," she said sadly. But that's not how (my) life works. Perhaps there will be a next partner in crime for me. Perhaps she'll be awesome, we'll have something awesome.
But it will be different, not a replacement.
When break-ups are initiated by, demanded by, one of the parties to the relationship, they have a finality, a clarity, even a discernible meaning.
When they come from without? Not so much.
A loss....
She wears a short cotton dress, no bra. The taste of my cum surely is fresh in her mouth. Her nipples poke out against the fabric. The hotel is filled with wankers in khakis and golf shirts. Though they leave her alone conversationally, she draws their eyes. She doesn’t know where I am.
I had texted her: “Be at the bar in fifteen minutes. Wear a sundress. I’ll direct you further once you’re there.”
The Historian e-mailed me what she called “marginalia” – her contemporaneous journal entries from the weekend in question (almost two years ago now). I recall everything she writes vividly, but still, it’s jarring to read it in her words – both because her perspective at the time was not mine (her frustration at my complete control of my orgasm, for example, is palpable in her writing) and because as time proceeds, my memories shift.
Her writing reminds me that we didn’t go straight to the hotel after I picked her up, for example: we went to some ridiculous South Beach dancing/drinking scene. We watched the beautiful people, and they turned us on.
Then we went back to the hotel and ripped each others’ clothes off. I learn from reading her account that I kissed and bit her nipples, that I touched her clit and fingered her cunt, that I went down on her, that I didn’t stop after she came.
Writing about, reading about, fucking I did almost two years ago, I’m reminded of how passive I was when fucking, how far I’ve traveled since then. (The Historian has just sent me her contemporaneous notes from the time referenced in this post.)
This is New York's preeminent hourly hotel. Their business is hourly, not daily. Their web site proclaims that they are "your rendezvous for romance." There's no pretense it's otherwise, no shame or secrecy in what they are. Their rates are posted, their rules are posted. They provide a specific service and they do it well. The rooms are steam-cleaned between guests. There are only two sounds inside the hotel: the sound of fucking and the sound of cleaning.
"Whoever told you life is fair?" My grandmother used to say this to me. She was right.
One of the joys and sorrows of "swinging," or polyamory, or whatever you want to call this dissolute life I lead, is that things are rarely perfectly equal. Some days, my wife's getting more of what she craves than I am. Some days, it's the other way around. Sometimes, asymmetry in one or the other direction will persist for weeks, or even months, at a time. Sometimes, there will be abrupt turnabouts, followed by abrupt turnabouts.
OKCupid asks users questions - it's how their algorithms work. The more questions you ask, the better they can match you with people who answer questions like you do. (Never mind the question about whether people who think identically to me are people I want to meet, let alone fuck.) Some of the questions are dumb - "Which is bigger - the sun or the moon?" Some are political - "Which is worse - book-burning or flag-burning?" Some are sexual - "How would you react if a partner wanted to kiss you after performing oral sex?" Some are mathematical, some are philosophical. One - one I particularly like - is: "Which would you prefer happen to you, good things or interesting things?"
I would prefer interesting things, hands down. And this is the point. The other day, I noticed I was feeling bad for myself, all morose because I may lose my fucktoy. And I started contemplating all the non-productive, or worse - counterproductive things I could do to compensate myself for this loss. And then I remembered: this is the sort of thing that happens in (my) life. And it's truly not the end of the world. It's just how it is.
Same with symmetry: for a while, it bummed me out that my wife was getting everything she wanted, and my insatiable desire still wasn't fully quenched. And then, I stopped being so bummed out - not because of any wisdom or maturity, but because we switched places. The last couple of weeks, we've been all over the place. I could complain - or gloat - but mostly, I'm just enjoying the ride.
