If I’m going to reach for the stars, the star I’m reaching for may as well be the sun! (Yes, I DO know the sun is behind me in this photo, so I’m reaching the wrong way. That’s mostly how I operate.)
The first words ever uttered to me in session were, “Get undressed, bitch.”
I am a fantasy, I thought. This isn’t real. I’m not me. He can’t get to me. “Yes, master,” I replied calmly. He saw what he wanted to see: a pretty little girl doing his bidding. His kink was to be powerful. To be obeyed with no hesitation.
I existed as a mirage for years, a lucid fantasy concocted in the deep psyches of men. Half-real and half-dream, floating in and out of the consciousness of my clients. I’m probably still tucked away in some corner of their minds as a blurred image, a whisper, a tug. Well – not me, I mean. Her.
When I tell people I worked in a dungeon, half of them reply, “Oh – you mean that whips and chains stuff?” I don’t. I personally never used a whip; they take a remarkable amount of practice and skill to use without incurring unintentional injury. I have used chains in session, though mostly to hook handles to the ceiling so I could pick myself up and swing my heeled boots deep into someone’s testicles.
People are really surprised when I tell them that most of my sessions in the dungeon were more like therapy. If a serious masochist came in and wanted to be tortured, we weren’t a good fit – my heart was never in hurting people, and there are a million instruments and toys I just never learned how to use. I didn’t wear a lot of black leather or bark orders at anyone; there are a LOT of women who do this exquisitely, and I am not one of them.
Likewise, while I thoroughly enjoy pain, I can only handle so much. And I have no desire to be verbally humiliated – even if I’m being paid for it. There were clients who came to see me who pushed my limits in ways I explicitly told them I didn’t want them to, and I never saw them again. She never saw them again.
The clients who came to see her again and again were ships lost at sea who were looking for a safe harbor. They were mostly people stuck in marriages with spouses who either didn’t approve of their kinks or worse, didn’t care anymore. Even though the services I provided were ostensibly kinky in nature, they never felt like a media portrayal or performance of what mainstream culture thinks of when it thinks of kink.
I wore slinky dresses, kimonos, or lingerie, made a lot of eye contact, asked questions, spoke in a soothing voice, listened. I never feigned interest in a client who was sincere. What I did felt more like somatic therapy – a gentle caress, a loving beating, an acceptance and normalization of wants and needs. This is what I excel at: empathy.
Don’t get me wrong – there were beatings and bondage and worship (oh my!), role play and anal play (I also excel at finding a prostate), but the vast majority of my sessions were with people who were looking to connect with another human on an intimate level who wasn’t going to shame them. Many of them just wanted to be seen and heard and cared for earnestly.
Sex workers are therapists and care takers. We meet clients where they’re at and walk alongside them… or inside of them. It’s hard work. Emotional labor is labor, and I was shaken badly by a couple of sessions. But mostly, my clients brought joy and relief through surrender into my life. They also taught me everything I know and made me a better kinkster. I learned on the job from my clients, and that’s why I can now teach The Engineer how to use a cane properly. Their impact (see what I did there?) on my life reaches far beyond our sessions, and I hope my impact on them does as well.
P.S. For every hour session I did, I worked another hour of prep and clean up. Tip your sex workers, people. Sex work is work. Especially those of you who write out entire dialogues and insist on going back and forth via several emails going over every single detail of the session before going into it – that takes time and effort.
This one is for you, my nest.
I come home one day to find you out back in the garden; you’d come home from a long day at work, ready to relax, only to remember that you’ve got a ton of stuff to take to the tip, and it has to go in the morning – so you’d better load up the car tonight. By the time I get home, you’ve spent an hour carrying armfuls of heavy rubbish; you’re sweaty, dirty, and sore. I float in, cool as a breeze after having been in an air conditioned office all day, to see your back muscles flex as you pick up the last load. You turn around, look me in the eye, and drop it where you stand.
I chuckle. “Long day, lo-?” I start asking, but before the words are out of my mouth, your lips are pressed against it and you’re clutching me with soil-crusted fingernails, not giving a shit if you leave streaks on my pale peach blouse.
You are ravenous.
You charge, forcing me to the trellis against the back wall of our building – the one with the overflowing plum-colored bougainvillea – and crush the flowers with my back as my purse slides down my arm and slips to the ground. “Stay,” you order me, as you rummage for something among pots, tools, and patio furniture. You find a length of twine underneath a pair of gloves and swiftly tie my wrists together like a boatswain before attaching them to the trellis above my head.
You unbutton my blouse and shove the top of my undershirt under my tits, letting them spill out so you can apply vacuum pressure to my nipples; I’m so taken with surprise that it’s a few minutes before I realize that the neighbors could see this. All of them. The thought of it makes my cunt burn. I want to get on my knees in the earth and take you in my mouth, only I can’t.
As soon as I think it, your belt is unbuckled and your cock is out, popping up from behind the confines of your jeans. Watching you stroke yourself and not being able to touch you is torture and rapture. You reach under my skirt and move my knickers to the side so you can gather up my nectar with your fingers to use as lube to stroke yourself with. I watch you take the flowing juices from my body and use them as your own, wanting to tell you that it’s not fair – if you’re going to smear them on your dick, do it by sliding into me – but I don’t. Instead, I watch wide-eyed, heart thudding, as you continue to wank with fervor.
Suddenly you stop. You press your mouth to my ear and whisper, “Do you want my cock inside of you?” I choke back saliva, and before I can answer, you’re on your knees, yanking my knickers all the way down and my skirt all the way up. “Well done, love,” you say, taking a hooked finger and drawing silky webs away from my thighs. I whimper.
You draw up a chair, tell me to spread my legs as wide as I can, and continue wanking. Deep into your reverie, you stand up and leave me alone outside for a minute, exposed for all the world to see; you come back, work a large dildo into my cunt, and tell me to clamp my legs. You sit back down and watch me intently while stroking yourself until your pleasure forces you to close your eyes halfway; I try to clench the dildo hard enough to make myself come, but I’m not quite there. Perhaps you take pity on me seeing me strain – or perhaps you just want to fuck me. In any case, you stride over, take me down from the trellis, and lead me in by the twine, assuring me that the best is yet to come.
Many of you have probably, at some point, played this adolescent psychoanalysis game with your friends wherein you describe your favorite (animal / color / place / season / what have you) and it’s supposed to belie a deeper meaning about how you see yourself, how others see you, your worldview, etc. The last question in the version I learned asks participants to describe the ocean – and it’s meant to be interpreted as the way in which the participant views sex.
Wet (hardy har).
One of my favorite films opens on two lovers entwined in the ocean underneath a full moon; they writhe and twist as they kiss, splash, and grind against each other with the assistance of salt water to keep them buoyant. From the first time I saw this movie, it’s been a fantasy of mine to act this scene out – which mainly involves finding water that’s warm enough and isolated enough to fuck in.
While I don’t eroticize the sea itself, I have a lot of wonderful memories interweaving it with sex and romance. From making out in a secret water cave during a travel affair in the Philippines to sitting next to a bonfire on Ocean Beach and telling my girlfriend I loved her for the first time to running naked into the sea to wash the cum off of me while beach camping with the Texan, the ocean has always held a special place in my… heart.
I made plans with a partner once to have sex in the ocean while beach camping; we left our tent behind and walked to the shore to shed our clothes. I dove headfirst into the water so the shock of the cold would wear off; he was not so eager to freeze. He didn’t even get in up to his knees before backing out, saying maaaaybe we should fuck in the tent instead. To say I was disappointed would be a major understatement.
Until last summer, I had always loathed the beach; I refused to go with my friends despite living in a city full of beaches. It wasn’t until I experienced topless / nude beaches for the first time that I finally felt comfortable lying in the sun, sweat dripping down the sides of my breasts, listening to music and inhaling the delightfully coconutty scent of sunscreen. The first time I got in the sea to swim naked I remember feeling distinctly animated and fluid – and completely unsexualized. It seems a bit ironic to me that people are more sexualized on beaches that require clothing than beaches that don’t.
Someday I’ll advance my sex-in-the-ocean mission. The Engineer and I are planning a fun trip next year to a region with lots of tropical beaches, and I think he might be amenable to the idea of wrapping my legs around his hips and plunging himself into me while our soaked bodies smack tightly together, his long fingers entwined in my brine-tangled hair. Might be.
If you’re in England and have been suffering from the Great British Heat Wave / walking on crunchy brown grass for weeks, you know how desperate the country is for rain. It finally came while I was here… and stuck in a tent with the intention of going on a 15 km hike! No matter; we found other things to do.
It was nearing midnight; most dancers had already gone home, eager to catch the subway. I never stayed out this late, but I’d had great dances that night and was feeling a bit giddy. The music became sultrier, the lights dimmed, and sheer clothes stuck to our bodies in the humid tango studio.
“Wanna dance?” she asked casually, holding out her hand.
“Do you lead?” I asked. “I can’t.”
“Yeah,” she laughed. “And you can – you’ve just never tried.”
I put my fingers in hers and my hand on her sticky shoulder, and she pulled me into a close embrace. She smelled like Nag Champa; her wild, tangled hair tickled my face. I slid my hand farther up so my fingers grazed the back of her neck, and she leaned her cheek downward to meet my hand. Her spaghetti straps kept slipping down her shoulders; as we rolled our bodies together in time, I pulled them back up for her.
This was different. I closed my eyes and felt her soft curves press against me, her small hand steady in the middle of my back, gently pushing me into submission with tiny wrist and shoulder movements. I thought of my mouth on her nipples, her hands in my cunt. I wanted to lick the sweat from her skin, taste her salt. My sudden hunger for her gnawed at me as she bent her knees and swung my stockinged leg up her right thigh, sliding her hand up to finger the lace. Time slowed as she held my leg there and lowered my back toward the ground, her face so close to my breasts that I thought she could see my heart pounding. Pulling me back up, she put my other hand around her back and placed both of her hands on my hips, moving them in circles. We breathed heavily into the space between us, then pressed our bodies close together again. My cunt pulsed with the music, dripped, flamed.
When the song ended, we held position, hugged. The next song started: “She Moves Me” by Muddy Waters. I glanced over at the DJ; he was staring directly at us, all wolfish grin and starving eyes. I knew that look, could see the cogs and wheels of desire moving within him. I leaned into her ear, let my lips brush her lobe. “I think we’re meant to have another go,” I whispered. She smiled, pulled me back in, and swung her hips like no one was watching.
I’m on a public bus
in a hostel common room
in a café
when my phone rings; he’s video calling me. My heart rate increases, the beat staccato in my chest. I hastily slide my thumb up the screen, eager to see his massive hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it for my viewing pleasure. Sometimes I get wet at the thought of someone else catching a glimpse.
He puts a finger to his lips to demand silence before placing his phone against a wall and resuming his wank. He’s
at a friend’s house
in a locker room
in a department store changing room
and he’s achingly close. His long eyelashes flutter and his lips part. His body rumbles and quakes as semen charges, then oozes out of him. I ache to lick it off him.
I know this isn’t phone sex in the traditional sense, but technically we’re using our phones? Then how about this:
Two weeks ago, his mates were staying over at his for a night; they’d all gotten blasted, and he was walking home from the chippy when he gave me a ring. I started telling him all the things I couldn’t wait to do to him when I arrived in the UK. He kicked a friend out of his bed when he got home so he could have the room to himself. Lying in the dark, he whispered all the things I wanted to hear: He’d turn my cheeks to apples, pin my arms with his knees so he could stuff my mouth with his cock, continue licking me no matter how many times I urged him to stop so he could fuck me. It was a hot summer evening on my end; I, too, isolated myself in the cave of my room, hoping I was quiet enough when my body shuddered and I came all over my hands, the phone pressed tight between my shoulder and my ear, listening to his heavy breathing and whimpers.
We need this.
I’ve been with The Engineer for fifteen months – all of them long-distance. Phone sex, along with other lusty activities like sharing blog posts and sending dirty pictures, keeps us erotically charged and connected over the 4,000 miles that separate us. We keep our hearts linked as well – but as we’re both people whose hearts are tethered to our genitals, a transfer of sexual energy is a must.
When I hear his deep voice telling me that he’s touching himself, I often have to excuse myself so that I can do the same… or at least to whisper threats and promises.