I had a great day in The City yesterday. As a whole, I had a wonderful time shambling around both fore and aft an important meeting I had scheduled midday. Since the client I was meeting with is a total fashionista, I had to dress the part. My efforts paid off, and I have a solid event lined up for March. Oh, the joys of working freelance!
Meeting or not, I wasn't about to kill my knees and joints by hobbling around downtown Toronto on four-inch stilettos all day, nor was I about to sacrifice my dignity by wearing godawful, hideous trainers whilst commuting around on mass transpo. In fact, aside from my beloved black, hi-top Chucks, I don't even own any sneakers. (I hate it when I look over a business woman and she's pretty and respectable from the ankles up. A designer suit and silky hose do not go with sweat socks and Nikes. Ever.) Instead, I paired some super cute flats with my sassy ensemble and lovingly toted my favourite heels in a reeeeally big purse I have just for such occasions.
The red stilettos were a major hit, and, for some reason, this woman was more impressed with my Dolce & Gabbana shoes than my résumé and the glowing referral she got from another client of mine from the fashion crowd. I've always found it funny that people would rather pay people who don't look like they need the money.
It was especially true in the Industry. As an escort, the more luxe your hotel, the more polished and groomed the girl, and the more expensive your clothes and shoes, the bigger your tip, the better your review, and the longer your appointments will be. There were many times that gentlemen brought me wine, jewellery, and/or chocolates, and we whittled away our hour sipping Champagne and talking. I satisfied many a gentleman with my oral skills -- oral communication, that is. (Having an advanced degree is extraordinarily helpful in an industry where many of your peers never made it past Grade Nine.)
Even in my perma-tipsy state, I took great care with my poise, language, and grammar. I almost never wore lingerie like the other girls; I preferred elegant cocktail frocks, especially the perennial hit: the Little Black Dress. I tried to never let on that between each appointment was a frantic scramble to shower, touch up the makeup and hair, gargle with mouthwash, dispose of the used condoms and wrappers, toss his used towel in the closet and get out a new one for the next guy, straighten up the bedding to look completely untouched, slug back more booze, hide away the money, light fresh candles (if necessary), get dressed, and look completely at ease by the next knock on the door.
On occasion, there were also 'accidents' to remedy. Since there's no time to wash your hair, dress, or get a new duvet, semen is just easier to quickly hit with a hairdryer and squirt with Febreeze. Yes, that includes the hair (it brushes out). I always Febreezed the bed between each guy, anyway -- that 'Fresh Linen' scent is a working girl's saviour.
All this behind-the-scenes stuff took place in under thirty minutes, so that by the time the next gentleman was on his way up, I was back to looking like a million bucks. And, at the end of our hour together -- regardless of what transpired -- I often found an extra fifty or hundred on my nightstand. I thought it was fairly normal until I spoke to one of the other girls. I didn't usually fraternize with other women from the Industry (actual friends notwithstanding), but I was bored. She invited me out for drinks after work. Over the phone, she asked that I fetch her from her room after my last appointment, and when I got there, I was stunned.
She was at least ten years my senior, but that factor can be completely irrelevant in a well-preserved, sophisticated courtesan. And with proper lighting. However, she was dressed like a slutty teenager from the 1980's and all the fluorescent lights blazed forth. Strewn about on the bed were masses of cheap, tawdry, novelty lingerie -- like the scratchy kind from porn stores -- and her room reeked of cigarettes mixed with old room service. The beds were both unmade and there were no candles or music for ambiance.
Basically, it was the polar opposite of my room, attitude, dress, and manner of comportment.
I later found out that our starting rates were $100 apart, and that she sometimes 'made up the difference' by allowing the guys to have anal sex with her or by doing what's known as BBFS. It stands for 'Bare-Back Full Service,' and refers to intercourse without a condom. Or, in my translation, Russian Roulette Suicide.
I went out with her that night, but never again. And it also reinforced that it really does take money to make money. All night I wanted to politely suggest to her that she might want to invest in her looks a bit, perhaps work to keep the room fresh and sensual, but I never did. It seemed cruel and would've probably fallen on deaf ears, anyway. Instead, I called it an early night and went back up to my room.
It was a night of platitudes -- not only do you have to spend money to make money, but it's also better to be alone than badly accompanied.
And with that, I think I'll sign off. I have something that has been torturing me mentally, but I'll keep it to myself for now. I won't go scrawling about it anywhere just yet -- not here, not to the man himself -- until I give it some more thought.
Think before you speak, look before you leap, and all that jazz...
Friday, January 28, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Nocturnal Conditions
I had a rather unusual experience last night. I'm not sure how to process it.
I date, but it has been awhile since I've been in a real relationship. I have a girl I 'date,' but we're far from monogamous, and neither of us are really ready to take that plunge. Maybe someday, though. I know I wouldn't exactly rule it out.
But, I guess that's not the point. Currently, I live with a roommate, which is normally not that odd, except that mine is one of my ex's. Let's call him Seamus. There was a time when we weren't even on speaking terms, but we ran into each other one day, and realized that we had good initial instincts, but lousy direction. We make good friends (normally), and we can (usually) co-habitate without killing each other, but going that extra step was not a good idea. We need separate rooms, beds, and lives -- just like me and all my other friends.
Last night, I had a particularly bad time. Everything was hurting...I laid in bed and tried to not think about it. It was just too much; I started crying. And once I started, I couldn't stop. I thought I was quiet, but Seamus crept in and asked if I was all right. I told him that I was fine, just in pain, and he left without a word. I figured I was being left alone to suffer in silence and solitude.
A few minutes later he came back with a cup of my favourite tea and my medication.
I took my meds and drank my tea while he perched on the edge of my bed in his boxers, half asleep and yawning, with his hair sticking up everywhere. Afterward, I thanked him and excavated a spot on my nightstand for my empty mug amongst the discarded barrettes, accessories, books, and other sundries typically laid aside before bed. I snuggled back down under the blankets and expected him to leave. Instead, he quietly climbed under with me. And, despite the fact that I was completely naked, and despite the fact that we have a history, he just held me.
Not even an errant hand on a boob.
There's a gross social misperception about sex and intimacy. The two are by no means necessarily concurrent. I've certainly had loads of sex with no intimacy, and I've experienced intimacy with no sex whatsoever. Sometimes, though, the two do twine together, and that's when it's great. And yeah, special. But that wasn't what I needed last night, and thankfully, he got that. In fact, that was one of the (many) reasons we didn't work; we were always much better at non-sexual intimacy. And that makes a good friend.
Before I started Working, I had an inkling that my personal sexual life and dating scope would forever be changed, but I had no idea to what degree. It's staggering to remember how differently I used to view matters of the heart, especially when it comes to biological men (as opposed to transmen...FTMs...look it up). I'm essentially a completely different girl now. Not that it's necessarily a bad thing -- the New Girl is a lot more savvy, a lot less trusting, way more adventurous in bed, and sure as hell knows what to look for a guy's computer.
And, no, in case you're wondering, work was not why Seamus and I split, even though I worked through all of our relationship. He was very supportive, actually. I'm sure I'll delve more into the details at a later date, but for now, I think I just want some soup.
I'm not sure which is more painful right now... the flare-ups, or the sudden reflections that I'll never get that other girl back.
I date, but it has been awhile since I've been in a real relationship. I have a girl I 'date,' but we're far from monogamous, and neither of us are really ready to take that plunge. Maybe someday, though. I know I wouldn't exactly rule it out.
But, I guess that's not the point. Currently, I live with a roommate, which is normally not that odd, except that mine is one of my ex's. Let's call him Seamus. There was a time when we weren't even on speaking terms, but we ran into each other one day, and realized that we had good initial instincts, but lousy direction. We make good friends (normally), and we can (usually) co-habitate without killing each other, but going that extra step was not a good idea. We need separate rooms, beds, and lives -- just like me and all my other friends.
Last night, I had a particularly bad time. Everything was hurting...I laid in bed and tried to not think about it. It was just too much; I started crying. And once I started, I couldn't stop. I thought I was quiet, but Seamus crept in and asked if I was all right. I told him that I was fine, just in pain, and he left without a word. I figured I was being left alone to suffer in silence and solitude.
A few minutes later he came back with a cup of my favourite tea and my medication.
I took my meds and drank my tea while he perched on the edge of my bed in his boxers, half asleep and yawning, with his hair sticking up everywhere. Afterward, I thanked him and excavated a spot on my nightstand for my empty mug amongst the discarded barrettes, accessories, books, and other sundries typically laid aside before bed. I snuggled back down under the blankets and expected him to leave. Instead, he quietly climbed under with me. And, despite the fact that I was completely naked, and despite the fact that we have a history, he just held me.
Not even an errant hand on a boob.
There's a gross social misperception about sex and intimacy. The two are by no means necessarily concurrent. I've certainly had loads of sex with no intimacy, and I've experienced intimacy with no sex whatsoever. Sometimes, though, the two do twine together, and that's when it's great. And yeah, special. But that wasn't what I needed last night, and thankfully, he got that. In fact, that was one of the (many) reasons we didn't work; we were always much better at non-sexual intimacy. And that makes a good friend.
Before I started Working, I had an inkling that my personal sexual life and dating scope would forever be changed, but I had no idea to what degree. It's staggering to remember how differently I used to view matters of the heart, especially when it comes to biological men (as opposed to transmen...FTMs...look it up). I'm essentially a completely different girl now. Not that it's necessarily a bad thing -- the New Girl is a lot more savvy, a lot less trusting, way more adventurous in bed, and sure as hell knows what to look for a guy's computer.
And, no, in case you're wondering, work was not why Seamus and I split, even though I worked through all of our relationship. He was very supportive, actually. I'm sure I'll delve more into the details at a later date, but for now, I think I just want some soup.
I'm not sure which is more painful right now... the flare-ups, or the sudden reflections that I'll never get that other girl back.
Monday, January 17, 2011
A Cowgirl No Longer
Girls leave The Industry for a myriad of reasons...some get too old, some get too prudish, others get married. Me? I got too sore.
I used to love playing sports and staying active. Hockey, curling, yoga, hiking...I grew up genuinely enjoying feeling my body move, stretch, and flex. Then I bashed up a knee. Then the other. Then I started hurting more and more...then I went under the knife a few times.
I used to dread when guys asked me to, 'get on top.' In Hobbyist Speak, it's called Cowgirl, or sometimes shortened to CG in reviews (oh, yes, the guys review girls on lurid online forums), but in Diana Land, it was just pure hell. Try writhing around, bouncing up and down on Swiss cheese kneecaps, while simultaneously trying to smile, moan, and remember the name of the guy underneath you, and while in excruciating pain.
I remember all too clearly being in the throes of an appointment, happily zoned out in missionary, faking orgasms at crucial times, and suddenly, Mr. Two-Thirty (as in, when his scheduled appoint began) says, "Mmmm, Diana...get on top, baby."
Ooh, yay. Now I get to be in pain AND pretend like I like you. Thanks! *sigh*
(Now you understand the vodka.)
So, I've been getting worse for some time, and was recently diagnosed with fibromyalgia, of all things. I have several other conditions that have been identified over the years, but fibro makes a lot of sense. Unfortunately.
For some time, I considered returning to Work. In all honesty, there are times I miss many of the aspects, as I've said before. And, to be be even more frank, I've contemplated it for financial reasons just about every blessed second... but it simply can't happen now. There is no plausible way I can handle eight to ten guys a day anymore. Emotionally, I've healed sufficiently to return in earnest, but my body will never be able to withstand the pummeling. Literally.
And, I suppose that's why I decided to start this blog. I can talk about it now because it's in the past. All part of my 'femme fatale' history that will always elicit a twinkle from my eyes and a stifled giggle whenever I hear women heatedly speculating about the topic at cocktail parties.
"...in the past..."
That's a hopeful phrase. I suppose it will never truly be in my 'past,' because it definitely left its mark on me. Not necessarily bad, mind you, more like unusual. To liken it to a tattoo, it is far from the Scarlet A that society would like to have the masses believe. Nor does it bear any resemblance to a trashy Tweety Bird on the butt, nor the ubiquitous Rose-on-the-Boob that peppers trailer parks across every province and state (and usually found in conjunction with mullets and Daisy Dukes).
No, I'm pleased that I thought through my tattoo, considered it from every angle, and even debated how I may feel about it when I'm eighty. In my opinion, I chose a quality artist, selected attractive colours, and in the end, it's something unusual, intriguing, mysterious, and perhaps a bit sexy.
However, like a tattoo, it's also not something I show to everyone. And it's definitely not 'office appropriate.' (Let's just say I won't be adding to to my CV.)
I used to love playing sports and staying active. Hockey, curling, yoga, hiking...I grew up genuinely enjoying feeling my body move, stretch, and flex. Then I bashed up a knee. Then the other. Then I started hurting more and more...then I went under the knife a few times.
I used to dread when guys asked me to, 'get on top.' In Hobbyist Speak, it's called Cowgirl, or sometimes shortened to CG in reviews (oh, yes, the guys review girls on lurid online forums), but in Diana Land, it was just pure hell. Try writhing around, bouncing up and down on Swiss cheese kneecaps, while simultaneously trying to smile, moan, and remember the name of the guy underneath you, and while in excruciating pain.
I remember all too clearly being in the throes of an appointment, happily zoned out in missionary, faking orgasms at crucial times, and suddenly, Mr. Two-Thirty (as in, when his scheduled appoint began) says, "Mmmm, Diana...get on top, baby."
Ooh, yay. Now I get to be in pain AND pretend like I like you. Thanks! *sigh*
(Now you understand the vodka.)
So, I've been getting worse for some time, and was recently diagnosed with fibromyalgia, of all things. I have several other conditions that have been identified over the years, but fibro makes a lot of sense. Unfortunately.
For some time, I considered returning to Work. In all honesty, there are times I miss many of the aspects, as I've said before. And, to be be even more frank, I've contemplated it for financial reasons just about every blessed second... but it simply can't happen now. There is no plausible way I can handle eight to ten guys a day anymore. Emotionally, I've healed sufficiently to return in earnest, but my body will never be able to withstand the pummeling. Literally.
And, I suppose that's why I decided to start this blog. I can talk about it now because it's in the past. All part of my 'femme fatale' history that will always elicit a twinkle from my eyes and a stifled giggle whenever I hear women heatedly speculating about the topic at cocktail parties.
"...in the past..."
That's a hopeful phrase. I suppose it will never truly be in my 'past,' because it definitely left its mark on me. Not necessarily bad, mind you, more like unusual. To liken it to a tattoo, it is far from the Scarlet A that society would like to have the masses believe. Nor does it bear any resemblance to a trashy Tweety Bird on the butt, nor the ubiquitous Rose-on-the-Boob that peppers trailer parks across every province and state (and usually found in conjunction with mullets and Daisy Dukes).
No, I'm pleased that I thought through my tattoo, considered it from every angle, and even debated how I may feel about it when I'm eighty. In my opinion, I chose a quality artist, selected attractive colours, and in the end, it's something unusual, intriguing, mysterious, and perhaps a bit sexy.
However, like a tattoo, it's also not something I show to everyone. And it's definitely not 'office appropriate.' (Let's just say I won't be adding to to my CV.)
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Tripping Down Memory Lane
I guess I should begin with explaining WHY I have chosen to pen this blog. It's not every day that a former escort decides to bare her soul and talk about her experiences. There's a huge stigma against girls like me -- even after the fact -- so I realize that not everyone will want to read this. Mind you, I'm retired, so if you're expecting some torrid play-by-play, I apologize in advance, but you're about to be very sorely let down. And bored.
Working for five years changed me. A lot. More than I think I noticed at the time. But, no, in case you're wondering, I wouldn't change a thing if I could. In fact, I'd go back in a heartbeat if I really felt like it (or needed to), so that should tell you something. To be even more honest, there are a lot of days when I wake up and genuinely miss it. Miss the excitement, miss the glamour, miss the power, and yes, miss the money.
When you're pulling in several grand a day, it's kind of hard to go back to an office job.
I was in the shower earlier this evening when it hit me. I was shaving (yes, down there) and suddenly remembered the flurry of activity I used to go through when I was working. My morning routine vacillated between comical, depressing, exciting, and jaded.
7:30 AM: Wake up in the "clean bed." Stare at ceiling grumpy while hating life.
7:45 AM Extract self from bed; begin making up "clean bed" to look like "jizz bed." This is an art form, really, and it took me about a year to learn the subtle little tricks. Like, when you get into your new hotel room, take off the extra pillows from the Jizz Bed. Hide them in the closet for later. Pull the duvet and sheets up over pillows and tuck in pillow on both sides. Make it look nice and tight, with delineated pillows under duvet. Or, if it won't reach, pull up sheet and duvet under pillows and tuck in tightly. The main idea here is to make the bed look neat and uninviting enough to discourage guys from trying to pull the sheets back. More on that later.
7:55 AM Start shower to let it heat up.
8:00 AM Prepare breakfast. And by 'breakfast,' I mean a meal replacement bar and a cocktail. Yes, I said, 'Cocktail.' Generally speaking, I always kept a bottle of vodka and a case of energy drinks in my mini fridge. More on that later, also.
8:04 AM After choking down first cocktail and chalky protein bar, it's shower time! By now, the whole room is damp and warm from wasting water. For some reason, this feels vindicating.
8:20 AM Clean, preened, and scrubbed to a sheen. Brush teeth. Time for hair and makeup!
8:50 AM Mentally review all the things escorts should not wear: perfume, lipstick, face powder, etc. Deliberately spritz self with body spray, douse pussy with a healthy coating of 'feminine deodorant spray,' and apply lip stain. Repowder face.
9:00 AM Mentally note that there is one hour of freedom left. Make sure the clock is set ahead at least five minutes (so they'll leave early!), put on a stretchy dress (easily removed!), go out to get ice (dorm the door for a quick reentry!), and begin free-pouring cocktails. Now is not the time to be temperate... now is the time to drink.
9:30 AM Go around the room and put out fresh little tealights. Candles are flattering and set the mood, and have the added benefit of creating a 'bubble' in which to work. It makes it easier to forget later, and emotionally distance oneself from the workday.
9:30 AM (Also) Get call from madam that I have a ten o'clock appointment. Joy.
9:35 AM Lower temperature in the room. A cooler room means less sweating and perkier tits. Also, it makes the guys want to get dressed faster 'after.'
9:40 AM Nerves and adrenaline are pumping and twitching. Why am I not sufficiently drunk yet?! Begin doing straight shots of vodka. Ponder state of liver, then ignore it. Call a friend 'in-the-know' to gripe. Bitch and moan about being too sober while lighting candles, closing blackout curtains, and cuing up seductive background music.
9:50 AM Get off phone to concentrate on drinking. Begin pacing agitatedly. Pace to washroom and pour out a measure of Listerine and gargle thoroughly.
9:55 AM Begin chewing Altoids while continuously drinking. Must smell minty fresh, and not like I've been sucking down booze since eight AM.
10:01 AM (but says 10:06 on bedside clock) Madam calls to let me know my guy is downstairs. Eat a few final Altoids, plaster on huge fake grin, and mentally 'get into character.'
10:03 AM (10:08 in 'hooker time') There's a knock on the door. The curtain comes up, and the day begins!
My mornings now are so much easier. They also don't involve vodka, which is a very, very good thing. Instead, I make coffee, have scrambled eggs, and pad around in my fluffy, pink robe and slippers while waiting for my roommate to be done in the shower. I leave my bed rumpled, listen to the weather on TV, and turn up the thermostat when it gets chilly.
I do, however, still shave (everything) each morning, still agonize over my appearance, and still use powder scented pussy spray. I had never even considered it before I started working, but now I can't imagine not using it. In fact, while my shower started the trip down Memory Lane, it was after that I really became motivated to write this all down. I was spritzing myself liberally with 'pussy spray,' and the scent caused another little memory bubble to float up and burst in my brain.
And it made me smile.
But now, I'm going to go out with my friends and seek some nocturnal amusement. Undoubtedly, at least a few men will hit on me, and some of them may even buy me drinks. (I'm not being arrogant, just guessing from the ongoing, obvious pattern.) I already know I won't go home with any of them (I'm actually quite picky and reserved in my personal life), but I'll let them pay for a drink, chat me up, and maybe I'll even like one of them.
Those drinks are just a public version of what I used to do behind hotel doors. Women don't even realize it, but guys all seem to think that our 'time and companionship' is worth the money, and I happen to agree. Especially the complete strangers. I'll admit that it feels completely different with guys I know and like... then, it's actually quite intimate. I have no idea why, but maybe I'll figure it out...
... and maybe this blog will help.
Working for five years changed me. A lot. More than I think I noticed at the time. But, no, in case you're wondering, I wouldn't change a thing if I could. In fact, I'd go back in a heartbeat if I really felt like it (or needed to), so that should tell you something. To be even more honest, there are a lot of days when I wake up and genuinely miss it. Miss the excitement, miss the glamour, miss the power, and yes, miss the money.
When you're pulling in several grand a day, it's kind of hard to go back to an office job.
I was in the shower earlier this evening when it hit me. I was shaving (yes, down there) and suddenly remembered the flurry of activity I used to go through when I was working. My morning routine vacillated between comical, depressing, exciting, and jaded.
7:30 AM: Wake up in the "clean bed." Stare at ceiling grumpy while hating life.
7:45 AM Extract self from bed; begin making up "clean bed" to look like "jizz bed." This is an art form, really, and it took me about a year to learn the subtle little tricks. Like, when you get into your new hotel room, take off the extra pillows from the Jizz Bed. Hide them in the closet for later. Pull the duvet and sheets up over pillows and tuck in pillow on both sides. Make it look nice and tight, with delineated pillows under duvet. Or, if it won't reach, pull up sheet and duvet under pillows and tuck in tightly. The main idea here is to make the bed look neat and uninviting enough to discourage guys from trying to pull the sheets back. More on that later.
7:55 AM Start shower to let it heat up.
8:00 AM Prepare breakfast. And by 'breakfast,' I mean a meal replacement bar and a cocktail. Yes, I said, 'Cocktail.' Generally speaking, I always kept a bottle of vodka and a case of energy drinks in my mini fridge. More on that later, also.
8:04 AM After choking down first cocktail and chalky protein bar, it's shower time! By now, the whole room is damp and warm from wasting water. For some reason, this feels vindicating.
8:20 AM Clean, preened, and scrubbed to a sheen. Brush teeth. Time for hair and makeup!
8:50 AM Mentally review all the things escorts should not wear: perfume, lipstick, face powder, etc. Deliberately spritz self with body spray, douse pussy with a healthy coating of 'feminine deodorant spray,' and apply lip stain. Repowder face.
9:00 AM Mentally note that there is one hour of freedom left. Make sure the clock is set ahead at least five minutes (so they'll leave early!), put on a stretchy dress (easily removed!), go out to get ice (dorm the door for a quick reentry!), and begin free-pouring cocktails. Now is not the time to be temperate... now is the time to drink.
9:30 AM Go around the room and put out fresh little tealights. Candles are flattering and set the mood, and have the added benefit of creating a 'bubble' in which to work. It makes it easier to forget later, and emotionally distance oneself from the workday.
9:30 AM (Also) Get call from madam that I have a ten o'clock appointment. Joy.
9:35 AM Lower temperature in the room. A cooler room means less sweating and perkier tits. Also, it makes the guys want to get dressed faster 'after.'
9:40 AM Nerves and adrenaline are pumping and twitching. Why am I not sufficiently drunk yet?! Begin doing straight shots of vodka. Ponder state of liver, then ignore it. Call a friend 'in-the-know' to gripe. Bitch and moan about being too sober while lighting candles, closing blackout curtains, and cuing up seductive background music.
9:50 AM Get off phone to concentrate on drinking. Begin pacing agitatedly. Pace to washroom and pour out a measure of Listerine and gargle thoroughly.
9:55 AM Begin chewing Altoids while continuously drinking. Must smell minty fresh, and not like I've been sucking down booze since eight AM.
10:01 AM (but says 10:06 on bedside clock) Madam calls to let me know my guy is downstairs. Eat a few final Altoids, plaster on huge fake grin, and mentally 'get into character.'
10:03 AM (10:08 in 'hooker time') There's a knock on the door. The curtain comes up, and the day begins!
My mornings now are so much easier. They also don't involve vodka, which is a very, very good thing. Instead, I make coffee, have scrambled eggs, and pad around in my fluffy, pink robe and slippers while waiting for my roommate to be done in the shower. I leave my bed rumpled, listen to the weather on TV, and turn up the thermostat when it gets chilly.
I do, however, still shave (everything) each morning, still agonize over my appearance, and still use powder scented pussy spray. I had never even considered it before I started working, but now I can't imagine not using it. In fact, while my shower started the trip down Memory Lane, it was after that I really became motivated to write this all down. I was spritzing myself liberally with 'pussy spray,' and the scent caused another little memory bubble to float up and burst in my brain.
And it made me smile.
But now, I'm going to go out with my friends and seek some nocturnal amusement. Undoubtedly, at least a few men will hit on me, and some of them may even buy me drinks. (I'm not being arrogant, just guessing from the ongoing, obvious pattern.) I already know I won't go home with any of them (I'm actually quite picky and reserved in my personal life), but I'll let them pay for a drink, chat me up, and maybe I'll even like one of them.
Those drinks are just a public version of what I used to do behind hotel doors. Women don't even realize it, but guys all seem to think that our 'time and companionship' is worth the money, and I happen to agree. Especially the complete strangers. I'll admit that it feels completely different with guys I know and like... then, it's actually quite intimate. I have no idea why, but maybe I'll figure it out...
... and maybe this blog will help.
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