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.)