Bi, Bi Birdie

As an openly bisexual woman, well, pansexual, actually, sex can be a tricky thing.

A few days ago, I was online blabbing with some friends in a chatroom, when an interloper butted in to ask the usual banalities: "wut is ur name?" "where do u live?" "do u have a bf?"and so on, completely ignoring the fact that I was having an active discussion with several of my real friends.  And, given that we were being somewhat social with a few other people, I wasn't completely annoyed with having someone jump in to the discussion, but I do loathe irritating people who can't seem to be bothered to write out full words.

(I have never, will never and I mean never, type in lazy, stupid, and immature abbreviations.)

Anyway, this dude not only pestered me in illiterate jargon, but also closely monitored our conversation for possible inlets to harass me further.  When one of my gal-pals mentioned one of my ex-girlfriends, The Mastermind jumped in, "so r u a lez?"

I could only interpret that to be a question about my sexual orientation.

"Actually, I'm a proud bisexual.  Now, please leave me alone."

"Wut do u like better? Girls or boys?"

I should've clicked the "Ignore" button sooner.

At any rate, I've been doing a lot of thinking about sex and sexuality lately, especially since beginning this blog.  And, sadly, that was far from the first time I've been asked to explain if I prefer innies or outies.  It's a popular misconception that everyone bases their choice of partners on plumbing.  I'd rather focus on such little details as personality, intelligence, wit, humour, compatibility, and yes, looks.

There, I said it.

But, to me, a hot girl is a hot girl, and a hot guy is a hot guy.  Moreover, what is hot to me is nerdy to most other people, and what is douchbaggish to yours truly is "hot" to most of North America.  So, beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, yadda yadda yadda.

So, then it should come as no surprise that someone, somewhere, would find me attractive enough to shag.  (Well, actually many someones have, but that is neither here nor there; I'm referring to my personal, not Professional, life.)  Last night (Saturday), I was hanging out with one of my guy friends and we kinda-sorta fell into bed together... again.  It's only the fourth time this has happened with him, so it isn't a huge deal, and out of all the guys I've been with, he was one of the better ones.  Maybe even in my Top Ten of Men.

We had been talking all evening, and it had been been a little while since I last got my freak on with a dude, so when he put his arms around me while I was trying to figure out his espresso machine, I didn't exactly run screaming into the night.  I'll admit that I did consider reminding him that denying me of caffeine is so not sexy, but I decided to just go along for the ride, as they say.

Before I go any further, let me explain something about me, gender, and sex: most of the men I've been with in the past few years were born as women.  (Not all, mind you... I'll discuss the exception(s) on another day.)  They are, as I mentioned in a previous post, Female to Male transsexuals, and despite what you may think, there are scads of FTMs in my area.  Actually, since guys who were born with female bodies transition so seamlessly, there are many, many more than most "straights" ever realize.  But, I digress.

As you also might recall, I'm also in a very, very open quasi-relationship with a woman, so the last time I got laid, I was with her.

This is where it gets somewhat interesting: I noticed something about how I feel after and during sex with a man, versus with a woman.

When I'm with (let's call her) Lizzie, I feel nurturing and giving, yet powerful.  I'm filled with an androgynous need to please her, fulfill her, and I find myself wanting to be the one who makes the first moves.  I crave opening her up, being in her, feeling her, filling her, and tasting her.  I tend to focus more on her needs than my own, and every little chirp and moan that I eke out of her makes me feel proud and sexy.  Afterward, I bask in the soft, dewy loveliness of it all, savouring the scent of her on my skin and our mingling perfumes on the sheets.  I hold her tight, and feel as though I could battle tigers with my bare hands.  In short, I feel like a sexual warrior.

When I was in bed with (shall we say?) Luc, I just rolled over and purred.  Sometimes I like being dominant with male partners, but that wasn't what I needed just then.  Fortunately, Luc isn't submissive at all in the sack... he's cocky, strong, and thanks to high levels of testosterone, he literally oozes maleness.  Perhaps that's why I went along with it.  He is also very fond of mish, which agreed with my swollen knees just fine.

He didn't waste much time on foreplay, unfortunately, but he did kiss me with enough passion and ardour to make my legs grow weak... and between them grow incredibly wet.  Since it was just a fling, I rather welcomed the lack of intimacy that oral sex might've imparted, but I also enjoyed it when he started undressing me right there in his kitchen, overhead lights ablaze. It was so overtly sensual to watch his lust grow as he backed me up against the wall.  Every time he found a new patch of skin to kiss, he made noises of manly appreciation and hunger, and when he whispered in my ear that he had been hard for me all night, I nearly came.

Last night, I needed to feel every inch a woman.  I needed to be fucked.

And, so I was.  After I was down to just panties and stockings and he was in boxer briefs and an unbuttoned shirt, he scooped me up and carried me to his bed.  (It's good to know that all that testosterone doesn't go to waste, even if it was a bit cheesy and showy.)

He told me hot hot I am, how tight, and how good I felt to him.  It was what I needed to hear, and most likely what he needed to say, so I returned the favour.  Between digging welts into the poor guy's back and reveling in the joy of being blessedly multi-orgasmic, I told him what he needed to hear.  It was only fair.

When it was all said and done, my thoughts wouldn't let me fall asleep (as usual), so I did a bit of self-evaluation.  Physically, I was sweaty, tired, and sticky, yet emotionally I felt more girly and pretty than I have in months.  My sense of femininity was renewed, and I felt beautiful in spite of my damp, tangled hair and smudged eyeliner.  Or maybe, I felt more beautiful because of it; who knows?

All I know is that different lovers elicit and demonstrate different sides of my personality.  I don't know if I could be considered "complex," but I do know that all of the pieces are necessary to the whole.  What does that mean for me in the long term?  Am I capable of settling down with one lover someday and doing the whole "suburban family" thing?  Or, am I always going to find myself with a veritable pantheon of partners, with each one answering some of my various sexual prayers?

I like to think that one day, years from now, I'll look back on this quandary and chuckle.  Perhaps I'll reread this entry, recall these affairs, and shake my head in disbelief at how naïve I was.  Maybe I'll even make sure there's enough coffee for my partner (whoever it is), and make them a cup just the way they like it.  Maybe, I'll surprise them in the shower for a quick morning tryst before throwing on my clothes and running out, already late for work.  But even that will be all right, because I'll know, deep down, that I'm wholly satisfied, and that I'll never need anything more than what they have to offer me.

Maybe.

But, for now, to answer your question, Mr. Mastermind, I like both.

HDIC

Ahhhh... HDIC.

Today is one of the most celebrated of all Canadian holidays.  Small children get hyper with joy at the mere mention.  Grown men's eyes gleam with anticipation.  The streets run golden with foamy rivers of Molson and Labatt.  Households prepare for it, calendars are cleared, and the country more or less shuts down.

Well, at least it should.

All joking aside, Hockey Day in Canada is one of my favourite days, personally.  Three all-Canadian games, back to back to back, with plenty of fun during intermissions and whatnot.  Sarah Harmer was just on a few minutes ago, and I looooooove her.  I love her even more now that I just found out that she owns a pair of Guy Lafleur's skates from 1976.  *swoon*

(And you have to love anyone who a) was featured on the Men with Brooms soundtrack, and b) did a duet with The Hip.)

Many of my clients used to find it kind of comical that their escort was more interested in bantering player stats and trade acquisitions than, well, whatever it is other girls discuss.  (What do they discuss, anyway?!  I'm curious now -- I'll have to ask around.  Makeup and shoes, maybe?  Or perhaps the state of their vaginae?)

Anyway.

On my Retirement Tour, a really awesome client brought me a special gift.  Well, I got quite a few special gifts that week, several of them quite luxe, but this one made me smile quirkily.  I dig quirky.

The gentleman had been trying to see me for years because of our long list of commonalities -- both from Ontario, both taller than most, and both completely obsessed with hockey.  So, he brought me something you normally don't contemplate bringing an escort, especially upon first meeting: a Maple Leafs throw-back sweater.

Not flowers, not chocolate, not even lingerie.  (The latter is a perennial Client favourite.  Like we don't have enough 'work clothes.'  *sigh*)  He brought me a hockey jersey.  How cool is that??

While many of my clients were irritating, pushy, demanding, or just plain stinky, some were pleasantly surprising.  I made friends of several of them and we still stay in contact.  Unfortunately, due to his bizarre schedule, it's hard to stay in touch with Mr. Hockey Jersey, but every once in a while there's an attempt in either direction.  But, mostly, I just have a fun memory and really awesome sweater.

I'm actually wearing it today.  I was going to wear my old Mats Sundin jersey, but this one looked better with my skinny jeans.  And my cute high-heeled boots.

I am still a girl, after all.

Biting the Bullet

I'm going to do it: I'm going to write back to my Man Friend.

We're sharing a lot of similar situations, sharing a lot of similar emotions, but I've been highly reticent in responding.  Must respond, must recover, and must move forward.

Beyond that, I spent a night in Hooker Land with a fellow Worker.  It was great!  I laughed; I cried; I visited a whole hell of a lot of Canadian escorts' sites.  It was hilarious.

At one point, we actually worked for the same agency in Boston, so we bonded from that experience.  I loved working in Boston, actually.  I generally stayed at the Park Plaza, the Doubletree, or the Holiday Inn Express (depending on the week), and loved it.  I miss the chicken fingers from Vinnie's across from the Holiday Inn Express in the Financial District.  I had clients ranging from Harvard profs to Harvard students (on the Crew Team) -- and a few fellow Canadians who flew out to see me.  I'll never forget that.

It was a wonderful year, except that the Agency Owner took more than half my money.  There were times I rode home with almost no money.  That was horrid.  I told the 'phone girl,' Cynthia, that a guy tried to rape me (my second client ever) and she didn't believe me.  The next day, she booked him with a girl a foot shorter than myself -- I'm over 6' -- and she ended up in hospital getting her anus reconstructed.

But, those of us that bond, bond for life.  I love my Industry friends... and they are real friends... because they know The Real Me.  The Me that worked as an escort.  The Me that has other interests.  The me that is affected by multiple disorders.  The Me that I like being....the REAL Me.

*sigh*

I guess it's time to Bite the Bullet and write my Man Friend.  I can't say I'm not nervous (because I am), but I'm at least going to try.  I owe him that.  And I owe Me that, too.

Thanks for the support, Ladies.  I mean that.  *smile*

Spongechick Hookerpants

Oh, Cramps...how can you be so evil?!?!?

I hate my uterus.  I'm sorry, men, for all of the graphic reality this is to follow, but I can't hide it.  If any of you so-called 'hobbyists' out there think we don't work on the rag, you're very, VERY much mistaken.

All of us have done it.  It isn't pretty, but yeah, here's how it goes...

So, Escort gets her period unexpectedly.  She's not on The Pill (I NEVER was on the Pill...and NEVER did BBFS, obviously), so it takes her by surprise.  Instead of freaking out and asking the Madam to send her home early (and incurring charges), she does what all the other girls do: she stuffs in a makeup sponge.

Yes: I said a makeup sponge.  Sorry.

Nothing else works quite as well, and we all have our favourite brands (I swore by Life Brand Sea Makeup Sponges from Shoppers Drug Mart.  Unfortunately, they were discontinued).  And, no, it doesn't just stay in all day -- you have to pull it out between clients and rinse the sponge.  No, not 'throw it away,' but rinse it.  How gross is that?  But, we all do/did it.  It's de rigueur in the Escorting World, and no, guys NEVER EVER notice.  And I mean never.  However, the Instead Cup (which I've used for years here in Canada) can be mistaken for a diaphragm whilst in the act, and one girl told me it makes the guys even more irritating when it comes to condom use.  Ergo, it isn't used as much.

Oh, if only you housewives knew how stupid your husbands can be!  You'd laugh alllll the way to the bank.  And I mean that.

So, yes, girls work in Biohazard Mode, but it isn't hazardous for them... only for the men.  As are so many of the acts we perform(ed)...

As a final note, gents, when you're happily performing DATY on a girl at 4 PM (or later), just remember that you're probably #4 or six of the day, and yeah, she might even be on the rag.  Sucks, don't it, Boys?!?

*LOL*

Reality blows.  ;)

Groundhog Day

Today is officially Groundhog Day.

Is this post going to haunt me repeatedly?!

So, Punxstawney Phil didn't see his shadow this year... allegedly, spring shall come early(ish) this year.  Woot!

Once upon a time, I was having a martini with some friends at another friend's place, and one of my dearest BFFs (let's call him Mr. Davis) turned to me and said, "Hey, you know what, Diana?  I've always wanted to go to Punxsutawney, PA for Groundhog Day."

I put down my drink, looked at him, and smiled.  "How far do you figure it is?"

"Let's find out.  We have a few hours until midnight."

"Let me grab my Chucks," I responded, rising to grab my favourite sneakers.

So, about four or five hours later, we were driving around downtown Punxey, looking for a parking spot, cruising past the Craft Fair toward Gobbler's Knob.  It was hilarious, and we took great joy in flicking through local radio channels for the local news and music.  It didn't disappoint.

Phil saw his shadow that year, unlike this year, but we didn't care.  We loved the freedom of being somewhere new to both of us, and we totally bonded on an even deeper level.  We signed the Guest Book at the Punxy Library.  We saw Punxsutawney Phyllis as well as Phil.  We later went to the local Craft Fair at the school, and I bought my parents a magnet and myself a t-shirt.  (Good girls go to bed on time, but THIS GIRL went to Gobble at the Knob! Gobbler's Knob, Punxsutawney, PA)

This year, we made a pact to revisit Punxy next year, and I'm actually quite excited.  It's the kind of things that can only happen between really, really, REALLY good friends, but we're already plotting and planning our trip.  This won't have the fun of being spontaneous, but we, at least, won't have to stay at a little dive-motel along the way back North.  I am, after all, a 'recovering escort,' and to me, that means four-star accommodations... or at least three-star.  *shudder*  It was pretty harsh last time.  LOL

And, I'll have a change of underwear this time.

Am I doomed to repeat myself, like the Bill Murray movie?  I'm going to talk to a friend later -- a fellow sister from the industry, but we've both agreed that we will NEVER get 'over' our pasts in the Industry. We make jokes about paying for things with cash in unmarked, unopened, white envelopes, going into 'hooker mode' when faced with certain types of older men (it once happened with my new uncle: my aunt's husband totally gets escorts), and viewing vodka as a 'work environment.'

Let's just say that I never drink vodka anymore.  Ever.

Actually, I hardly drink anything at all anymore, except sometimes wine.  Too damned many medications.  I still enjoy a fine vintage Bourgogne, but there are no more weeks of slugging liquor to self-medicate the parade of clients.  If I ever go back, it'll be lucid and very, VERY selective.  Wine is good -- vodka shots at 8 AM?  Not so much.

I am having issues with a Man Friend of mine.  Not a client, but an actual friend.  It would seem that his description of me, 'writing more,' and my actually writing more weren't in synch, so I don't know what to do.  I've been confused as hell, but I suppose that goes along with the territory.

It just goes to show that there is NO such thing as 'expertise' when it comes to matters of the heart -- not even from a pro...

*sigh*

Happy Groundhog Day, everyone!