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sex

Different.

by Maria on January 17, 2010

in Dance, Dance, Write of Passage

“Are you married, PopTart?” he asked.

“I’m only 18.” I answered.

“Mmm, marry me?” he moaned, grabbing my thighs, causing me to stumble towards him, catching myself on his shoulders. He planted wet kisses along my abdomen, along the hem of my bikini bottoms. I laughed, and ran my fingers through his thick, white hair.

“I’m a bit young for you, don’t you think?” I whispered, picking his face up and looking into his pretty grey eyes.

“Hey,” he said, looking hurt, playfully. “I’m not as old as you think. “This” – he pointed to his hair – “is premature. Started when I was in college. How old do you think  I am?”

“Ummm, 45?”

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, clutching a fist to his chest. “Close, but no cigar, PopTart. I’m 37.”

“And you don’t think that’s too old?”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me down, placing it on his cock, which was hard and swollen.

“Not where it matters.” he whispered into my ear. I squeezed the base and he whimpered. “Marry me.” he repeated.

“You know, Max, I get the impression that you’re already married.” I said as I started to stroke, gently, giving him the friction of just a few fingers.

“How come?” he breathed, tucking my hair over my shoulder and fingering my neck.

“You just…you have an eagerness that the single guys who come in here don’t. Like, I’m an escape. You’re invested in the time you spend here, you obviously look forward to it. It’s not casual. For the married ones, the unhappily married ones, it’s never casual.”

Max sat back on the couch and looked at me, eyes narrowed, hands on his thighs. I released him and stood back.

“You’re perceptive.” was all he said. I had offended him. I had said too much. When was I going to learn that my tendency to over share, to be too honest and forthcoming was not a good thing in this job? I searched inside of my mind for a way to repair the damage – he was one of my best regulars, I made more in one session with him than most other girls made in a day – a week even. He’d already paid my rent for the month, and we hadn’t gotten started yet. I couldn’t think of a remedy, so I told him the truth.

“I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind what?”

“It not being casual.”

“Mmm. Why’s that?”

“Because, when it’s casual, I feel like a piece of meat. I mean, I am a piece of meat, but it’s funny how being nothing to a guy except a pair of soft hands can make you feel unfulfilled, in comparison to the men that come in and see me as a whole person. Even if I’m just a whole whore.”

He sat up abruptly, frowning, and placed a hand on my hip. “You’re not a whore.”

I had found my way back in. I milked it. “Yes I am. I understand that, I’m alright with it. Someone has to do it, right?” I laughed, making sure it came across as pained and conflicted. I looked up at him with puppy dog eyes, holding them open longer than comfortable to make them water and pursing out my bottom lip ever so slightly.

He pulled me down onto his lap, and I clasped my arms around his neck. For the first time in all of our time together he ignored my breasts in his face, and looked only into my eyes. “You’re not a whore, PopTart. You’re a woman. A woman who’s not afraid of how beautiful she is, but knows how much more she is than that.” He ran his fingertips up the small of my back, and I felt the sincerity of his words in his touch.

“Okay.” I said softly, and I kissed him.

I had never kissed a customer before.

#5.
—————-
Listening to: Radiohead – Nude

{ 1 comment }

Thoughts on “Class”, Gender, and Sex.

by Maria on September 18, 2009

in Thoughts and Debacles

I created a new blog a couple of weeks ago – Why They’re Hot. It’s basically a place for me to lust over hot celebrities. To completely sexually objectify them like I do in my head. Like I believe many of us do. I write under ‘Blissed’, my friend Justine writes them up too and we get a crap load of awesome reader submissions. It’s funny and it’s explicit and all around awesome.

There have been all kinds of things said about it, negative and positive, but one that struck me as funny and sad simultaneously was someone saying that we are  ’so un-classy’. They reblogged one of our posts and struck out the lines about sex.

At first I was like “WTF?! Hahaha this person is so crazy – what does she expect? Has she not read our  previous posts? They’re insanely explicit – I mean that’s our thing, our little niche!!”

But then I thought about it more and I was like “hmm… I wonder why women discussing their sexual desires is so ‘ un-classy’.” I wonder why it’s not ok, why it’s frowned upon for a chick to talk about masturbating or giving blow jobs or fucking. Why in order to be a lady, in order to get respect, to be considered classy – you have to keep that kind of talk, those thoughts to yourself or between you and your husband. I mean of course there is a time and place but damn.

Women like to fuck, just as much as men do. Women fuck themselves, they fuck each other, they fuck whomever they want – there’s nothing classless about that. There’s definitely nothing un-classy about talking about it.

We’re not in the 40’s anymore folks. We have desires, we have needs and wants and we have just as much right to discuss them frankly as men do.

Talking about sex is not wrong or right, it just is what it is. It’s honesty.

This is not really in defense of the blog, or the post, or how badly I want to fuck Justin Timberlake’s dick off. It’s simply a statement on the fact that in this day and age? Women should be allowed to say they want to ride a man’s face if they want to, without being frowned upon. Because sometimes we do.

—————-
Listening to: Sam Sparro – Cut Me Loose

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So full.

by Maria on August 4, 2009

in Joey

I love him. I absolutely love him.

I was just overwhelmed with how much I do when he returned to me.

I had no idea I missed him as much as I did.

I forgot his presence, how just being around him made the world seemed brighter.

He held me, and he squeezed me, he kissed me and stared at me and smiled wide and full.

I ran my fingers through his soft hair and studied his tired blue eyes.

I came harder than I knew was humanly possible.

I told him I missed him a million times.

Not enough.

I’m happy that he’s home.

{ 6 comments }

I can do it better myself…

by Maria on December 10, 2008

in Self

Seriously. I can. It’s always been that way. Sex has never been all that enjoyable to me. Maybe they weren’t big enough or good enough or whatever enough, but it’s never been something that I neeeeded to have. Sometimes I want it really badly, and I get it, but maybe I’ve just been with one man too long because I can easily go without. Not saying that he wasn’t any good – he wasn’t really any better or worse than most that I’d fucked before, but blah. That’s sex to me = Blah.

I’m a quickster. I don’t like long fuck sessions. That’s boring. After I’m done, you need to be too, pretty soon. I’ve only had one guy last more than 10 minutes with me, so it seems like it shouldn’t be a problem, right? Well it is! I’m only into it for about 5 minutes, if that. Then I’m ready for it to be over. Seriously, like get the fuck off me. I’m DONE with this. An emotional connection can extend that time table a bit, but just a bit. It’ll get you another 1-3 minutes of ‘oh I love him and I love having him inside of me‘ but that’s it and it’s only good for the first few times.

Now there have been exceptions: there are situations I could detail in which I wanted it to last longer, or it was pretty good and I realllyyy needddddeeddd it, but there’s like only one instance of each. This all might stem from the fact that I’m one of those women that can only come from clitoral stimulation. And it has to be a very particular motion and amount of pressure or else it’s just irritating. I have a very fickle vagina.

I’m a masturbator. Can’t help it, it’s what I am. I’m a late-night-redtube/xporn/xtube/youporn.com-vibrator-hiding-masturbator. I think I always will be. They just can’t do it like I can. I have it in my head though that Carey Hart and Gerard Butler and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers could all make me lose my mind. That they all fuck very differently but very well. Carey’s a mixture between sweet and slow/fast and hard, Gerard’s very hard but can be fast or slow and is always intune with what his partner wants and Jonathan’s always in control and doing whatever the hell he wants but he’s excellent at it so it doesn’t matter. I obviously need to fuck them in order to experience that hyper orgasmic bliss that I read about. Heh. Besides them, there is probably no one in the world that can give me that experience and thusly, I’ll never get it. *cries*

I really want to be a whore (and I use that term as a term of endearment because I don’t believe in looking down on men or women because they’ve gotten more action than me). I want to go out and fuck everything with a pretty face and a penis until I find one that fits – to prove myself wrong when I say that I’m just not one of those people that will ever be obsessed with getting laid. Bah. It’s alright. I’m cool with my fingers and my mechanical goodies.

{ 49 comments }

Black Hockey Jesus: Dance, Dance V

by Maria on October 1, 2008

in Guests

This is Dance, Dance V. You should read I, II, III & IV, lest you think BHJ is just some dithyrambic pervert who has violated my blog with salacious filth. I mean, he is, and he did. But I am too, and I did first. Now…revel in the brilliance that is The Black Hockey Jesus. *cue choir of angels*

I am in the strip club. Again.

However, it feels different this time. Like big ripe breasts, the night is ripe with possibility. It’s young. The night, I mean. But so are these dancing girls. And restless. Like a dancing girl strung out on cocaine, the night is restless and edgy. That was a brash generalization. Just because a girl dances for a living, that doesn’t automatically make her a coke whore. I do know for sure, though, that I am high on cocaine. Like me then, the night is restlessly high on cocaine. And edgy.

Tonight there is a farm theme and the dancing girls are wearing red bandanas around their necks. They also have freckles painted on their faces. The farm girl thing is making me hot. I find a chair next to the stage. There is a watermelon on the stage in front of me. I am slightly confused by this, but not overly concerned. I place a hand on the watermelon and smack it with my other hand 3 times like I am smacking an ass. I think this is clever, but there’s a part of me that thinks I will look back on this and feel stupid. The topless girl on stage tosses her head back and laughs but all I can hear is Girls Girls Girls by The Crue. Her cowboy hat falls slowly to the stage like an autumn leaf falling from a tree. Like a fond memory recalled in a hot tub.

The watermelon tactic has worked. She is so into me.

I wait for the DJ to announce ½ off lap dances. Then I find her and softly grab her elbow from behind. She bristles, probably at the thought of grinding out yet another lap dance for a pickled old man, but her face visibly brightens when she discovers that it’s me. It is as if her expression exclaims “Hey! It’s the watermelon guy! Ha Ha Ha!” There is a star like twinkle of light in her eye. Do you remember Pretty Woman? That movie broke so much ground. It hit me like a revelation when Julia Roberts masterfully embodied that humanitarian insight: prostitutes have souls too. And they will fall in love with you if you are nice.

She stands on 2 coffee tables on either side of my chair before slowly lowering herself into my lap. I ask her if her name is really “Tangerine”. She says her name is whatever I want it to be. I tell her “Tangerine” is fine, though I thank her for her extraordinary hospitality. I detect an above average passion in her rhythmic humping. Her sneer is telling. This is not your every day run-of-the-mill lap dance.

Has our unspoken connection risen beyond our shady transaction? Does her enthusiasm for my lap indicate her desire for me to rescue her from this degraded squalor. $40? I could’ve swore the DJ said $25. What time does she get off work? Would she like to come to my place? And shower? And clutch coffee cups till morning while discussing the way we had plans? Our big dreams. Our lofty aspirations. The things we had hoped for that never came to pass.

I come in my pants. Turns out my former self was right. I remember the watermelon. And feel stupid.

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