Over the weekend, closing my eyes, entering each secret chamber, reliving the excitement and touch. Pondering. Accepted wisdom, men despise prostitutes. Well, can’t see it. Giving it serious thought, going through the process, searching my thoughts like a panhandle prospector sifting ore in search of metal, can’t find even the tiniest vestige of despising. Tenderness, yes, care, yes, fondness, yes. Despising, none at all.
What about the other way round? I don’t despise the escorts, maybe they despise me. Another stereotype, the sad inadequate man who can’t get normal sex, has to pay for it, the escort obliges but finds the whole process disgusting. You can understand the point, just one thing, thinking about it, it entirely misses the point.
Foxy Lady, behind the nervousness she had a twinkling smile and pleasure at the sharing. Almost like a switch going off in her mind, she suddenly accepting, this is someone I can trust, he respects what I do and likes my body, it’s an open and honest transaction with no secret agenda, let’s enjoy this half-hour together.
Maybe that’s the key, she could see that I didn’t despise her.
When I left she gave me an extra hug, a kiss on the neck, and a smile. Squeezing my hand. Come back baby, let’s do that again. Possibly, a businesswoman trying to turn a one-time client into a regular one. You could be cynical about any human interaction. More likely, the thing that rings truer to me, she enjoyed my company same as I enjoyed hers.
So she’d like to see me again, same as I’d like to see her. Well, I can, any time, in my secret chamber.
