Sex & Journalism

   Climactic sings Che Cos’é in a slightly off tune female voice that suggests the singer is somewhat influenced by mild intoxication and a micro fiber lust that aims to be velvet. It was sent to me by an aspiring Italian lover whom I know will never be one.  In the theme of aspirations, I am aspiring to be drunk but am well aware at this point that it is just another thing that will not be achieved. The bottle of my £10 Merlot has just been held upside down in a longing attempt to get one last drip, but nothing came and I am still not drunk-something I want nothing more to be. Otherwise, how am I supposed to relax from this perplexity of jumbled emotions that I still get after all these years? I am nearly a veteran of the art, yet I never fail to be hit with a bout of pensive agitation after an occasion like this. As much as I can justify the reasons and benefits of living this lifestyle, I still believe that it is a very difficult lifestyle for someone with a heart to endure. The body feels nothing. It is a shell to be used. The mind feels satisfaction because the mind works with the realities of the world. But the soul is angry because the soul, being ignorant of the physical demands of life, only feels neglected and abused. The soul does not like being pushed aside to fulfill the obligations that the mind knows the body needs. The soul has no concept of coming from poverty and doing what it must to get ahead in life and they ambitious mind has no concept of doing anything other than exactly what it must to change the poor hand of cards it’s physical being was delta. The mind and soul do not get along well. When harboring two feuding siblings inside of one otherwise aloof shell, one suffers great internal conflict. It never fails-not for the last 10 years. There is a reason women like myself drink. There is no amount of logical thinking that can quiet an upset soul. There is, however, a certain amount of Merlot that can do the trick.

            He is nice enough. They are always nice enough, but they aren’t the kind that I would be with if it were more of a choice to me. I am eternally grateful for the fact that I have this opportunity. I know the positive things this brings into my life and how easy I have it compared to others. In many ways, I have been blessed. I also know that every time I entertain one of these men who are “nice enough” I become vacant. I battle with two halves. One says “Look at this dear man who just wants to be loved. Love him, because he is dear. Give yourself to him, because the two of you need each other.” The other half of me cringes that he is touching me in a way I would like only genuine lovers to touch me. I don’t want his face on mine. I don’t want his tongue there. It is too intimate. I don’t enjoy faking intimacy. Why should I have to? Doesn’t he understand this is business?” I must escape myself to a place that leaves me able to smile and pretend that I enjoy being kissed like that or pretend that I find him so irresistible that I must be taken immediately. This part is not the fun part, no matter how dear and sweet or gentle and kind he is with me. It is only when he leaves that I am can feel the reward, stimulation and excitement of our meeting. It is at that point that I am satisfied, then elated, then sad and ultimately, discontently content. It is moments like these that make me consider my other options. Would I feel the same being overworked and underpaid? No. As opposed to just being confused and discontent as I am now, I would be confused, discontent, stressed and broke. Would it then be best if I just got married? Possibly, but wouldn’t I, at some point, feel the same towards a husband as I do towards the men I am a companion to now? Wouldn’t that eventually be just as much work? The answer doesn’t come to me. I know what I’d like. I know what I fantasize about, but I’m not sure if that’s anywhere near a reality. What is it like for normal people, I wonder? I take the last drop from my glass and look at the empty bottle and thirsty, stained stemware with wistful vexation. I still smell like him. I must shower it off-wash him away.  Climactic turns to Sade. A female voice, still off tune but more seductive than the one before, sings Feel No Pain. “Nothing is sacred.” the voice reminds me. “We have to take it. No one can face it. And feel no pain.”

            There is a pill in the bathroom that I’m thinking about taking. It’s in a bottle next to the razors. These are the things that I  keep for occasions like this when I am out of wine but desperately need escape or release or a reminder of what I can and can’t control. I won’t take it.  I’m fortunate, I remind myself.

            Her voice is low and unsteady. It calms my head and I am gently lulled to a place where I feel I can fall asleep, just as soon as I wash the evening off.

            "Don't let them stay home and listen to the blues."

Raquel

 There is no shortage of glamorous men in my life.  Both in my professional and personal circles, I am introduced to those at the top of the figurative food chain.  I have stopped asking if the people I meet are tired from their flights, because I know they’re not.  If it wasn’t their own personal sky bed they were sleeping on, it was the bed in their own cabin.  I have stopped looking at price tags when out shopping with them, as I’ve learned those little tags are nothing more that a nuisance and an eyesore.  These are the people I meet, seemingly effortlessly, and these are the people I’ve grown to love.  Despite the occasional frustrations, I find being in their presence both a pleasure and a luxury.  However, all pleasures and luxuries come with their own dilemmas.  In an earlier blog, I actually forcasted a predicament that I now find myself in.  I either have a very strong intuition or a way with self-fulfilling prophecies.  Although, this particular issue is something I imagine poses a potential threat to any elite companion: the dilemma of social incest.

I once said that I imagined myself meeting a man I cared about, who I wanted to be with “in real life”.  I imagined that I would be sitting at a function or family event with him only to realize that I was across the table from a man I dated professionally.  Perhaps I had been a one-evening escort to his uncle, or a long term mistress of his cousins, and there I would be, at the table staring them in the eyes while trying to figure out in a split second how to either 1) pretend nothing had ever happened 2) lie about how I know everyone and hope that they lie, too, or 3) be prepared to defend my position and explain that my relationship with my chosen man was different and sincere and that my past relationships should not be held against me.  Or maybe it would be the other way around.  Maybe I would attend an event with a client, only to be confronted with my boyfriend, asking why I was out with his investor when I had said that I was staying in that evening.

It could just have been that I was being paranoid and once again running my overactive imagination.  Just as well, it could have been common sense telling me that due to the very small world that I keep my trysts within, it is not at all unlikely that at some point, I would be faced with such a situation.

Dorchester Hotel, London:

 “ We should go to the Maldives after Paris.  But first, we have the event in London. I’m not sure how much fun it will be for you. It will just be a bunch of big wigs from XX sitting around talking business. ”

 “ That’s fine with me. It could be interesting. Who’s on the guest list? “

 “ The biggest manufacturer of XX from XX. The most respected XX from XX and XX will be there, too. He owns XX. “

 “ I think I might know these people. What are their names? “

 “ XX, XX, and XX.”

 “ Hmm. Okay. “ (Said with palpitating heart while nervously stumbling for the appropriate words). 

 “ You know them? “

 “ Yes. I know XX. “ 

 “ How? Google search? “

 “ Google search? No. I… um… meet a lot of people. I am much more social than I seem. I’m not sure how I meet them. I suppose I’m just in the right social networks. “

 “ That’s good. “ (Said with quizzical expression).

 “ Yes. The food is very good here. And I like the art. I can’t wait to see the art with you at the event. I’m hoping to learn more about artists and really be able to recognize some of their styles. What kind of art is in the Maldives? Maybe we should go to a museum in Paris. Paris will be nice. Do you speak French? “

The babbling worked and he forgot where we were in the conversation just before. He began talking about himself and his family again. They typically enjoy talking about these subjects.

My new friend is a lovely man.  He is exciting, kind and patient.  He is passionate about what he believes in. He makes me feel wanted and sends me enthusiastic and thoughtful messages.  He plans to travel with me.  I don’t know him except for a long lunch and a several messages we have exchanged online and via text.  He doesn’t know Raquel.  He knows the other me and treats me accordingly.  He claims to be single.  He won’t hide me the way a married man would, but he wouldn’t be a normal relationship either.  I assume that a man of his title, in his culture, would be expected to be with a certain kind of woman, and I am not her.  If we were to move forward, he would make more of a special companion to me.  It would probably be an alternative, part time relationship that I’m accustomed to.  It seems like it could be a nice situation, with the exception that he is good friends with a man who I can not admit to just how much I think about and a man who still helps pay my bills.  He is a comrade of Fancy Pants, and I am scheduled to be at an event with both of them this week.

When faced with the dilemma of secret dating incest, what does a girl do?  If this were a typical situation, the answer would be easy.  You do not date your friend’s friends or the former lovers of your friends.  You walk away.  But there are layers to this particular situation that give it the complexity of an 82 Chateaux Margaux.

I can’t say to this new potential companion  “ I really like your company, but I am a former mistress to your life long buddy, whom I still have emotional and financial ties to and I don’t feel right about “cheating” on him. “   Nor can I say to FP,   “ I like your friend, but YOU are the one that I want to be going to Paris and the Maldives with. Leave your family and run away with me. To hell with responsibility. I miss you terribly.“

I must cross an admittedly exciting, although incredibly awkward and potentially heartbreaking bridge.  Goodness… What shoes shall I wear for such an occasion?

Raquel