Sex & Journalism

“ I’ve had hookers and loved them.  Lot’s of them.  If I wanted another hooker I’d know where to get one, and cheap. ”

“ That’s too funny. ”

(Not really.)

“ I don’t know who you are or what you do. ”

 “Okay.”

 (Good!)

 “ And whatever it is you do, I don’t judge.  But I’m not looking for just another hooker. ”

 (Good thing I’m not just another hooker…)

 “ Of course you’re not.  You need chemistry.  You need something that’s real.  You don’t want to feel like you’re a chore.  There should be a genuine bond with someone you aren’t embarrassed to take out.  You want conversation and connection.  You can get sex anywhere.  It’s the whole package you’re looking for. ”

 “ If there’s no chemistry, it’s not for me. ”

 “ Of course not.  And chemistry doesn’t just come from sex. ”

I’ve had this conversation time and time again.  It’s so well versed, I can say it in my sleep.  I’ve been saying it like it’s my first time saying it every time I’ve said it for the past 5 years.  I say it with enthusiasm.  I say it like I’m excited that he feels the exact way I feel.  I say it as if it’s the most magical moment,  like finally,  finally,  I have met someone who is looking for the same thing I’m looking for.  I genuinely, sincerely connect with this brilliant man,  who I’ve been waiting for all my adult life.  Finally,  someone who “gets me” !

I say a lot of things I don’t mean.  I’m an honest person, and having to pretend is not a fun game to me, but it’s the pretending that pays my tuition and the pretending that keeps me dressed.  It’s the pretending that keeps me fed.  It’s the pretending that keeps me well traveled.  It’s the pretending that gives me material that I hope to write about one day so that I no longer have to pretend.  So, I swallow my pride and pretend.  I try to convince myself that this is a solid character strengthening exercise that will benefit me in the long run.  I try not to think about the men I really like who aren’t there.

“ I don’t want a client and I don’t have a set rate because I don’t want to feel like a hooker.  That’s not for me.  No man should ever be work to me.  If I meet a man and he feels like a chore, I’m in the wrong place. I’m not interested in that.  I need something more  - something I can feel good about. ”

“ That’s exactly what I’m looking for.  “

( I know. That’s why I said it. )

“Perfect. We should meet. ”

We meet.

“ You’re gorgeous. ”

“ I’m glad you approve. ”

“ You’re really nice. ”

( You're only saying that because I haven't thrown any dishes at you yet. )

“ I do think we get along well. ”

“ You’re wife material. ”

“ But sexier, more honest, and a lot less drama. ”

( Just in case he wasn’t sold already. )

“ What do you say we skip the polite introductions and just get to the intimate part?  I have cash for you. ”

He said he didn’t want a hooker. In actuality, he just wanted to believe he didn’t want a hooker. Of course he wanted a hooker! He just didn’t realize that they aren’t all sleazy idiots clad in fishnets and thick Eastern European accents.

“ Well, that’s not what I had in mind, but with you that might be exciting.  I think we get along well and that we're going to have a lot of chemistry.  We can skip polite.  I think that’s kind of sexy. ”

( Lie. )

Is he a nice guy?  Sure.  But chemistry?  No.  And that’s fine, because he doesn’t really want chemistry.  He wants an illusion.  He wants to believe that I am so overwhelmed with my attraction to him that I can’t help but drop my panties and take him before we even know if the names we are giving each other are real or not.  He wants to believe that there is nothing else in the world I would rather be doing than looking into his eyes while my lips are wraped around his most treasured and manly possessions.  He is fascinating to himself,  and he wants to believe that I am equally as fascinated with him.  He wants to believe that the stack of 100’s he’s given me isn’t for the sex,  or to make up for that fact that I don’t really want to be there,  but because he is just incredibly generous and really wants to help a friend out.  The money, of course,  has nothing to do with the sex.  It’s not like I’m a hooker,  after all.  And he certainly isn’t the kind of man who would have to pay for it.  The money is there as a sign of his copious ability to provide and as a sign of his appreciation for our incredible chemistry.

I have had chemistry with men who have given me money.  But it is a rare and precious thing.

This time,  like most,  I am telling stories and I am smiling a big,  “honest”  smile because it is harder to detect a lie when it is covered with the kind of smile that makes the liars eyes crinkle.

He’s nice enough and I keep reminding myself that I am fortunate for this opportunity for so many reasons, one being that it’s moments like these that make real sex with men I really like all that much better.

He doesn’t want a hooker.  He doesn’t get a hooker.  He gets an illusionist;  a pleasing pretender who whispers little lovely lies into his eager ears all the while daydreaming about the time in her life will she will be able to say these things and mean them to someone who won’t run away.

Raquel~

 If I am who I surround myself with, then I am royalty.  I am a dignitary.  I am a celebrity, a diplomat and an heir.  I am powerful.  I am influential.  I am adored.  I am envied.  I am fortunate.  I am glamorous.  I am beautiful.  I am untouchable.  I am selfish.  I am a hypocrite.  I am a liar.  I am volatile.  I am impulsive.  I’m an egoist.  I do not care about anything that doesn't make me richer.  I do not listen to the real message and I can not be bothered with unimportant things like the human spirit.  I am everything and I am nothing.

When I am with them, I am all things desired.  I am the definition of luxury.  I am high on myself.  But it is in the blink of a wondering eye, a palpitation of an adrenaline rushed heart or in as much time as it takes them to take a glazed shot at the surrendered body of their all-too-willing rented paramour, that I change.  It is in that blink, that beat and that shot, that I am suddenly uninvited.  This is not my place.  That is not my wine. They no longer love me.  I am no longer interesting.  I have served my purpose.  It is getting late and I should probably run.  I am intruding in his luxury and he can not be spending valuable time with someone like myself.  He is really very busy.  Being incredibly important, he doesn’t have any time.  Granted, he made time for me when I had what he wanted and hadn’t achieved, but now that he acquired the prize, he is suddenly unavailable to a nobody like myself.  Some cash is delivered to my hand, far less that what I’m worth, and I am out the door, but not fast enough.  I walk out the hall and I am no longer an honored guest.  I walk down the street but not as confidently.  I am no longer the queen of his castle.  I am just a gypsy.

I am home, looking at the money that I needed.  I wouldn’t have been there if I didn’t need it. But, I’m not seeing something that I want.  All I see is paper.  There is nothing exciting about it this time. I used to feel accomplished when I had stacks of money in my hand.  Now, when I observe it, it doesn’t look like much.  I count it, and no matter how much or little it is, the number is never big enough.  I shuffle it.  I used to like the way the crispy pieces of paper sounded when they rustled against each other, but it no longer sounds like anything to me, except that it reminds me slightly of the bristling sound created when an overzealous man tries in a vain attempt to rub his dick against my body in hopes that he will achieve something that I knew from the beginning he wouldn’t.  It hurts me when they do that.  I wish they wouldn’t.  I no longer care for the way the fresh bills smell.  I only look forward to the smell of soap on my body as it signifies to me that it’s over and I can wash my delusions of grandeur away. 

I look around.  I have nice things that nobody recognizes. My bag is expensive, but nobody appreciates it.  I bought my sweater on the street where the wealthy people shop, but I don’t know why I spent that much on it.  It was probably made in China and nobody seems to notice it anyway.  I try to remember that this is helping me pay for a very expensive tuition.  It’s challenging to embrace the fact that I must be a whore to give myself a decent education from a school that nobody has heard of.  I am sitting on a mattress, in a tiny apartment, next to a pile of clothes that smell like the man that just pretended to care.  What was his real name?  I am exhausted.  I am conflicted.  The money sits next to me.  I guard it intently.  I must protect it because it gives me life while simultaneously taking it from me.  The money is self-created opportunity.  It is my way up.  It is my way out.  It makes me better.  It makes me worse.  It helps me.  It hurts me.  It adorns me.  It strips me.  I am not glamorous.  I am vacuous.  I am a glamour ass.

It is times like these that make me feel I’m ready for something real.  I’ve rejected real before because real wasn’t as exciting.  Real wasn’t as lucrative.  Real wasn’t as interesting or as alluring.  But it is times like these when I see that these alluring things are just an illusion.

I often pray to a God I want to believe exists.  Tonight, my prayers changed a little.  I am ready.  I will work for it.  I have always had to work for it. But I also asked for help.  I will need it now that I am ready for something real.

R~

The son of a billionaire from somewhere east of here looked at me with uncertainty through dramatic eyelashes. Dressed all in black and giving off a street appearance, he represented himself as something far more common that what he actually was. It didn’t take much conversation with him, though, to discover that this pouty mouthed prince was really much more remarkable than the average twenty something year old.

 He didn’t know what I preferred to drink, so he ordered one of everything. A bottle of red, a bottle of white and a bottle of champagne were all chilled and waiting for me to select among upon my arrival. He wanted to make sure I had what I wanted. The bottles were unopened, he explained, because it would have been rude to start without me. He confessed he preferred white, and I supported his decision by stating that white is much better for the preservation of the whiteness of a persons teeth (this  “western trait” as Fancy Pants once put it, is an important quality to me). It took a moment to strike me, but eventually I realized something that was off.

“Why do you have red on ice?”

“I knew you were going to ask that.” He said, with a grin.

“I know you’re supposed to drink it room temperature, but I hate the way it tastes when it’s not chilled.”

It seemed a little silly to me, but I admit I appreciated his defiance. I love watching rich people ignore that which is considered “proper”. He poured me a glass and sat in a chair across from the couch I had spread myself across.

“There’s plenty of room here.” I offered.

But he liked the chair and explained that he liked to look at the people he talks to.

I asked about the physics book he had placed on the table between us, which opened up discussion to many varied subjects that he knew much about.

He told me what he does for a living and that he can do it from anywhere his laptop happens to be. He would also soon be working on his masters degree and that he has always gone to public schools upon his mothers insistence that he understand the “real world”. He likes the students in public schools, and he feels fortunate to have avoided the "phoniness" of the wealthy peers that one would assume he was educated alongside.

He shared with me his theories on the New World Order, which countries would be safe from a third world war, and whether or not 911 was an inside job. He quoted world leaders, made reference to men in the pages of Forbes and told me the dangers of making a lot of money at an early age. We talked about auto manufacturers and how “racing is a rich mans sport”. We talked about traveling and the biggest challenge of having a father like his. We discussed Muslims, Jews, Arabs and the definition of “Caucasian”. We talked about lingerie, mainly La Perla, and the owners of Bebe. We discussed books and the educational value of online discussion boards. We talked about real estate, relationships, and the embarrassment of “eternal pees”. He had three glasses of wine to my one.

“I can’t drink that much anymore.”, I explained as I poured myself a glass of Fiji. It was when my water glass became empty that we decided to pop open the champagne.

When I had come out of the restroom, he pointed to an envelope that was sitting on the table between us.

“It’s $1,500. I hope that’s enough. I don’t expect anything and you can leave whenever you want.”

He finally moved over to the couch but he kept himself occupied with his box of Parliaments.  

“It’s just really hard to connect with people. I’m glad we connect.”

I agreed.

I stayed until 10:30 at which time I put my strappy heels back on and explained that I had commitments in the morning.

“What would it take for you to stay?"

Too shy and too genuinely interested in him to make a demand, I simply said,

"That's horrible."

"I know, but time is money.  Here’s $500. You can leave when you want to. Just stay a little longer.”

It didn’t take much convincing.

“Okay. I’ll stay for a minute.”

He attempted to help me unbuckle my heels again and we laughed at how difficult such a simple task suddenly become difficult. My head was getting light from my dinner of bubbles and grapes and judging from the frequency of his puffs from his cigarettes, he buzz was significantly head of mine.

The number of girlfriends he had was humble, he confessed, but perhaps it was because he had very high standards. He meant to compliment me when he told me I looked great, but a moment of self-doubt took over and I wondered if he was sincere. I do not go to a gym. I’m no hard body and I am a little older than the girls he is used to. I wondered if I looked like an old lady to him. I had to remind myself that I was being ridiculous. He just told me that I met his lofty standards and there was no reason for him to lie to me. If it was sex he wanted, I would have given it to him free of the compliment. I just had to remind myself that confidence is truly the sexiest quality a person can possess. He was right. I was sexy. He popped a piece of watermelon gum in my mouth and then in his, and suddenly, all self doubt was erased by the sweet tang melting onto my tongue. We spread out together, contemplated our gum and our favorite sexual positions, which we did not practice together. I practice safe sex. He said he understood and appreciated where I came from, but that it was like "taking a shower with a raincoat".

“I’ll show you my medical records one day and then maybe you’ll trust me enough…”

After all the alcohol, he still did not want to disrespect me. We chomped on our gum and he rubbed my back until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.

“I’d give you more if you could stay over.”

It was tempting.

“I have to get to sleep, but if you’re in town for a while, I’d love to see you again.”

We hugged goodbye before I turned to walk out of the bungalow, through the garden and back out of the confusing hotel lobby.

It’s a very rare occasion that I am so pleasantly surprised. It was a good night.

R~