The Subtle Difference Between a Prostitute And An Escort

Generic Person: So, you're going to see a prostitute?
Me: No, I'm going to see an escort.
GP: But you're paying for sex.
Me: No. That's illegal. I'm paying for this person's company. What they choose to do in my company is completely at their discretion.
GP: Why don't you just hook up with a woman at a bar or get a fuck buddy?
Me: Because I don't want to go to a bar and I don't want a fuck buddy. This is not some quest to maximize the amount of times I can get off. I have problems and I am seeking the help of professionals. I put in effort and energy. I am working towards getting better. They help because they get it. I explain the problem and it doesn't phase them. Bar girl can be phased. Fuck buddy can be phased. I will treat the woman I'm with like a treasure because I don't know any other way to do it and we will find a way to make it work so that I can improve, and I will continue to do so until I feel comfortable enough in that aspect of my life to deal with individuals that aren't professionals. 
     To a degree, that is the conversation that I have at some point with someone in every new place I go. It's shortened because I still haven't gone into the nervous breakdown stuff on this blog yet. People have a very close-minded view of the world as it pertains to paying for companionship, be it due to religious beliefs, simple frugality, or a myriad of reasons that lie in between. I feel as though it's helped me and though I have a long way to go, I'm moving in the right direction. I'll probably have more stories soon involving my adventures in hobbying but what I never plan on doing is referring to the individuals I see as prostitutes. It's a label that I don't feel does these ladies justice the same way that escort does. I'll use these two recent examples as an explanation of each word's definition.
     Dateline: October 11, 2013.  At this point, I had only known this person for two weeks yet I found myself embarking on a four hour road trip to Vegas with him. Probably because I wasn't made aware that the reason everyone else bailed on the plan to go to Vegas was because he wasn't really liked...at all...by anybody... His primary goal for this day was to have the most debaucherous Vegas day he could have. He can't wait to hit the blackjack tables. He's looking forward to the seedy strip clubs. He's on Backpage while we're in the hotel's check-in line. He is ready to "turn up"! I just want more than two damn hours of sleep.
     By the time we make it to the room he's narrowed his choices down for the first time he will pay for the companionship of a beautiful women between two ads: Girl A & Girl B. Though one of his lifetime fantasies could be fulfilled by being with an Asian woman, he was still so torn by the choice that I suggested he flip a coin. After enlisting the help of our great nation's 34th President, Girl B was chosen. The phone call was made and though it sounded like everything was okay, there was just enough of a something that was off about it which raised some concerns with the newcomer.
Him: What if I get mugged?
Me: Then we'll have to get you to a hospital and you would have the experience of paying to be mugged instead of the other experience you thought you paid for.
Him: ...That's not helping to calm me down!
Me: But it is honest. You are taking a risk. The same way that she is. The way that you hope to not be mugged or drugged and stuck in a hotel to fend for your life is the same way she's hoping that you don't use her skin to make a new jacket lining. If it all works out, she'll be compensated and you will have your experience.
If I can ever help it, I'll never be that right again.
     We drive over to the hotel where she told him to meet at the scheduled time and I drop him off and wait in the parking lot. After arriving promptly an hour plus after the scheduled start time due to "traffic", two very important points are bought to his attention (not mine yet because I'm on chauffeur duty):
1-They won't be rockin' at the main hotel at the Palace Station hotel and casino on this lovely evening. Au contraire! They'll be utilizing the Courtyard Hotel at the Palace Station.
2-That something off in the voice that was heard during the phone call? Oh, that was eight years of life. Eight years of hard, Vegas, Backpage heavy, life. In an instant, that young, delicious, 21 year old became a simply not so young and not so delicious 29 year old.
     After seeing that her age had been..."doctored", he chose to stay. After realizing that the hour of tardiness probably had less to do with traffic and more to do with her roommate who was also in the business of "companionship" was currently occupying the room, he chose to stay. After seeing that turn around time was more of a priority than clean up because the previous patron's unwrapped condom was still near the head of the far side of the bed to be used, he probably should've bailed but did not. Besides, the concession offered of simply halfing the bed so that the used condom could play the role of voyeur as opposed to grabbing a garbage bag, using it like a mitten, and doing the animal poop bag invert move almost demands that you see where this ride is bound to take you. According to his account of the evening's events, where it took them was pretty audacious. My thoughts are italicized:
Him: You have condoms?
Liar: ... No, I don't have any more condoms.
Wait a second. This bitch made him wait an hour and in that time, she couldn't stop at a CVS and grab a three pack?
Him: Okay...
Liar: Well... I mean...we're both adults here, right?
No, nigga! No! We're not both adults here! You were an hour late, you padded your age by nearly a decade, and you're alluding to hands down, what may be the most absurd idea in history!
Him: Well...I know I'm clean... (he shoots her a presumptive look)
Liar: I certainly know I'm clean!
     When he reappeared from an event that would have been lauded by Andre Breton, he walked to the car in a daze that I can only liken to the one Charlie Brown takes in A Charlie Brown Christmas. He is stunned by what has occurred. He's hurt and angry at being deceived. He would have preferred to have been mugged. At least that way he could extol about his newly acquired red badge of courage through this deception. But that was not to be. All of the things that happened to him that evening were on him and none of them bought about anything more than feelings of shame and regret. $160 got him a terribly unprofessional experience, a lackluster story, a pretty good reason to be concerned for his health, and about half a blog post for me. Not exactly the best possible return on investment. By my definition, my co-worker was with a prostitute.
     A mere eight days later, I'm in Seattle about to see a woman whom I've written about sporadically on this blog. A woman whose effortless humor, sardonic wit, and incredibly toned legs have captivated my Twitter page and iPhone wallpaper since mid-July. I get to go to Canada and look Mona in her eyes. Which almost didn't happen because in between my connecting flight in Salt Lake City, UT, I receive Mona's message and it informs me that her day is almost completely booked. I subsequently panic and go to make the appointment right then and there, but I then panic again and hang up because of the fear involved with saying the wrong thing around four adolescent children. I wait for the plane to allow the passengers off of it and make my appointment which was a fabulously discreet process. I get to the hotel and spend the night at some pretentiously swanky digs in a pretentiously swanky city and prep for what will be an amazing day.
     I head to the station to board the ferry into Victoria, British Columbia and I'm excited and nervous. I get my boarding passes and I'm anxious and I'm intrigued. I pat my back pocket and I'm forgetful; oh sweet Jesus, I forgot my passport at the hotel! I call one cab company in the area and they calmly explain to me that it will take them a half hour to get to me as a gypsy cab is pulling up. I've got twenty minutes to make it there and back or this trip is for naught. Fuck reputability.
Me: Can you take a fare?
Cabbie: Yes.
Me: Hotel Max & back. How long?
Cabbie: Fifteen minutes.
Me: Turn this Lincoln into the Mach 5, hoss! Let's bounce!
     As we begin our journey, a train is headed in our direction that forces us to haul an additional level of ass to beat out before the railroad crossing sticks come down and stop this trip before it even starts. But I believe in this driver. He's flashing his brights to turn red lights green, he's utilizing a lighter than usual adherence to speed limits, he's getting the job done. He gets me back to the hotel very quickly, I move hastily back to the hotel room, grab the passport and move with what I felt was an equal level of haste back to the cab. We are high tailing it back to the ferry and are going to make it there without a hitch when, of course, there's a hitch. The train we had to beat to get to the hotel is still going and is so long it is stopping us from getting back to the dock.
Cabbie: How much more time?
Me: Eleven minutes.
Cabbie: It ought to be ending soon...like this one ought to be the last car...riiiiiight here...
Me (ten rail cars later): ...
Cabbie: ... How much more time?
Me: Six minutes.
As the final rail car passes, he cuts somebody in a van off that if the situation was different, I'd feel sorry for. But on that day, at that moment, they weren't human beings with feelings. They were obstacles in the way of me seeing someone that meant a lot to me. I got to the ferry in time and all I could think about was how much effort and how many times my mother has tried to get me to go with her and the rest of the family on a cruise to the Caribbean. I say no before the sentence is finished, let alone the sales pitch. One beautiful woman makes me laugh or fills me with intrigue in 140 characters or less and I'm on a boat to Canada in mid-October. I guess I'm a little different in that regard.
     We dock in Victoria Harbour and since it's a Sunday and I have a few hours to kill, I ask the cab driver to bring me to a place with American football. He does so by bringing me to the Irish Times Pub. I have not eaten everywhere nor do I claim to be a food critic with proper credentials. But I'm daring someone to place a better item on their soup menu than their Westcoast Chowder. Don't even waste your time with a cup. It's insulting. Get a bowl and allow the flavors of sea based happiness to roll over your palate. It tasted so good, I was almost not annoyed with the fact that I had to watch the Montreal Alouettes crush the Hamilton Tiger Cats in the Canadian version of American football...that cabbie was a jerk...
     It was also here that I met Julian. A truly cool as hell bartender that I was able to have some fabulous conversation with while 2 pm couldn't get here fast enough. He offered me some Tabasco sauce for my soup without knowing I was from New Orleans and from there, we just hit it off. We talked about how no one misses humidity and how he will always hold a special place in my memory for being my first authentic Canadian "Eh?". He has this very daring vacation plan next summer to fly in to San Francisco with his girlfriend, rent a car, and drive the coast of the US to the Florida Keys in three weeks. Bravery lives in Victoria, and apparently wears a kilt. He offered me some of their apple cider and I'm typically not one to say not to "delicious" or for that matter, "free" so I take a glass. I blow on it and wait a few seconds for the cider to cool down and just like that, my precious taste buds are dead. It's scalding hot. Someone inadvertently left the cider on too high of a warming temperature but not hot enough to bring it to a boil. It was delicious once an ice cube was added to the glass, it was free now if it wasn't before, but a friendship lost its innocence that day...
Julian: Did I burn you? Oh, shit! I'm sorry man!
Me: It's okay. Not my first rodeo.
Julian: Are you going to be alright?
NO! I'M NOT GOING TO BE OKAY! NOT TODAY! NOT THIS! I NEED THIS! IT'S MY TONGUE! I'M NOT WELL ENOUGH YET TO NOT DO TONGUEY THINGS, MAN! THIS IS MONA WE ARE TALKING ABOUT! I ALMOST MISSED MY DAMN BOAT! ET TU, JULIAN?! BEWARE FIVE DAYS AFTER THE IDES OF OCTOBER! THERE IS A WITCH AMONGST THEE!!! 
Me: Yeah. I'll be fine.
     I left the pub and just walked around the city while awaiting my appointment, experiencing some of the fabulous amenities Victoria has to offer like a Starbucks within the same field of view of another Starbucks and getting back Canadian change when paying for something in American cash. I didn't have an issue with this one because it's a road game for me & I have to play by their rules. It was just really different. With a half hour to go before my appointment, I had to call to get the address. Once I have it, I'll use the ol' phone GPS to get where I need to go without a hitch. But there's a hitch. There's always a hitch. There has to be a hitch. My data connection isn't working at all. The occasional text has made it through and I can send/receive calls but it is simply not logging on to anything. No email, no Twitter, no Facebook, most importantly no Google Maps, no nothing. So I do what any self-respecting gentleman would do in this situation and go to the bookstore across the street and ask the oldest man there if he can get me the number to a cab in the area. Thankfully, they cannot find their phone book and the clock is ticking. Oy fucking vey. 
Me: Well, do you know where So-And-So Street is?
Old Book Guy: Oh, sure that's only a few blocks that way. What number?
Me: 500 block.
Old Book Guy: Certainly. When you hit that street, take a left. You didn't even need a cab.
When in doubt in a different country, always get info from the old guy in a book store. I only have a small sampling to go off of, but so far, every one of them has been clutch in getting me helpful information.
     I make it to my destination with a few minutes to spare, get let in and go up a mildly unnerving flight of stairs and ring the doorbell to hear the always exhilarating click of a pair of heels and the opening of a giant metal door. "You look cuter than I expected." Oh...my...God...It's her. It's really her. For me to appropriately pine for this woman in the way that is the most fair, I'm going to need some theme music. This ought to do it...
     Mona, the witty little minx with blonde hair and highlights that were kissed by the sun itself. The woman whose eyes captivate as much of my attention as her links to science articles do. Her perkiness isn't insincere. Her coolness isn't pretentious. She's awesome, she knows it, and yet she doesn't come across as unapproachable. Mona rules. *Music off* "Okay, I don't have on any panties and I haven't had time to strap up my heels. You're early." *Music on* Hark! My muse's words are an elixir to this weary traveler's ears! *Music off* I pick a room, hand her my credit card, and relax as she deals with the particulars of the business side of these wonderful interludes.
     She comes back, fully underdressed and strappy heeled like the professional she is, we exchange small talk about my obnoxiously tiny shower and her cat named after not exactly the coolest possible Battlestar Galactica fighter pilot. We talk about my disappointment that she got a new phone before I had a chance to see the ol' Blackberry (Just no damn loyalty in Canada anymore...).We mocked how bad regular radio was. We have a toast and eat a S'muffin (which I had to keep refrigerated by placing the pack in the sink and dumping bucket after bucket of ice into the basin) and just have fun. 
     We made out like we were high schoolers. I requested that she elaborate on a point she made during a time that we were both in a position where it was difficult for either party to focus on the topic at hand, yet she still made one of the most fantastic references I've ever heard (I'll never look at a woman at a cocktail party enjoying an hors d'oeuvres the same way again.). She saw I was struggling with putting on her new gift and though I didn't explain that since I was burned, doing something like buckling the strap of a pump used to be impossible so I don't care how long it takes if I can get it done, she simply offered to help. When I asked her if she had any condoms, she replied, "Of course! You never have to worry about that with me!" Which was then followed by more touching and tasting and giggling and expletive-laced investigative inquiries like, "Where the fuck are my condoms?" as she rummaged through a small purse. While I continued to explore, I couldn't help but ask if she still couldn't find them. "Well, yeah, I did but I didn't really want that to stop." Best possible visual to describe confidence level?

     She understood my situation with my addiction and made me feel comfortable, regardless of the outcome. She shared stories of her experiences. She cared. She rules. A friendly reminder knock on the door was used to let us know that my time with my muse was up and I gave her a good bye kiss...which became a big good bye kiss...which was fabulously intense. So intense in fact, that after we were done, I cursed the heavens and grabbed her hand and placed it right below my belt. "Dude, do you have the worst timing in history?" Yes, Mona. Yes I do.
     I received my orders to just practice and don't worry about it. I know that one day, I'll sort out all of these things. But it would be foolish to say that I'm in no way deterred by my performance even though the reality is she's literally the 2nd partner I've had in my 31 years on this planet. I've given her my word that I will come back and she'll get a better me and I am working very hard to make that happen. She is this really fun, quirky, firecracker of animal magnetism. What makes her sexy isn't just her appearance or her passion. It's her zeal for life itself that comes through in her work and her time with you. I was just as happy looking into her eyes as I was watching her writhe on top of my face (which isn't the fairest simile because technically I could still look her in the eyes). Inconsistencies were explained, moments were shared, and a smile couldn't possibly leave my face while there. She saw me out and gave me a hug goodbye which might have gotten her lips and neck some additional attention and as I left, I couldn't help but wish that a motherfucker would try to put a dent into just how fabulous my experience was in Victoria.
     Soon thereafter, I got back on the ferry to Seattle and once I hit the States, I received a message that I will hold dear to my heart for years to come. I felt wanted and appreciated. Not in the strip club sense of "She's trying to keep me here longer to get more money." but in the sense of, "She wanted to make sure I knew what this time meant to her." To be honest, it meant so much to me that while writing the original draft of this on the airplane back home from Seattle and reminiscing about some of the nuances and details of my appointment, I became teary-eyed. If you can experience that for free, more power to you. But I have no problem being charged a premium for that. By my definition, what I was lucky enough to experience is an escort.
     I have no issue with Backpage (in fact, my co-worker ended up having a fabulous time with a few young ladies when we made it back to LA) but, I do have a major issue with being a sucker. I love that I can use Twitter to vet the escorts I would potentially see because personality matters. If all you have to offer is your body, you can keep it to yourself. I'm not looking for prostitutes. I'm am here and in this lifestyle to get better and to heal the tremendous amount of damage I've done to myself over the years. I'm not looking for a fuck buddy or some random ho to just throw my dick into. I'm not looking for a relationship until I'm comfortable enough with myself. I'm looking for a few people I can share a moment or two with, that can teach me some things that demand to be field tested, that love to laugh, and can appreciate a pair of pumps. If that costs a few bucks, here's my card, don't call them a prostitute, and tell me where I need to sign. Because as a beautiful young lady once told me while putting her hair up in a ponytail prior to being incredibly accommodating (as escorts tend to be), "Shit's about to get real." *Music on*

Melissa, Carmen, & Meg or Cake Pops, S'muffins, Steak, & Sweet Potatoes

     It's been a little while since I've written anything here. To be fair, I predominantly blog about my life and sex in relation to my life and since I've reluctantly given up porn, there has been that much less sex to talk about. However, my job has sent me to Southern California for a few weeks and I've come across some spectacular food. So let's just see how much range I have...

     Dateline: July 2012. I receive an email about muffin-sized s'mores and subsequently lose my damn mind. I haven't had a s'more since I was a wee li'l tyke. But $55 after shipping is a rough sell for a confectionary that I'll be enjoying by my lonesome. Fast forward a mere fifteen months and God finds a way to do right by a fella. It is officially s'muffin time! Except on Sundays and Mondays which forced me to implement a colon before an open parenthesis on all of my social media updates. Otherwise known as a sad face.

     Dateline: The Tuesday after not being able to go on Sunday or Monday. After working overnight and having the stench of specialty confectionary conquest failure permeating my every thought, a few co-workers and I hit the road for forty minutes...FORTY DAMN MINUTES to get our hands on a dozen of these damn s'muffins and we were still an hour early because the same food lust (flust?) that demands you don't check a shop's availability on a Monday is the same flust (...nah, food lust) that allows you to repeat that mistake the next day. With an hour to burn, it was only natural to kill some time in the local smoke shop and since I don't smoke, it was only that much more natural to not have anything to do. Thirty down, my buddies are happy, thirty to go, and we meet Melissa.

     We enter Melissa's lovely establishment, Essential Chocolate Desserts, and in-between a delightfully warm exchange of cordiality and a surreal lack of self-control on my part, I pick out EIGHT different cake truffles. There was blueberry, carrot cake, chocolate peanut butter, chocolate covered in milk chocolate, red velvet, something involving lemon I don't remember, and they all had the same thing in common: with every bite, I hated Melissa. I hated Melissa because I knew she owned me. With every concurrent gnaw of my molars, I lost control of another string. To say that her treats are rich is borderline insulting. Her baseline is decadent and from there, she begins ascension. Yet nothing I ate was overwhelming or "too" anything. She was even kind enough to give me a cup of milk with my order to help wash down the shame of pre-noon, mini-cake binging. On that day, Melissa from Essential Chocolate Desserts became my chocolate Geppetto, which, if she was a black male into D/s play, I'd have far larger issues to discuss. The clock struck noon and though I adored the company of my chocolatier domina, it was time to part ways as my confectionary quest was centered around Carmen.

     Carmen Lindner is the proprietress of Gotta Have S'mores, which, fifteen months ago I received an email about and vowed to try. That vow would be honored on this day. Though they can be shipped, the few retailers that carry them predominately deal in singles and half-dozens. The only one I saw that also sold them by the dozen was the Platine Bakery down the street from my newly beloved Melissa and since I'm not a punk, that's where we went. If you include the hype from the email I got, the anticipation that came from not getting them the previous day, and the moderately lingering trance I was still under from Melissa's cake truffles, a lot of pressure was on Carmen and her mini-muffin sized s'mores to deliver. They are packaged with a variety of milk chocolate, white chocolate, and caramel s'muffins and EVEN AT THE RETAIL LEVEL, THEY ARE SOLD REFRIGERATED. It's not a bad thing but I'd prefer you not go in with false pretenses. I dropped a little less than $30 for my dozen, my colleagues dropped roughly half of that for their six each, and the moment of reckoning had arrived.

     My roommate was very clear on the fact that he was not a "muffin guy", so the endgame of this trip for him didn't mean nearly as much as it did to me. My other colleague just likes good food which meant he was all in regardless. Thus, it was no surprise that he went first. After taking his first bite, there was some type of moan typically equated with the sounds of human reproduction and I knew it would be okay to give one of mine a shot. I bit into a white chocolate one and when asked which one I had, I tried to say "white chocolate" but it was surely muffled by the graham cracker base that partially fell out of my mouth since the euphoria I was in lightly numbed my jaw. I was able to snap out of it in time to see my reluctant roommate take a bite of his caramel one. His reaction was quite the whirlwind that began with a gravelly "Oooooohhhhhh!", that transitioned into his lightly skipping down the street, and closed with him walking back and shooting the Platine Bakery the meanest look I've ever seen a human being give a bakery that sold him a third-party confection that they enjoyed. In the exact same way that I hated Melissa, he now hated Carmen. Because love wasn't a strong enough emotion for what their respective confections did to us. We were hooked. Later that week, I gave two to another co-worker, and combined, we ran through sixteen s'muffins in less than a week. Embarrassingly, it was time to re-up.

     Dateline: Saturday of the same damn week. Ridiculous... The original stop on our s'muffin quest was a place on Redondo Beach near our hotel named Made By Meg, a small bistro run by chef/caterer-ess/overall bad ass, Meg Hall. When we overzealously tried on Monday, they were closed. But this wasn't Monday, and we needed our fix. When we initially walked into the bistro, I panicked because I pushed a door clearly labelled "Pull" and knew that this wasn't going to be a good first impression. I subsequently overreact, grab my s'muffins out of the cooler, and shoot Meg, who cordially greets us, arguably the most uncomfortable smile I can muster. She then rings me up for my s'muffins and asks if I'd like anything else and as I take a look at the menu, my work colleague who just got a new camera is snapping pictures like a maniac at anything that would be considered remotely interesting. In what was hands down, the sweetest way I've ever heard anyone paraphrase "What the hell are you doing?", Meg asks him if he's a blogger and once he explains the situation, she just lets him continue to do his thing. I finally decide on (what I believe was) the grilled flank steak with soy chile glaze & vanilla bean sweet potatoes. After a few minutes, I receive my dish to go and we head to the car to put up our newly acquired s'muffins and head to the beach. I sit down, take a bite of the meal, and give a second fork to my colleagues as I walk back inside to personally fawn over this woman's cooking. I typically don't care for sweet & salty/spicy combinations but I took a risk and came up aces with this one. The tenderness and juicy flavor of the grilled steak flowed seamlessly into the light sweetness of the sweet potato/vanilla bean which rolled into what was just the right amount of heat of what I think were scallions but I'm not certain. All of the flavor transitions had such a smooth fluidity and rolled back and forth into each other like the feeling one gets riding a swing. Instead of saying any of this to her directly, I believe I just said, "Wow!" which was followed by me muttering some other incoherent nonsense and her graciously accepting my praise and inviting me to come back for her Two For Tuesday promotion. Which I hope to do while still here.

     If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, these women must have carte blanche as it pertains to suitors. They have all found a way to not only create culinary masterpieces, but to find their own niche in a place where over saturation can make it easy to get lost in the shuffle. I'm grateful for the chance to try all of their artwork and hope for the chance to do so again. I wish them all continued success and if anyone reading this gets a chance to travel to Southern California, don't dare hesitate to try all three.

The Benefits Of Hypocrisy

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1 Shade of Gainsboro

     The next time you visit a water park, take a few seconds, head over to the wave pool, and observe the black people. More of us cannot swim than can and just aren't fans of water in or near our faces. So most of us can be seen on the average no deeper than six feet in the water until the waves start. Then it is a mad dash (awkward swim walk) to the shallowest portion of the pool. We don't mind it, we know it can be fun, but when things get remotely out of control, we bail as quickly as possible until things settle back down to a reasonable level. Metaphorically, the previous sentences of this paragraph are the best way to describe my feelings towards kink.

     In my world, words like dirty, filthy, and slutty are terms of endearment. If the precursor of those words in the sentence I'm saying to you is "You are so...", there's a pretty good chance you've just done something amazing with some part of your anatomy in conjunction with a part of mine involving drag coefficients and I am grateful. But sometimes a couple of words and inertia aren't enough to get off effectively. Sometimes, you have to go the Spinal Tap route and simply turn it up to 11 (or make 10 louder). You find yourself looking into things like spanking, hair pulling, foot worship, and handcuffs which doesn't seem too bad. Then you hit wax play, whips, spitting, choking, and water sports and there's a level of reluctance if not outright resistance. But we're not done by a long shot. We haven't hit fisting, caning, plushies, electrical play, sploshing, rope bondage, needles, blah, blah blah, blah, blah! Which at this point, you have a better chance of me passing out than I do of participating. 

     As mentioned before, I'm a voyeur. I will watch damn near anything (I tend to draw my line at things where the woman seems to be forced to perform against her will, especially if there isn't a personal disclaimer by the performer. To me, it's as no bueno as they come.). But the thing with watching is that I am not a responsible party to any of the people involved. When uncomfortable, I do rather poorly with responsibility. How poorly? At 6'4" you still won't see me seated in an emergency row. So if I'm not willing to be comfortable for a five hour flight so I'm not responsible for your well being, it is a safe assumption that I'll at a minimum struggle to acquiesce to your desire to be choked. As hot as it is to see a woman get off, most judicial systems will put my fingerprints around the neck of your lifeless body in the "Open & Shut Case" file drawer. Call me selfish, but I am of the school of thought that my freedom should always take precedence over your extra-intense orgasm. It's not something I'm completely against and I could probably be turned from my position on this particular example. But trust me when I say I would be a very sloooooooooowwwwwwwwwww process to build up to that level of comfort and confidence.

     Any of the various branches of the "kink tree" that I am fond of (and to be honest, even the ones I'm not) have to be rooted in believability. That's what makes a movie like Secretary so damn great. You can see it in everything that Maggie Gyllenhaal and James Spader do, that they NEED this and they can't trust anybody else to not just understand, but to get them to that place. To set them free. That's why even though I can't take the trip into such territory, I can appreciate the slideshow. Freedom is a beautiful thing to observe; it's intense, it's raw, it's really pretty hot. That's the reason why the Puritanical nonsense of traditional thinking that puts shackles on anything out of the ordinary is enraging. If it's nothing you're into, que sera sera. But the notion that anything that isn't milquetoast, meat and potatoes, solely for the purposes of reproduction, missionary is disgusting isn't just wrong, it's loud wrong. The magic of freedom is that you have the opportunity of the option. You get to sort out if lying down in a bathtub or on a sheet of Visqueen and closing your eyes tightly while someone drinks a few bottles of Fiji and presses on their lower abdomen as they fully relax and estimate accuracy is the right move for you! If it comes from a genuine place and no one is being hurt (without their consent) then everyone wins.
     Enjoy every shade of grey you can handle physically, psychologically, and emotionally, people. Just do it safely and respectfully of your partner's wishes as well. As I once told a co-worker who was clueless to why his girlfriend didn't give him a second chance at anal, "You don't pussy-fuck an ass, you neanderthal." You are being trusted with their complete well-being which is not a responsibility to take lightly. Doors can be opened that neither party knew existed or knows how to deal with but if your partner can trust you with their deepest seeded and rawest emotions, how great do you think both of your worlds will become once freedom is introduced; regardless of how crazy things get between you kids. So while some of you are over by "charcoal", wearing rubber masks with mouth zippers or ball gags with 80%-98% of your movement restricted, hardened candle wax splattered all over your person, and getting popped on the soles of your feet with an electric wand sending you adrift into sweet, sweet subspace, I'll be way the hell over here by "gainsboro", asking if you're okay if you suck in your next breath through clenched teeth after I pull your hair back. And when you say "Yes", I'll pull back a little harder and ask you "What did you say?". And when you say, "Yes, sir.", we'll get back to work...you filthy...little...bitch... 

White Lust, Conspiracies, Black Fear & Anger, Jose Canseco. Not Necessarily In That Order

     "Tiffany and a big girl whose name escapes me." If asked the question "Who were the first two girls you ever kissed?", that would be the answer. Tiffany was a brunette, big girl was a blonde. They both had long, flowing hair. I have no idea if they were good kissers because it happened in Kindergarten. I do recall being douchey to the big girl later on and making her cry which if you know me well, you know this would sadly be a harbinger of the years to come. But the primary similarity was that they were white girls. It wasn't a fad. Nobody dared me to do it. I simply knew even then what I liked.
     With the exception of my first stint in the eighth grade where I became enamored with Spanish women (which I still do enjoy but knowing that they're not above reenacting their favorite Kill Bill scene on one's penis or throwing gasoline in one's face over a lawn mowing discrepancy is a bit of a turn off), it has been a celebration of skin color ranging from "Sweetheart, I can see your veins." porcelain to slightly lighter than me. It does not mean that I'm completely averse to black women. There are some that I've come across that are absolutely stunning. But when I'm not being a bombastic, overly loquacious, nitwit, I like a certain level of calm that the law of averages state I will struggle to find with a black woman. I didn't consult an actuary to come to this conclusion. I have lived this first-hand.

     Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and a woman scorned hath no fury like a black woman who sees any black man with a white woman. I can't get enough of white women so I've seen a substantial amount of the scorn. I've experienced a substantial amount of the fury, and I'm taking a rain check on all of it. The best example I could give of this was during a stint working at Target where an attractive black woman (who was in a bad marriage at the time) that liked me a lot was very upset with my preference of female companionship. I'm talking about smelting metal hot about this topic. She tried to place the flaws of all black men onto my shoulders. She tried to make me feel shame for my decisions. She spoke with rage in her heart and a passionate fury. Her vitriolic words came out so quickly I was nearly compelled to buy a pack of Micro Machines. A few days later she told me that even after all of this injustice that I (the guy who wasn't trying to get in the middle of a bad marriage regardless of my racially amorous preferences) had done to her by simply accepting what I do and don't like, she still wanted to pursue a li'l somethin' somethin' (queue the slide bass and the wah pedal, nod head in rhythm to the melody, lightly bite bottom lip). As fantastic as that sounded in theory, much like communism, I felt it would be in everyone's best interest if she placed www.fuckfromaroundme.com at the apex of her favorite websites and leave me the hell alone. That story ends with me making out with a cute, chubby white girl in her office. Boom.
     The heart simply wants what the heart wants and until something happens that makes me feel something otherwise, my heart wants a snow bunny. During the nineties, there was probably a sliver of hope that could have skewed my opinion on this matter but at some point in the early 2000's, I think the government got involved. I don't have any proof of this but change was in the air, and sometimes...a change...is just what we need...WHITE BITCHES STARTED TO GET ABSOLUTELY DELICIOUS CURVES AND HELLA FAT ASSES AND INDIVIDUALS LIKE MYSELF RE-MUTHAFUCKIN-JOICED!!! Oh, my God. They were great already and now, now they're like Blade! It was all the strengths of being with a black woman but with none of (what I always felt were for me) the weaknesses of being with a black woman. The day I realized it wasn't some anomaly and there were the beginnings of an abundance of them, I almost cried. I know I bought a bible because I felt after such a gift, I needed to become closer to a higher power. Instead of shouting to the heavens, I should've screamed "Thank you!" at the front steps of the FDA for putting my needs in front of the health and potential public safety of the people. We needed more food and thanks to steroids in the feed we gave to our livestock, we damn well got it. Sadly, it made it that much more difficult for bouncers and bartenders to eyeball under aged people to their fake ID's effectively because the maturation cycle of teenagers had been cranked up to a road runner-esque rate of speed. But, if you want to make an omelette, you will simply have to break some eggs.
     I was unapologetic about my preferences when white women walked around in Jordache cut off jean shorts and tie-dye shirts with the figure of a surfboard. There isn't a chance in hell now of me looking at this subject with regret. I've always been okay with what I wanted. My government simply took what was great, and gave it a little...boost. I don't have anything against black women at all. I've met some incredible ones but there was simply no attraction. No spark. I like when the needle moves; when the electric connection between a man and a woman cannot be denied. To pigeonhole my opportunity to experience that sensation to solely my race would be the most absurd thing on the planet and I'm not doing it. I'm one man who's only been in several relationships and when they turned sour, I didn't lose a wink of sleep over the skin color of the person I chose to try to be happy with. Every black female, including my lovely mother, that felt at some point that I should feel otherwise and that I'm simply intimidated by a "strong" black woman, you're absolutely right. But all you can do about it is take your racist, double standard, strong-arm tactics, and get on the bus to Bitterville, USA with Tyler Perry's greatest hits playing on your tablet. Just be sure to sit in the front. You've earned it.

The Greatest Night In The History Of The World...Ever

     At six years of age, I had my only birthday party. Someone stole my cousin's copy of Double Dragon 2 and my mother explained that I had to use my birthday money to fix the injustice that was done to him. I didn't have a boatload of recourse because most six year olds don't have recourse and as such, I simply took that loss. Eleven years later at a friend's birthday party, two of my best friends, Chris and the late Dave Rome felt completely ostracized because I felt obligated to split time between them, the birthday girl, and her friends (By her friends, I really mean this really hot little thing that I wanted badly because she was soooo sexy and maybe she was just being flirtatious but since I'm terrible at picking up signals I don't really know). Regardless of my reasoning behind not paying them the attention they deserved, they grew weary of the scene and we left early. When my father came to pick us up, Dave left them the parting gift of taking several lengthy passes along the top layer of cake frosting with his tongue. I miss the hell out of that maniac. Some other birthday parties happened in between and after those two but only one birthday party is worth remembering and that is Samantha's catapulting into adulthood: "The Sam & Unnamed Co-Birthday Girl's 21st Birthday White Trash Bash" or as I refer to it: "The Greatest Night In The History Of The World...Ever"

    

Dateline: February, 2011

     I have been invited to and have decided to attend my co-worker and good friend Samantha's 21st birthday party which she will share the top billing with her lifelong friend. Since I don't know precisely what to buy a young lady who I'm not exactly close enough to get something that shows I pay attention to the nuances of her personality, I roll with the gift that can keep on giving, a carton of cigarettes. (It's not like it was her first one, so take your judgement about me perpetuating her awful habit and send it elsewhere.) As sad as that was to buy them, I had to make sure to purchase the correct brand without giving away to her what the gift is. Enter Sam's sister.

     Sam's sister is a problem. She's young, she's sexy, she's a bit of a hot head, and she's completely aware of the power she wields over men but not the responsibility that comes with that power and that is dangerous to someone like me who has no issue succumbing to the siren's song of practically any young damsel. But at that moment, I needed her because she had information. So if I could just, for once, play it cool and ask her the simplest of questions, I can get through this potential minefield of lust that I'm absolutely certain I'd Pepe Le Pew saunter into. Here goes nothing...

SUCCESS!!!

   With that bullet dodged, it was off to one of the classiest fashion hubs to find appropriate attire for a "White Trash Bash", JC Penney, where I was (shockingly) able to find everything I needed for the occasion: A button down plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off, Coors Light baseball cap, "vintage" (aka: Pre-faded) Twinkies branded t-shirt, and a pair of ill-fitting, stonewashed jorts completed my ensemble. I would be stunned if at least a few of the ladies at the party would be able to contain their wanton desire to be with someone that looked as good as I did that night and didn't need to keep their legs crossed constantly to stop their bodies from showing what their faces tried so hard to hide. Yet, I was stunned. Because every lady there couldn't care what I was wearing and because of what happened soon after.

     Sam's co-birthday girl is wearing a trucker hat that is advertising a faux whore house and I am the ONLY black guy in this place. Two statements of fact that have no relevance to anything yet but are obviously there to foreshadow. I make my rounds meeting and greeting with co-workers and people I'll never meet again. Hours pass and alcoholic drinks are consumed at a rate that only the young think is okay or an alcoholic has conditioned his body to accept. I have finally made it over to the table where a spectacular strawberry shortcake has been partially cut into reasonable slices. The DJ, Sam's brother and my former co-worker drops the volume so that his sister can say a few words of thanks. Most I don't recall but these certainly stick out in my memory bank: "I just want to say thank you to my best friend...Who would've thought we were in Kindergarten together and now we're sharing our 21st birthdays together?" The music starts back up and being the attention whore that I am, I felt there was no better time to uncomfortably bring our races just a little bit closer by grabbing the mic and since I was the only black guy there, I just requested that everyone could find it in their hearts to try to incorporate more black people in their personal lives. I then thanked them all and grabbed another piece of cake. The people that didn't know me were shocked, the people that did know me laughed uncontrollably, and in minutes, every word I said took a back seat to the bedlam that followed.

     In the midst of me devouring piece three of birthday cake, someone says within earshot of Sam's co-birthday girl's allegedly inebriated stepfather, "Bye, whore!" The combination of copious amounts of alcohol and a lack of context was a veritable powder keg that has just been lit and thus elicited this reaction from her stepfather, "Who said it?! Which one of y'all niggas called my daughter a whore?! Which one of y'all niggas did it?!" With there being only one actual patron at the party that could lay claim to the literal label of "nigga", all eyes are of course, centered on me and I calmly, with a mouth full of cake, profess my innocence and a lack of knowledge of the wronged party. Stepfather leaves; young drunk kids talk about what they would have done had he got in their face; stepfather returns with additional vitriol but still just one racial slur in the chamber; I'm on cake piece four. He continues his tirade demanding justice for his besmirched stepdaughter which is finally ended by one patron saying, "Fuck it, I said it!" and for his troubles gets grabbed by the neck and shoved against the nearest wall. A battle royale breaks out in and around the party that was too frantic to focus on it all but what I did focus on was magical.

   Near the same wall where the confessor was choked, co-birthday girl is sitting on the floor crying. Sam tries to help her up and for her troubles has it explained to her that this is all her fault. Sam's mother tries to get in between the two best of friends since Kindergarten and for her troubles gets rocked with a sucker punch that drops her to the floor. At that precise moment, their world slowed down to a screeching halt. As it pertained to their relationship, everything that we knew to be was no more.

     "You fucking bitch! I'll kill you!" screamed Sam as she tried to help up her mother. Sam's sister turned into a raging maniac as she ran as hard as her delightfully toned, booth tanned, drunken legs could carry her which was into our co-worker's arms that she didn't know. So he was bitten. Sam's brother and I tried to explain that it was okay to remove her teeth from his forearm because he was one of us when the remaining two-thirds of the strawberry shortcake I had gone quite fond of soared through the air and had delicious chunks of confectionery shrapnel hit us in the back thanks to the increasingly selfish actions of the co-birthday girl who storms out to the patio area.  Sam's sister breaks free of my co-worker's grasp and in one of the most adorable displays of a disregard for inertia I had ever seen, runs halfheartedly into the bartender guarding the patio door and falls on her ass as the door, which might have been opened just enough to get your arm through it, closed at an insultingly slow rate of speed.

     Some other things happened that I wasn't around to see and their friendship, which I'm sure isn't difficult to imagine, is beyond repair but what they did that night was make it crystal clear that if someone wants to lay claim to having the best birthday party I've ever seen, they have a lot of work to do. Ladies and gentlemen, you are on the clock...

Ho Like A Seven

     "How hot is that girl, on a scale from 1-10?" It's a question I'm certain I've been bombarded with on downright countless occasions. Typically, I throw out numbers somewhere in the range of 4-6, 7 if you're a 6 and I think I have a chance to sleep with you. 8's & 9's are predominately reserved for models, and thanks to an old friend named Brad F., nobody gets a 10. "Only one girl gets a 10. She is the hottest girl you've ever seen in your life, and she's a mute. Once she talks, there is an automatic point deduction." Harsh? Probably. But that is the bar and until it has been cleared, there's no reason to raise it. The best grading system I've ever known was the late comic Patrice O'Neal's method of utilizing 3 tiers: 

1-10 for unattractive women.

11-20 for your average women.

21-30 for truly gorgeous women.

(A more detailed explanation of this scale can be found on his cd, Unreleased on the track, "Better Than You" beginning at the 13:27 mark.) For the purpose of this blog post, I'll be using the 1-10 scale we're all accustomed to.

     Years ago while at a bachelor party, two women, a blond and a brunette were hired to "entertain". Neither woman was particularly attractive but the brunette was much more attractive than the blonde. So let's say they were a 5 and a 3 respectively. At the beginning of their performance, the bulk of the men focused their attention on the brunette because of the obvious disparity in attractiveness. However, as the night continued, a g-spot vibrator found itself in the middle of this pandemonium and eventually, in the middle of the blonde's inner labia. A twist of a dial and several plunges later, it's monsoon season. Within seconds, it was as if someone pulled the cord on the bird's tail during the Flintstones opening theme because ALL attention was centered on this hag with the nifty parlor trick. The more she squirted, the more money piled near her. The more it piled, the more the brunette picked up. She could because she was no longer busy dealing with attending to needy gentleman. They were busy being astonished by the woman whose vagina water conjured up references of early nineties Starburst commercials. A very important lesson was learned by me that day.

     "How could he/she be with her/him?" A question that before the night of that bachelor party I couldn't possibly wrap my head around. People dating out of their league and achieving. Seal gets Heidi Klum? If the natural order of things truly existed, even fairy tale publishers are laughing you out of the office if you try to pitch that chaos.  So how does one make up a three or more point disparity without being able to sing like Seal? I don't have a clue how women pick them but I'm sure money and status help. I do however know what most men do.

     Most men have two grades (physical appearance and sexual prowess) but we typically only discuss the appearance grade and that is to the advantage of the informed female. Men do not average out to get their final score for a woman. They drop the lower score of the two. So in the case of the bachelor party, while the brunette looked like a 5, the blonde that looked like a 3, ho'd like a 7. If a decent fella is with a complete wreck of a woman, and it's not a sugar momma situation, there's a great possibility that she is deliciously filthy. We are in the home stretch of 2013 and pretentious people might want to get a clue that the sexiest word in the English language is an enthusiastic "okay". "Don't" and "won't" are your prerogative and your wishes should be respected, but the presumption that your significant other won't search for or find "can", "will", and "Wait, people DON'T do that?" is thought process at best reserved for Disney princess movies.

  Ladies, drop that holier than thou attitude and put your man in your mouth, you prudes. Guys, at least let her put the vibrator near your asshole. It won't make you a sissy. Because at a certain point, the barely tolerable guy in the office that can finger your girl to an orgasm that sends her world crashing down like limbo in Inception or the custodian lady that can start at the tip of a 7" and end up Eskimo kissing your man's belly button is going to garner far more attention than you're going to be able to defend against. Don't just look it. Ho like it.

The Two Women I Let Stick Their Fingers In My Mouth

     Regardless of circumstance, there is something to be said about the touch of a compassionate woman. This post highlights two of those touches & the women behind them. 

     Before my emotional breakdown, I had never heard of Temporomandibular joint dysfunction (Heretofore referred to as TMJ). However, since I was on a warpath to fix every single tangible issue that I had, a massage where I freaked out turned into a dentist appointment...which eventually became research into this issue. This is where I found out about Cranialsacral therapy & one of its practitioners, the incomparable Judy Bolton, LMT.

     Judy is a star. Period. End of discussion. She is a beautiful woman in her mid-40s with boundless enthusiasm. She's travelled the world and shops at Whole Foods and rides a bike and is nothing short of an enthralling conversation every time we've spoken. If you leave Judy's presence and feel worse than you did when you came in, it's because you're a sociopath. She cares and you feel it in her touch. She helped me learn how to relax, to focus, and to embrace my empathetic nature which are things I've always struggled with. Thanks to Google, we know each other. 

     Cranialsacral therapy is most akin to chiropractic treatment in the sense that the end game is to properly align the bones of the body. Where chiropractic shoves the bones (primarily of the spine) into realignment, Cranialsacral therapy is much more similar to the board game "Labyrinth" where you maneuver the body like the playing surface to allow the bones to settle into place correctly. It's pretty simple, very methodical, and painless...with the exception of the pure shock that courses through ones veins with when she puts on surgical gloves and says, "Okay, it is time to realign your jaws!"  Though I don't panic, I certainly do have reservations. But she hasn't done me wrong yet so I just hunker down and open up; at which point, she begins to pull.

     She pulled up, down, forward, from behind the molars, from the sides of my bicuspids, she just freakin' pulled. She pulled where I had to move my tongue out of her way. She pulled where I had to make sure not to bite her fingers. She pulled to the point that I felt like the Maitlands trying to scare off the Deetzes before calling in Beetlejuice. But through all of the discomfort, I could hear her calm, I could feel her care. I knew I was okay. I paid her fee, I tipped her generously, and I left a new man.

     

     When you're dealing with social phobias, getting through them feels like trying to stop drowning with ZERO ability to swim. When you're smart enough to justify them, then hyper analyze all of the possible negative conclusions with the sole intent of self-sabotage, only to accept that your best bet is to not try to get over them and stand pat at social leper, at a minimum it expedites the process because you become fatigued that much more quickly. That level of fatigue is the feeling that comes with every day of knowing I am thirty one years of age, I am a virgin, I have no prospects, and I am horrified of failure to the point that I refuse to try. So if I even get in a relationship, I don't know HOW to have sex with a reasonable level of skill. If I do it poorly, the person I've invested this effort into will want to leave, which will put me back to square one. Fast forward to the previously mentioned warpath and I come to the perfectly reasonable conclusion that the best way to put an end to this vicious cycle was to bang a hooker. A Google search or two later, I found out that the proper locution of that expression was to "Have a date with a companion". After some research (Clicking "I'm feeling lucky") I came across the fabulous Christie.

     Christie is also a star. It didn't matter that my fantasy request for her to wear pumps, stockings, and a garter belt went unfulfilled. It didn't matter that 30 minutes into a two hour session, my penis decided to do its flawless impression of the life span of a flower via time lapse photography. It didn't matter that during a moment of simultaneous oral/digital stimulation, my lack of attention sent a finger in the one place she made it clear she wanted nobody to go. It didn't even matter how much I insulted her by asking if she doesn't cater to men of color. All that matters in that room is her client and in that time period I may have been her client, but it felt like I was her "boyfriend".

     Christie was also a "form letter". What I mean by that is she has loved enough to convincingly fake real love. So a person who hyper analyzes can be stuck with a lot of question marks: "Was I really any good?" "Did I actually please her?" But then the most important question comes up: "Who gives a fuck?" So regardless of what she actually felt, I know what I felt, and I felt she did everything in her power to see to it that I had an incredible time and I'd see her again in a heartbeat.

     I'm a ho. I have no qualms admitting to my ho-ish nature or the fact that I enjoy ho-centric activities. Because of this, I prefer a certain level of reciprocation and Christie was very recipricolistic (not a real word, can't care) in her ho-ing. So at some point in the middle of one of her countless spectacular blow jobs, I asked her to place a few of her well manicured digits inside of herself and then allow me an opportunity to sample her natural flavor. Which in real time definitely sounded much closer to, "Put your fingers in your fuckin' pussy and let me suck your juices off!" (I don't claim to channel John Keats when consumed with lust.) She, like the lady she is, obliged and in turn I transformed into equal parts Gomez Addams and Cookie Monster. If it was on her person, it was kissed, licked, sucked, tasted, lightly bitten, and/or devoured with infinitely more enthusiasm than proficiency until my out-of-practice jaws grew weary. My time with her ended without a proper denouement but through everything, I could feel her care. I was unbelievably relieved to have that albatross gone from my life, I paid her fee, I tipped her generously, and I left a new man.

     
     What makes those women special has very little to do with their fingers in my mouth. It has everything to do with their passion for their chosen careers and more importantly the way that their compassion for their clients shines through in the work that they do. I'm sure the same could be said for nurses and even people who work at McDonalds' drive-thrus (like this black guy named Ronald who always had a giant smile on his face and remembered me every time I drove up...but thankfully never put his fingers in my mouth...). Appreciate them. Tell them thank you. Let a silly, little, oblivious to the cataclysmic state of worldwide affairs ray of sunshine find its way into your life. How bad could it be?