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The List...yes, "How many girls have you....."

The other day a provider asked me how many girls I'd done in my hobbying career....To the month, it's been 41 years since I paid two bucks for a bj in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. I'm not the type to look back. But I do take stock from time to time....

Number of years in the hobby: 41
Number of providers I've seen, total: 300? 400? More?

Approximate breakdown by type: Streetwalkers - 150+ Massage Parlors - 50+ Brothel Girls (high end) 125 + Professional Doms or Subs in Appropriately Equipped Facilities: 26 Internet Independents 75 + Internet Agency Girls - 1

Number of providers w/ whom I've had dinner in a restaurant: 10

Number I've had breakfast with: 6

Number I've seen a movie in a theater with: 0

Number I've seen a live show w/: 4

Number I've seen a concert w/: 3

Number I've traveled with: 5

Number I've taken overseas: 1

Number I've gone to a state fair with: 1

Number I've done overnights w/: 7

Number of 2-girl sessions: 3

Number of 2-guy sessions with one girl: One

Number times the provider asked me to stay the night, spontaneously: twice

Day jobs -- Number who were: artists 3; writers: 1 musicians: 0 interior designers: 1 hospital employees 1; house cleaners: 2 sales reps 2 waitresses 1; fundraisers 1; consultants 1

Number whose full, real name I know: 11

Number whose home I visited, but not as an incall location: Three

Number whose family members I met: Two

Number who met my family/friends: One

Number whose husband I've met: One

Number for whom I've bought chocolates: 1; flowers: one; Clothing: 6; jewelry: 2; trips: 5; gift certificates: 1; wine/liquor: 2; drugs: 2.

Number I smoked dope with: 3

Number I did other drugs with: 0

Number who provided services for one-digit sums: One

Number who provided services for two-digit sums: Close to 100?

Number to whom I've handed three-digit sums: Ummm...300?

Number to whom I've handed four-digit sums: Five

Number to whom I've written checks: 2

Number to whom I've given a regular allowance: 2

Number to whom I gave an Amex Gold Card: One

Highest rate paid: $1,200/hour (actually, 300/hr but only for 15 minutes)

Lowest rate paid: 0

Number with whom I've done road trips (i.e., met in or traveled to, and had sex in, more than 2 cities): 4

Number with whom I had a "fuckbuddy" relationship: One

Number with whom the L word was mutually used: Two

Number with whom the M word was discussed: One

Number with whom I had or would have a civilian relationship: Two or three

Number I've been good friends with but haven't and won't have sex with because of the friendship: One.

Number to whom I've given/loaned money because she needed it, without expectation of repayment or rendering of services: 4

Number who paid it back on own volition: Two

Number times I've had money stolen: 0

Number of times I felt I've been ripped off: About a dozen (i.e., services promised but not delivered)

Number with whom the session took place in an automobile and included FS: Two

Number with whom the session took place in an hourly hotel: 5

Number in airplane restroom at 35,000 feet: 1

Number in a hotel stairwell: 1

Number in a rainforest, on a tarp: 1

Number with her pet present, like on the bed, during the act: 2

Number of providers whose other clients I've met in person: 2

Number of times "caught" by police: 3 (Streetwalkers); Number of times arrested: 0

Number of times I've caught STDs: 2 (massage parlors, early 70s)

Number of times I've gotten the crabs: once (massage parlor, early 70s)

Number of countries in which I've been with providers: 3; Number of states: 8

Most common name: Tiffany

Most unusual name: Alantra (then I figured out it was derived from a car!)

Weirdest name coincidence: Seeing Summer in the summer and Autumn in the autumn.

Weirdest name phenomenon: The gorgeous streetwalker who kept changing her name every seven minutes or so.

Most beautiful name: Nerida (means water lilies)

Duration of longest provider/hobbyist relationship (i.e., from first session to last): 14 years (1987 -2001 -- Oh, Patty, where are you now???!)

Number whose skin tasted of salt: Too many.

Number who wore wigs: 5

Number with seriously bad breath: 2 that I can remember distinctly

Number with body odor: 0

Number who farted during the session: One or two

Number who farted when she came: One (equal to Number of civvies)

Strangest body feature: the hearing aid implanted on the side of the head

Sleaziest situation in which I ejaculated: the handjob in the back of a lapdance bar, standing up.

Number who watched TV during intercourse: One

Number who fell asleep during the session: One

Number who freaked out, for reasons unrelated to me, and couldn't render services: One

Number who insisted on using two - that's right, two - condoms, one on top of the other, "Just in case" -- one

Number I've showered w/: 4

Number I've taken a bubble bath w/: One

Number whose pix I have or had, excluding pix off the internet available to anyone: seven

Number who have visited my office, simply as a visit, not to render services: 3

Number who have rendered services in my office: 0

Number who have visited my home, simply as a visit: Three

Number with whom I've had a session in my home: Two

Number with whom I've had an extended (i.e., one year or more) email correspondence: 3

Greatest number of cities in which I've had a session with the same provider: 4

Best game: "Name that pussy!" (In doubles, hobbyist is blindfolded and has to guess who's sitting on his face)

Most touching thing said to me, but that was ridiculous in retrospect: After a marathon three-hour session at the brothel that would have used up a couple of alphabets of acronyms, I took her out for drinks and then walked her home. We kissed on her doorstep, then she said, in her darling Australian accent, "I'd invite you up, but I don't think I'm ready for that yet."

Gesture most gratifying to the little head's ego: When she posted on her website the photo I took of her face as I was doing her.

Gesture most gratifying to the big head's ego: When she posted my picture on her website.

Best overall technique: Staring me dead in the eye and talking dirty based on things she knew about me

Best physical technique: The combined BJ and prostate massage.

Most intense form of intimacy: Fisting her, at her request.

Most surprising moment: When a new provider started talking dirty with vivid fantasies in the middle of the session.

Most anticipated moment: At the airport, meeting a provider I'd never before met for an overnight.


Blog posted 04/03/2007 @ 07:58 am  |  8 Comments  |  Leave a Comment



Part II of the true story....read part I if you haven't yet.

And then I came: furiously, copiously, shooting my semen into the tip of the condom. Catharine pressed her hips down on me yet harder, as though to squeeze out the last drop. Then she leaned forward, smiled and kissed me. A moment later, she was up, and cleaned me off with a hot, wet towel.

I stretched back on the bed. Catharine lay next to me, her head in the crook of my encircling arm.

"How'd you get into this?" I asked.

"My friend Norma's been doing it for years. I always wanted to try, and it's wonderful."

I was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"My job is to love people, to take care of them, and the men who come here are very loveable."

"I'd think they'd be pretty rough and horny."

"Oh, some, of course. But most are... well, needy. There's Jim, who's impotent but loves to pleasure a woman with his hands and mouth. But he's too embarrassed to try outside of here, too afraid that women would make fun of him. And Michael, whose wife was burned in the pubic area when she was a teenager, and she freaks if he touches her there. He loves to look and to touch me. Another guy comes in and has me dress up in a school uniform and knee socks and sit on his lap and jerk him off. It's sick, but it's better he do it to me than a schoolgirl on the street. They come here, they tell me their innermost needs, their secrets, and I love them for an hour."

"You can't really love someone for an hour," I protested.

"Of course you can." Catharine smiled. "The heart knows no clock. Besides, love is an act -- it doesn't exist unless it's done. And sometimes the doing is simply in saying it -- look at the way people worry about whether their spouses say that they love them when it's so obvious that they do."

"You're cheapening it," I protested.

"You're putting a price on it," she retorted, raising her eyebrow. Then she winked and laughed.

"There's my friend Nelson, who comes to see me twice a week. I love Nelson, but I'd never tell him that. He's a Hasidic Jew, only 32 years old with seven children. They drive him crazy. Because of his religion, he can only have intercourse with his wife through a hole in a sheet -- he can't feel the touch of her skin against his. So he comes here for the touch of a woman's skin. But you know what he really cares about? He cares about the ball game on Sunday afternoons. His wife won't let him watch the ball game on Sunday afternoons or wear blue jeans. So he comes over to my little apartment on Sunday afternoons and puts on some jeans I keep for him and watches the ball game."

"And guys like me?"

"I look in your eyes and I see loneliness, Paul. Maybe you're not from here and this is a strange city, or maybe you just lost someone, or perhaps this is a special time of year that makes you sad or lonely. But I look in your eyes and I see you falling and spinning, as though you've nothing to hold on to. So for an hour I'm your parachute."

"You're very perceptive. I just split up with my wife."

Catharine smiled. "So like a man. You're all so adorable, like little boys -- so afraid to go into the void alone. I don't mind. I've been there. And besides, women are stronger, emotionally."

Her eyes became glazed and dreamy for a moment, and she sang along with a haunting melody that was playing on the tape:

"Well, the Heroes never call,

"Nobody's there and there's nowhere to fall.

"Don't you ever wonder? Or it don't matter at all?"

I looked at her quizzically. "Rosie Vela," she answered. "A supermodel turned musician. So good that Steely Dan was her backup band, but she never made it big commercially."

A knock signaled the end of our hour. We dressed quickly and Catharine showed me to the door. Downstairs, outside, I walked to the corner, then turned around: a nondescript building, with a pizza parlor at street level and two additional stories above it.

It was early June. Day was turning to twilight and the smell of night was in the air. I felt a pang -- envy -- for Nelson, spending his Sunday with Catharine, wearing his jeans, watching T.V. I was, suddenly very, very lonely. Against all reason, I intensely wanted to be back with this stranger, with Catharine, to know who she was, to insinuate some filament of my being in her.

And then the words of the song echoed in my mind:

"Don't you ever wonder? Or it don't matter at all?"

Two questions

The light changed and I crossed the street.


Blog posted 03/29/2007 @ 08:27 am  |  5 Comments  |  Leave a Comment



A true story from the bad days of brothels part 1

I had a bad taste from the breakup with my wife that I had to purge, and I had to purge it quickly. I craved the electric thrill of a new, strange woman's touch, the heady high of getting off solely for the sake of getting off. There was a sure way to deal with this: I went to a high-end brothel for a session with someone I didn't know. A place to drop several hundred for an hour with a pretty girl.

There were five women to choose from; an idea came into my head. Rather than choose on the basis of looks, or shape, or age, I'd try to probe their minds and life experience.

"Okay, Ladies, I have two questions, and I'll choose on the basis of your answers. First, what's the most exotic place you can think of? Second, what's the most exotic place you've been?"

Jessica, willowy blonde, barely twenty: "The most exotic place I can think of is, I guess, Las Vegas. And the most exotic place I've been is, I guess, Atlantic City."

Maria, dark, Hispanic, short, extremely busty: "Havana and Havana."

Catharine, tall, bushy auburn hair, curvy, a cherubic face: "The most exotic place I've been is Key West. The most exotic place I can think of is the Land of Naar . . . it's a place inside my head."

Molly, skinny, with well-scrubbed Waspish looks, who turned out to be a magazine writer: "Think of -- Marrakech; been to -- Beijing."

Janet, dark, short black hair, British accent: "The most exotic place I've been to would be Calcutta. That I can think of -- Kuala Lampur."

The questioning finished, I continued. "It wouldn't be fair to grill you like this without telling you the answers that I'd give. The most exotic place I can think of is Bali. The most exotic place I've been is Omdurman, Sudan -- a place of Arab mystics, minarets, mosques, camel markets, silversmiths, thick gooey coffee and cold frothy fruit drinks."

"Have you decided," Lori, the madam popped in to ask.

"Psychologists say that the people who see patterns in the shadows of the Rorshak test rather than in the lines, have vivid imaginations. So I'll pick the lady who didn't take the questions literally-- Catharine." She rose, and led me up the stairs.

I love the high, the danger and the tension of sex with a woman that I don't know. In one moment and one movement it is both a bold defiance of nature and the most primal act possible. My senses are put on high alert, my desire goes into overdrive and yet I am ready to defend. I want, no, I crave the prickly, moment-to-moment discovery of a stranger's skin and reflexes: will she be pliant or resistant? Will she lean into my arms or stand back rod straight? Will she turn her head or will her lips seek me out? My heart pounds as we approach the room.

"Do you want to take a shower?" she asked. This, I know, is sometimes a ploy, a way for the girl to send the guy into the bathroom for the first quarter-hour, yet at the same time I know there are plenty of guys out there who need it.

"Actually, I'm pretty clean," I responded.

"You don't want to take a shower with me?" Catharine said coyly. Well! This was something new! A working girl had never suggested joining me in the shower. I changed my mind.

In the bathroom, Catharine took my hand and led me into the tub, where we were instantly drenched with piercing streams of hot water. She encircled me with her arms and drew me to her closely; our bodies pressed against each other and she kissed me. Her full lips pressed against mine, and her mouth opened; her tongue was in me, and her hand wrapped around my wet head, pulling me to her. Her body pressed and writhed against mine; her breasts flattened and rubbed against my chest. My cock stiffened and slipped between her legs.

She broke the kiss and smiled at me, her face radiant, pink, streaming with water. Then she took a sponge and some soap and lathered me up. I returned the gesture, and with bodies slippery and soapy, she embraced me once again, kissing me harder, probing my mouth as before with her tongue. And then it broke again. My cock was sticking up at attention.

"Do you want me to give you a blow job in here?" she asked. It was a tempting vision: Catharine kneeling in the tub, the water pounding down, her taking my member into her mouth, my semen shooting like fireworks in the rain. But I wanted more.

"No," I decided. "I want to go back to the room."

She turned off the shower and we stepped out; she took some large terry cloth towels from a shelf and dried me off; I then dried her, and, towels wrapped around us, we stepped back across the hall.

In the room, Catharine picked up a cassette tape from a table, and put it in a player. "My friend's tape. He had a disco in the Middle East, Dubai I think. It's the best music."

As the beat began to crank up, she then lay down face up on the bed, spread-eagle, stretching her arms and legs to the four corners, bringing her skin taut and smooth and foldless, breasts flattened out and firm, her belly drawn in. Her calves were perfectly formed, with thin ankles and graceful, strong muscles below the knee. Her thighs curved gently up from the knees to her hips, with just the slightest bit of thickness on the inner thigh, just below her pubic hair. I relished those twin slivers of silken tenderness, that on any woman seemed even more private than anywhere else, more hidden, and more sensitive. And Catharine had spread her legs widely, leaving those places most exposed and open to me.

I climbed on to the bed on all fours, and hovered over her outstretched body; her skin, scrubbed pink, clean and barely moist, smelling of soap. I swooped down toward her with my entire body, grazing her lightly: nipple to nipple, thighs to thighs, my cheek next to hers, then my lips on her neck, and my breath, getting shorter, warmer, in the hollow of her collarbone. Down, so that my tongue circled her on her aureole; down, I playfully pulled niblets of her breast, then her belly, into my mouth and sucked on them. Down, I stuck my tongue in her navel and rolled it around. And down: the tip of my tongue traced the top edge of her pubic hair, slipped into the crease formed by her thigh. Down and around, my head bobbed between her lifted legs and the tongue circled the outer edge of her labia, back up to the top where it slipped between the sweet warm lips, and then wiggled its way to her clitoris. I was already aroused and hard, breathing in the rich aroma of her hair and her body.

She sat up and pushed me gently back on the bed so that I was lying down, took a condom from a drawer in the table next to the bed, and slipped it on. Then she climbed between my legs, and, staring up at me, swallowed my cock deeply into her mouth. She worked it hard, grasping it by the base with one hand and jerking it while her mouth sucked it in. I watched as she worked on it, saliva dripping down the sheathed shaft. Then she would stop for a moment, look at me and smile, lick the extra spittle off, and take the hot member back in.

I began to feel the urgency of a climax rumbling in my scrotum. I started to turn so as to get on top of her, but she came forward.

"Let me show you," she said in a low voice.

Then she straddled my cock with her perfect female form, placing her vagina right over it, stretching her body up fully so that I could see it completely -- her face, her round breasts, the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, her thighs against my skin. With one hand, she reached down and pulled her labia up and tight, spreading them apart with her fingers.

"I want you to see yourself entering me," she said softly. And with that, she leaned back, bracing herself on my knee with her other hand, and lowered herself slowly on to my hardened cock. I watched intently as the head pressed against her opening and then popped in. Inside, she was tight and hot. She lifted up almost immediately, and the head of my cock came almost all the way out -- the very tip was still barely in her, and the folds of her labia wrapped around the head. Then once again, she lowered herself, this time a bit further, and the head popped in to her soft, close opening again. She lifted up, and I was almost out. I realized that even though I had thought I had been hard, she had made my cock even harder and bigger. I could feel the pulse of my blood in it as she lowered herself once again, this time very slowly, this time all the way down. I watched and I saw as the entire length of my shaft pressed itself inside her hot walls. She placed her hands on her knees and ground her hips down and around, so that her labia rubbed against my public bone, and I could feel my cock stirring around inside her.

Catharine leaned forward, and brought her face close to mine. I embraced her with my arms. She riveted her deep brown eyes on mine as she brought her hips forward, so that my cock came out a bit. Our eyes were locked together in wordless communion as I began to thrust upward in to her. She met me, bringing her hips down to meet me. We moved slowly at first, with me drawing my cock nearly all the way out before plunging back in. Out, and then in again, gradually picking up speed, but not losing eye contact.

Then, she broke the silence. "Fuck me, Paul," she said, staring into my eyes. "Fuck me hard, Paul."

I bucked hard with my hips, slapping against her thighs, impaling her with my cock. She responding, thrusting her hips down on me, pushing my cock into her to the hilt, until I could feel it hitting the hardness of her cervix. I began to spasm in anticipation of coming. Catharine leaned back, pressing my cock further into her, stretching it harder against her inner walls.

And then I came: furiously, copiously, shooting my semen into the tip of the condom. Catharine pressed her hips down on me yet harder, as though to squeeze out the last drop. Then she leaned forward, smiled and kissed me. A moment later, she was up, and cleaned me off with a hot, wet towel.

The real story follows in part II.


Blog posted 03/29/2007 @ 07:11 am  |  1 Comment  |  Leave a Comment



When did we discover escorts were real people?

My hobbying goes back some 41 years.

Back in those days, my sexual activity consisted mostly of staring at, and jerking off on, paper dolls -- those airbrushed imagines of gorgeousness in Playboy, Penthouse and seamier publications, the all-to-rare tryst with my civvie girlfriend in may cold-water fourth-floor walkup, or, heaven forbid, one of my trips down to Times Square where I'd search for, and sometimes find, a girl who'd cry out "Wanna go out?" Wanna Go out? 10 for me and 10 for the room!

Those encounters were anonymous, quick and effective, the "hobby" distilled into essences so rare they were nameless. In those days, tho, the physical imperative of getting my rocks off surpassed any idea of human contact. Those wonderful SWs in times square -- they were physical embodiments of my paper dolls; they were sex machines....I shuddered to think that they had lives, that they had friends, that they might even have children..

The story of how I came to understand that escorts were real people is a long story...but it started in a brothel with a girl whose name I don't remember now. It was a place on East 50th Streeet, up on the second floor. The girl was young, with long black hair and fair skin. After The Act, we began to talk, and she spoke of living in the East Village and what she'd done that night....I began to wonder -- my she might have a real life down there...I might wander down to the East Village and find her. I liked East Village types... Why...life might...

STOP... she was just a Ho-ah...she'd gotten me off....

jeeezzzzz...I had so far to go...I misssed so much... but I did move on.

more will be revealed.


Blog posted 03/28/2007 @ 09:46 am  |  3 Comments  |  Leave a Comment



 


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The List...yes, "How many girls have you....."

Part II of the true story....read part I if you haven't yet.

A true story from the bad days of brothels part 1

When did we discover escorts were real people?

Are Hobbyists made or born?




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