I’m not an “in-call” girl. My house is my sanctuary. But after seeing these two men for a long time, I allowed it. The first man was a sweet guy I had met through the adult section on craigslist—one of two that actually turned into something regular and long-term. He was nice. He was married. He was also short, soft-spoken, and sort of goofy. He requested that I wear silky slips and panties. He liked to do this weird thing with our legs when we started. He would lay on the bed naked, and I would lay in my slip on my side with my legs draped over his. Then he’d rub his legs on mine. His legs were hairless and soft. I often worried that mine weren’t as soft. My legs are sensitive, and if I shave in anything but less than optimum conditions (heated bathroom, new razor and it’s been a few days since the last time…which I never have the luxury of getting), they don’t always feel uber smooth. When I’m at the club, they are the softest after they’ve been touched all night. Sort of tough to duplicate that at my house. But if my fear was a reality, he never seemed to notice. Men never seem to notice any of the shit we worry about. I’ve never had a guy turn down sex because I hadn’t shaved that day.
So, we’d do this leg-cricket thing for approximately ten to fifteen minutes, then he’d peel me out of my slip and panties. He’d go down on me for a smidge, but making me come wasn’t on his list (thank fuck), so I didn’t have to earn any Tony Awards. We’d kiss and roll around for a tic, then I’d grab a condom. I’d open and roll. God forbid a man ever put on his own condom. What is that, anyway? It’s your dick. I don’t know what it feels like, and I don’t want to hurt you. How does this not occur to men? I know you like it when I touch it, but I’ve been touching it, and we’re about to have sex, wouldn’t it be easier (and faster) if you just put the fucker on? How amazing would it be if rolling on a condom were the most pleasurable thing on earth, and they came directly into the rubber as you put it on? (But only if money is being made. Otherwise, not so great.)
As I’ve mentioned before, it’s generally a routine with john’s (unique to each one), which thankfully, makes my job so much easier. I can autopilot. After the condom, I’d climb on top. Ride him for a couple minutes, my boobs in his face. Cricket’s orgasms came quick, so we couldn’t stay in any position too long. Which was A-OK with me. He liked coming with me lying on my stomach, so that’s where we’d end up. I love that position. A) Almost no effort on my part, and B) I can relax my face in the pillow. After he came, we’d take turns in the bathroom, and then he’d insist on cuddling for a few minutes. I’m not a big cuddaler, so oddly, this was sometimes the worst/most annoying part. You came, now leave! I sound like a super fun lay, huh? I’m joking. Only you are privy to my thoughts. These guys aren’t seeing or feeling any of this. They see a soft, sweet, smiling, sensual me.
These dates were usually just after he got off work, so, lucky for me, the snuggling was never a prolonged event—due to the fact that he had to get home. The regimen was exactly the same when we met at the hotel. I can’t remember exactly why I gave him permission to come to my apartment. But I trusted him, and skipping the haul to the Westside was massively appealing. Plus, we had a pretty brief sex pattern, so I knew it was a short in and out. Saved me a lot of time and gasoline. It was extremely weird the very first time. For so long, the men I danced for and slept with for money, didn’t even know my name, and now one was in my bed. It was a trip mixing my worlds, but got more comfortable each time. He never inquired into my life, or nosed around my place. He’d ask how I was doing, and that was it. It was what it was. I think this distinction (that we didn’t have an emotional tie, and he wasn’t interested in my life), is the reason it happened.
The other customer I allowed in that apartment was the same way. Quick and uninvolved. My relationship with my clients is purely subjective. And it doesn’t always make sense. Same goes for the guys I sleep with for free. It’s a lottery. A crapshoot. Or maybe not, maybe it’s the simplest thing in the world: This guy gets to come to my house and you don’t. This guy gets to come in my pussy and you have to pay.