Cookie Saga part three: the finale

Where do I start? He ran late but that never bothers me. It means more drinking/writing time. He was grateful I wasn’t mad. He got into the bar without a hitch. Came up behind me with a cute line about the neighborhood. I had my purse open on the stool next to me for his easy handoff. He did as instructed. Good boy. I didn’t count it until I went to the bathroom—all fifties, my least favorite bill, and two hundred less than I had quoted him way back but I was already in and not going to make it an issue. I probably shouldn’t have posted that day that I was looking forward to it, it may have given him the moxie to remove four fifties. Who knows what tricks think.

We had a good time at the bar. I’m a good time and he’s a good conversationalist. He’d text from the Uber that “just kickin it with you is fun” which was adorable. He switched to beer; either he’s not quite the drinker I thought he was or he was consciously preserving his dick. 11 p.m. crept up fast so we decided to pay the bill and move on. I had a bottle of whiskey in the room. I felt buzzed but not quite my “happy state” just yet. We walked to the motel. I’d tell you what we talked about if I could remember. At the room he dove onto the bed. I got undressed immediately. Fuck clothes. I had another thin “fuck tank” ready to swap into. As I removed the tank I had been wearing, he said, “Just like that, huh?” I laughed.

“I’ve been waiting four years to see…I think I’ve been following you for…”

I put the other tank on. “Yes, I’m switching one white tank for another” He called me a nut (or something to that effect). For some crazy reason, I switched in and out of that tank and another thin black one I brought over the course of the next few hours. Nut, indeed. The good news is that I was feeling carefree with my body. It didn’t appear to turn him off. Having said that, it didn’t seem to be driving him wild either. His cock was either shy or high maintenance. Sex is so weird.

I did a pinch of my stash in front of him. He asked for some. I hemmed for a second, I don’t like giving certain party favors to people who aren’t used to them, but my mood was good and I wanted the party whore motel experience so I said yes. I was giving us teeny tiny pen caps but I forget that men who are used to blow are apt to ask for more too often. Having fun, I did more than I normally would and therefore ended up with a beating heart yet super beat by 2:30 a.m. That’s how long we fooled around for!

I really wanted to come and got so close—him going down on me—but my stupid brain kept getting in the way. Why do I think so fucking much? The drugs and I suspect nerves sort of broke his dick as well. Neither one of us came. We laughed, drank, fucked off and on, it was a good time. At one point he brought The Texan up; he couldn’t believe how long and crazy he could go. We went down on each other a lot. Dick in pussy was proving to be a wee more difficult. He wanted me to get on top. I made a joke about no one wanting to be on top anymore. I would have gotten on my hands and knees, but like I said, the D wasn’t fully cooperating. Plus, as I was looking back on our messages after writing this, I saw that he told me last year he doesn’t like that position: not good for tit access. There’s a chance I wasn’t doing my job. I’m an old broad. I’ll give the man props though, he wasn’t busted up about it. He was super chill. The drugs were an easy blame. They may have been fucking with me as well. Mostly I blame my stupid head. It felt good what he was doing. I was riding the edge for a long time. My legs around his back, my hands on his head, noises out of my mouth. Actually, it’s kind of funny because more than once he said,

“You don’t have to fake those sounds.”

“Shut up!” I said jokingly, “I’m not faking anything.”

This is the issue with fucking someone who’s read all my work. They think it’s all fake. It’s not. I really wanted to come. My body wanted to come. And if only my idiotic brain would shut down, I would have. During our breaks, he’d stand just outside the room in his boxers and smoke while I drank and did who knows what.

“Are you always like this with tricks?” he asked at one point, “this isn’t like any other pro I’ve been with. This feels like things went perfectly with a date.”

I smiled and kissed him. I never quite know what men want to hear to the “is it always like this” question. Do they want the truth or the “no, it’s just us” answer? I told him the truth. Which is yes, ninety percent of the time. “It’s weird because I don’t know what other working girls are like at work” I said. “They aren’t like this. It’s more of a transaction.”

“That makes sense. I guess I don’t know how to fuck like that. I mean, I do, but it’s not who I am.”

Things continued. I think I denied his last request for more drugs. We were high enough. I was exhausted. I had given up on my own orgasm, but I really wanted him to come. I tongued his balls (low hangers; more difficult to love I discovered) and taint area. Ho was doing everything. He emitted sounds that suggested he was close. I dipped the tip of my finger in his ass while I was going down on him, but it didn’t happen. I wonder if his head was fucking with him as well. It wasn’t my intention to sleep there but I was too everything to drive so I passed out with him behind me. think I may have been pantiless: something that only occurs in that state. Before we slept he said I was the third person ever to do that to him. Shit like that shocks me. It’s so a part of sex for me. Everyone going downtown and doing whatever down there. I don’t know what other people do. We got quiet. Only the TV and flickering candles. That kind of sleep isn’t deep but it’s nice in its own way. His hand went to my tit a few times and in between my legs but she was done.

“Babe…knock it off” I said in a playful manner. Half-slumber again. I never recovered the hotel fee or sold the coffee table book. Around 4:45 a.m. he blindly half-groped me again, I decided my bed was calling. I got up. And like middle-aged pirate hooker, I quietly gathered my things. I snubbed the candles with wet fingers. I kept the coffee table book amongst my things. I turned the TV off and pulled the blanket fully over him.

​I kissed him on the neck and left. Once I got home, I messaged: “Hey darlin, I have a strict, be home before the sky lightens. The room is paid just leave whenever (before 11, I think). I left a yummy soda in the fridge for you. I had a blast!! Xo” And I did. Would have been perfect had we both had climaxed. I hope I get a second chance. We’ll see. He’s used to cheaper ho’s. And since he doesn’t have the same connection with them, he probably nuts in ten minutes. It’s a toss-up as to which version is better. I guess I’ll find out.