I had just started writing a post about the trials and tribulations of being Me, but then the Edge sent a message encouraging me to write about “happier occasions”. So, at the risk of feeling like an 80-year-old, writing my memoirs of a bygone era, here goes. Oh, and the fact that this event now qualifies as a “happier occasion” is a good indication of just how bad things have become…

So, it seems that there are still some people left in the world today who find it imperative to make their arrangements over the phone – I mean, an actual telephone call. And this kind of person, generally, gets swiftly and instantly knocked down by me. Not really, of course – that would be so unlike me. In reality, I sneak around the house for a couple of days trying to find a quiet spot to take this call, and then give up, in disgust, shame, and frustration at the kind of life I lead, which makes even a telephone call impossible. There was, for instance, a “tall, dark, handsome… what more could you want?” guy who kept pestering me for a call, until one day he asked, rather exasperated, when I’d be available, and I answered, “To be fucked: any day next week. To take a telephone call: never.”

And yet, somehow, West Byfleet slipped through the net. Somehow, for this random guy, I sneaked out into the car park in the rain to receive his call. He was so enthusiastic, so positive. I really liked that. At the end of our brief chat, he informed me that he was “a little bit older, but very, very naughty”. Older, naughty… sounded pretty good, actually. But not good enough for me to travel all the way to West Byfleet, so he offered to meet me at a hotel in Shepherd’s Bush instead. A hotel with a nice restaurant, because he wanted to take me out to lunch. I couldn’t believe it – no-one ever takes me out to lunch!

I got lost, of course, so I was late, and he was standing outside the hotel waiting for me when I arrived. And – sorry to say – I was horrified. I found him, really, woefully unattractive. Funnily enough, I had actually seen a couple of photos of him beforehand (which isn’t always the case, and I certainly never ask for them), but they hadn’t done him justice. If you know what I mean. For a fleeting moment, I even considered turning around and running back to the station. But that wouldn’t do – he had driven all the way from West Byfleet, after all. I trailed behind him in the corridor, my heart sinking with each step. On the other hand, though, one of my secret reasons for becoming an escort – too horrible to admit – was so that I could learn, for the sake of my marriage, how to have sex with someone I don’t want to have sex with. And pretend to enjoy it, I mean. Up until this point, I hadn’t needed to do that.

We sat awkwardly on the sofa, conversing politely. The thought that this man would soon be fucking me was horrifically revolting, which made it kind of arousing at the same time, if you know what I mean. And he seemed like quite a nice guy, really. He told me about a bout with meningitis which had left him paralysed for six months. I told him about my situation.

“I understand,” he said gently. “I have been there myself. Been there, done that – got the T-shirt. Now let’s get a little more comfortable…”

The dreaded moment! I turned away, trying to focus only on myself, not him, and took off my dress. There was something erotic about this, even this. I couldn’t deny it. I kept on my heels, stockings and leopard-print lingerie. He loved it. We kissed, and it was, regrettably, rather like licking an ash-tray. I decided to stick to his cock instead. But he soon turned the tables on me. Great… a reverse-oral man. One would think this would be good – that I could just lie back and “think of England”, as they say. But he kept talking, asking me for direction, making encouraging noises… and, all the while, obviously very eager for me to come. I had no choice but to fake it, really. And since he had no idea how I actually come, it was pretty easy. Then we got into position for fucking – finally! – and somehow, before I could stop him, he had managed to slip inside me without a condom.

‎”Oh no!” I cried. “We have to use protection!!”

He just went on fucking me for a while and then said, “Well, it’s too late for that now.”

“Too late for that now?? Too late for that now, you fucking RAPIST?!” I thought silently. My whole body stiffened up – I just wanted him out of me. I vowed to leave him a negative feedback as soon as I left the hotel. “SMOKER!! BAREBACK CHANCER!!!!”

Finally he stopped, and, pulling out, explained that, since his temporary paralysis, he was no longer able to ejaculate. So I had nothing to fear. Well, it’s true that the risk is greatly reduced if there’s no ejaculate, and I did believe him. But I still didn’t really want him inside me.

We decided to go to the restaurant for lunch. I was a little cold towards him; however, I hoped that a glass of wine might help to relax me. It didn’t, really – just gave me a headache – but lunch was not bad. He regaled me with tales of his high-flying lifestyle.

‎”What’s your favourite band?”

“The Beatles.”

“The Beatles? I’ve met them.”

“No…” I smirked skeptically.

“Seriously. You see this hand?” he raised a mottled appendage. “This hand shook the Beatle’s hand.”

I tried to look impressed, while wondering: just how old is this guy???

Thinking of him now as some kind of modern-day Methuselah, I followed him glumly back to the room, for some more reverse oral and the accompanying fake orgasms.

“Just lie with me now,” he begged me. “In each other’s arms, like real lovers do.”

I was somewhat moved by that. He had told me about a woman he’d been seeing in France, some years back, and how they’d driven down to Cannes together. I could imagine him, like a somewhat dilapidated James Bond, in a convertible with his “lady friend” beside him, her dyed hair blowing in the breeze. So he’d had real lovers too…

Finally, though, boredom set in, and I found myself thinking almost wistfully of the screaming infants I had left behind at home. It was obviously time to leave, slightly earlier than we had agreed. He paid me twice my two-hour rate for four hours, which was, I felt, quite generous. Then he walked me out towards the station. He grasped my hand warmly as we parted, and kissed me with passion (to the lascivious horror of the Asian youths passing by). Then he looked into my eyes and told me how lovely it had been, how happy I’d made him, and how much he would love to see me again. I was so moved, at that moment, that I almost forgot about the smoking and bareback chancing/raping and endless reverse oral. I pressed his hand back and promised him we would meet again soon.‎

Of course, we never did. Hey, even I have my limits.


2 thoughts on “Nothing to Get Hung About

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