fuckbuddy’s question.
Fuckbuddy’s favorite question: “Are you still seeing clients?”
And my answer varies. I am, or I’m not, or I’m only seeing the clients I trust, or I’m giving a new guy a shot, or I’m cutting everyone loose. When I stop, there’s a lot that I miss. I miss the clients. I miss the ritual of preparing for a gig. And I miss the strangeness of that drive to the airport, when I put on my headphones, review my itinerary, and then look out the window to think about where I’m going, and why. And I miss walking through a crowd of business travelers and feeling absolutely disconnected from the natural rhythms of corporate life. I like that.
Fuckbuddy’s second favorite question: “Do you really believe you can stop?”
He believes that I’m incapable of giving it up. It isn’t the money — it’s long since passed the point of being about the money — it’s the freedom and spontaneity. It’s knowing that I never get too attached to anyone. Which, I know, is a problem.
It’s funny, because what fuckbuddy’s really asking is, “Will you ever be marriage material?”
Presuming I marry a pervert, then I’m sure the answer is yes.
*
Fuckbuddy is the only one who knows everything there is to know about my past. And all of you (well, those of you who’ve read for a while). Nobody else knows.
“Fuck,” he says. “Why does that shit turn me on?”
The fact I fuck clients, and the fact I charge them so much, makes him hard, and this makes him restless and conflicted. I watch him cycle through the push-and-pull of erection and repulsion. He wants me to stop, but he loves it, but then he hates it. He wants me to stop the way I say I’ll stop: I might, I will, just not yet, just a few more, it’s just that I will eventually, maybe.
“Did you suck his cock?” he asks as he pulls his own cock out and looks me in the eye. “Did you get on your knees?”
He wants to see me on my knees.
And he wants to know who my clients are. He asks point-blank, pulling names at random, and while he does this, he paces around his apartment, sometimes pausing to scratch the back of his head while he looks at me.
“Henry Kravis.”
“You know I’m never going to tell you.”
“Yeah, I know. Mike Lupica.”
“Stop.”
“Trump.”
“Ick.”
“You know, I respect that you won’t tell me. I totally respect it. I know you’ll never tell me. Just tell me: Ricky Gervais.”
He like to imagine himself fucking this overpriced, off-duty whore, who may or may not be sleeping with the men he’s imagining. But when he comes, he slumps against the wall and asks again, “When will you stop?”
I enjoy seeing clients, but I know that as long as I see them, I’m hiding something from the men I date. Clients make it easy for me to hold everyone at a distance. I know this. In many ways, they’re a crutch. They give me an excuse to resist the faintest hint of commitment and emotional responsibility.
But I’ve just confirmed plans for Paris, and I’m just, I’m just not quite ready to stop. Almost. Almost. Eventually.
Filed under: personal notes | 8 Comments
Tags: fuckbuddy, sex
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“cause I still haven’t found what I’m looking for”, or so it seems. I have been reading your memoirs for some time but it’s only of recent that I was compelled to comment. You are an amazing woman that has exposed herself to all of us in cyber space. And perhaps some of us have been living vicariously through you. Whatever your drive is, it is who you are, and I for one, like it. Enjoy Paris.
Some times it seems to me that everything in the world comes down to ownership, no matter if one is one of the people who seek it or the other kind, who don’t want any of it. I don’t get it though, I’ve never wanted to know the former lovers of my lovers. There’s just not much point to it it seems.
my lover loves to read the posts that i wrote before i met him. most specifically the ones detailing actual events that he did not see or participate in… and yet while they are undeniably the ones that get him the hardest they are also and equally the ones that he has the most trouble with.
perhaps that essential conflict is at the core or sex for everyone whether they be a whore or a virgin or someone in between…
i don’t know but i know that i like your perspective and i get the feeling you would feel incomplete without clients… but maybe i just think that.
have you read the kushiel books by jacqueline carey?
I can see why he’d be turned on, but not why he’d be repulsed.
Turned on because other men need to pay for the honor while you’re choosing to be with him.
Well, that’s what I’d imagine turns him on most.
Good for you for selecting a life, and relishing in it, that liberates you from the corporate grid. That’s empowerment.
Your man makes me nervous. If your blog were a film, I’d be waiting for him for unearth some tidbit of information about a client, become ecstatic, and then do something to destroy both the client (and, by proxy, you) without your knowledge.
Just my vivid, storytelling imagination. But still.
Excellent blog. May I link?
I was actually going to be writing something like this from his perspective. That thought of who you’re with being with someone else and dealing with the unexpected physical reaction of being completely turned on, all the while feeling completely uncomfortable and repulsed. Oddly enough whenever I’ve acted on that impulse it has led to some incredible sex. Maybe it’s a reaction to that need to mark territory and you’re driven by that need. I’m not quite sure.
Great post, though.
I see me in here.
Hi D, my question is this: Why stop something you enjoy doing? If you stop enjoying it, then stop; but as long as you enjoy it, keep doing it. Life is short; enjoy it.