Years ago, I paid her. She sucked my cock. I licked her clit. We had adventures with several other women. She wanted to be hit more, harder, than any woman I’d been with previously. She taught me a lot about submission and, along the way, about dominance. I introduced her to the world of “massage” parlors, where she earned her keep for several years, and, where she met a man with whom she had a years-long affair.
I stopped paying her six or seven years ago, and we stopped having sexual encounters, but we stayed friendly. I was clear that I remained interested in sex with her, but not paid. She presented her rejection as circumstantial, born of her relationship status. Perhaps she was sparing me the harder-to-hear (and -to-deliver) rejection that wasn’t circumstantial, that was essential. (In retrospect, it seems clear that this was the case.)
Recently, her circumstances changed. I had believed (she had allowed me to believe) that the rejection HAD been circumstantial. Now that circumstances had changed, I had hoped I would once again feel her red lips wrapped round my cock as I pulled her red hair, as I squeezed her pale, pale breasts.
We had talked, extensively, about each of our pasts, about our relationship to paying/being paid for sex, and I had believed (she had allowed me to believe) that she understood that, while I have nothing against people paying for or being paid for sex, for me, the inclusion of compensation in a sexual interaction is toxic, at best. I’ve written previously that I don’t think I was often fooled by women I paid. Maybe I was wrong.
She knows I write this blog, but she’s forgotten/misplaced the URL, and recently, she’d asked for it again. “I’ll give it to you,” I said, “after you suck my cock again.” We playfully flirted around this possibility – there were coy emoticons, subtle innuendos, flowing in both directions – but, when push came to shove, she said, “I require a donation.”
She said this in a message that self-consciously trumpeted our “friendship,” the value she placed on it.
I was devastated.
Not because she rejected me sexually (I told myself), but because, years after we’d had the whore/john relationship, after we’d (I thought) become bona fide friends, friends who understood one another’s sensitivities and concerns, particularly around sex, money, and commercial sex, she revealed that she’d NEVER seen me as a friend, that she’d NEVER considered a straight-up sexual relationship with me, and, worst of all, that she’d never actually understood anything I’d said about my relationship to the intersection of sex and money in my life.
No, to her, I’d just been a long-term prospective customer, doomed forever to the role I’ve spent much of the last decade trying to understand, trying to transcend.
A little more self-examination, though, and I see that while yes, all I’ve written is true, the REALLY devastating thing for me was neither the rejection nor the false friendship. No, what really hurt was the loss I suffered. I thought I had something, the prospect of a hot sexual encounter or, better yet, relationship with a sexy, smart, beautiful woman whom I knew to be a good sexual fit with me. But with those four words – “I require a donation” – she unceremoniously informed me that not only did I not have the prospective hotness I’d come to believe (she’d allowed me to believe) was in store for me, but I NEVER DID. The fantasy I had was always a fantasy.
“I thought I’d made it clear I wasn’t interested,” she said. Perhaps she did think she had made it clear, but, evidently, she hadn’t.
Was this a failure of hers? Of mine? Of ours?
I can’t really know.
I do know that our exchange leading up to the four stinging words sure does look flirty, sure does look promising, even in retrospect. But I also know that, if I take her at her word, if she never intended to suck my cock without a wad of twenties changing hands, the exchange makes no less sense.
I don’t have anything against whores. Or johns. I don’t judge sex work, or its consumption. But the twin loss – of the fantasy that I’d get to enjoy sex with her again, and of the fantasy that she saw me as other than a john – really, really sucks.