Mutual Distraction

“College callgirl?”

He approached me on a crowded street corner with an inquisitive look, and since his high-def, cropped picture had led me to expect someone 30 years younger, I was almost thrown off. I managed to keep my sense of sex professionalism intact even as I noticed his ill-fitting sweatpants paired with mandals.

It wasn’t a requirement that I be sexually attracted to my clients, but part of the joy of the Internet was that I could afford to be selective. If I didn’t like the look of somebody, I could make them disappear with just a click of the mouse. Since my standards are a bit quirky, that power of choice didn’t translate to a bunch of hot, young studs, but it did mean that I didn’t have to have sex with anyone totally gruesome. But now that this guy was standing in front of me looking nothing like how I expected him to look, there was no delete button in sight. It’s possible in my sexual universe for someone to be so unattractive it comes back around to sexy, so I decided to think of him in those terms. Maybe I could get into the “dirty old man ravaging my nubile young body” angle of the whole thing.

I had put in a lot of prep work after all – he’d sent me an email questionnaire compiled of questions he asks “every person he touches,” like the date and result of my last HIV test, whether I had known exposure to the herpes virus, and even questions about HPV before people were talking about HPV. I know that asking these questions of your partner are a good thing, but if I’m being totally honest it annoyed the shit out of me. I mean, people are either going to be honest about their STDs or they’re not. If someone knows they have herpes and they don’t tell you right upfront, they’re not going to tell you when you ask them either. Either you’re asking to see test results, or you’re protecting yourself as if they have everything.

Then he’d insisted on a “5-minute chemistry check” at a nearby Starbucks before he invited me into his apartment. And now here he was staring wolfishly at me in his fucking sweatpants. “How old are you?” he asked leeringly, again making me feel as if he might be just gross enough to be hot. I wondered if he might ask to see my ID.

“Do you actually want to be here long enough to order coffee,” he said? “No,” I responded, anxious to get this over with. “Let me just soak you in,” he said, taking a deep, creepy breath. I guess it went well, cause his next words were, “I don’t sense any kind of evil from you.”

“Yeah, I’m not evil really at all,” I responded.

Lack of evil thus confirmed, we went up to his apartment, where he made sure to greet the doorman as we walked past. In the elevator he told me that in every Law and Order episode when someone gets killed they talk to the doorman, which was why he’d made sure to get his attention as we went up. Yeah, I’m sure you didn’t just want him to see you with a hot piece of ass for once, I thought to myself, although sizing him up, I did think I could take him. “I like a girl who looks like she could kick my ass,” he confirmed my mental narrative.

Upstairs he took me on the tour and pointed out the complementary color schemes in the paintings and sculptures in his room. Then he sat me on a chair and told me to take off my shoes, which I did. Coming up behind me, he started to rub my shoulders, which felt pretty good. Far be it from me to sneeze at a free massage. He asked me to stand up and take off my skirt, then slipped his hand into my panties and slid his fingers across my inextricably slick clit. Even when I don’t think I’m turned on or I don’t like the guy I’m with, I get very wet. When I am into it, I get so soaked my thighs stick together.

“Stare straight ahead,” he told me, “and don’t look anywhere else no matter what I do.” My panties rested around my knees as he moved behind me and rubbed something soft and warm against my ass.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked. I had a guess.

He pulled my top off, gasping a little as my tits fell out of my shirt. He pushed me to my knees and slipped on a condom on, and told me to put my hands behind my back. He asked if he could tie them there, but I declined. The last thing I needed was to be immobilized in a stranger’s apartment. He told me to take him all the way down my throat. “Every time you gag, I’m going to slap you,” he said, but let’s just say I didn’t expect to get slapped.

In description, this scenario sounds kind of hot but in actuality it was strangely stilted and unsexy. He didn’t seem to be particularly turned on, more like he was going through the motions.

He instructed me to lay on his bed. There were two straps of fabric attached to his bed that Velcro-ed in the middle, across my legs. I allowed it because I could easily slip my legs out from under it if he came at me with an axe or something. He sat in a chair at the foot of the bed and instructed me to masturbate. I laid back and squeezed my eyes shut, rubbing my clit and imagining a scenario in which I was turned on, which he immediately called me out on.

“Look at me while you do it,” he said. “I want to feel connected to you.”

Craning my neck up to look into his eyes, I circled my clit with my index and middle fingers and squeezed my nipples with my other hand. He watched without touching himself and gave the occasional instruction, asking me first to suck on my index finger, then to stick it up my ass while I played with myself. He went to the closet and pulled out a huge canvas bag of toys.

I consider myself pretty toy-savvy; I’ve written for enough small feminist press to be paid in vibrators, and I wouldn’t want my grandma opening up my nightstand drawer. But I didn’t even know if some of the things he pulled out were for the ass or the vagina. When he pulled out the latex gloves, I checked the clock and told him we only had 10 minutes left (which I NEVER do, I usually prefer to focus on the customer’s satisfaction over the clock). He sighed, but dutifully began to repack his sex pervert bag.

“How about a quick fuck?” he asked me. Agreeing, I jerked him off for awhile, but his cock wouldn’t get hard enough to slip a condom on and there was no way I was humping his half-mast cock with a condom propped on top like a loose-fitting party hat. “Let’s just masturbate together,” I cooed, laying next to him and staring at his flaccid cock as he jerked off and fingering myself like it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

Meanwhile, my thought process went something like “Please cum please cum hurry up please cum my mouth tastes like latex I hope he cums soon I’m gonna buy a pack of gum when I get out of here I’ll have money once he pays me please cum don’t look at his rotted tooth I can’t wait to get out of here…”

I think it speaks to the miraculous ability of the human body to function independently of the mind that I had an orgasm even before he did.