Diary of a John

What the Pelican Knows

2010-02-28T16:14:00.003-05:00

Recently, I was working at the seaside resort where a year ago I lost my mind, drew a couple hundred dollars from an ATM and handed it over to Mermaid Minnie for 15 minutes of flaccid slapstick comedy. (See blog entry, Actually Ramona Was Not My First,6/6/2009.) I decided to go back to the marina where I met Minnie, this time with my head screwed on straight.

Looking at the white fiberglass floating bedrooms, I wondered if I could find the one that Minnie escorted me on. I could not. They all looked the same. It was something like the one above. But, again, it could have been this one. Southern Nights??

Everything was quiet on this cold winter afternoon... as quiet as my passions now seemed to be, satiated by Pearl's caring attention. But, quieted as well by having let myself explore new territory at a time when most men my age are retreating into safer places. But, honestly, "love for sale" is not for me. I can't afford it, and I can't stand the excitement. Still, I value my brief experience with it, and the interesting women who chance such a risky line of work, and I would defend anyone's right to responsibly engage in the business as either a client or entrepreneur.

This doesn't mean that I've come to a peaceful place with my passions. I'm still confused by them. However, there is comfort now knowing that our society is even more confused than me. Hypocrisy and deception seem to be the preferred way to handle passions. The Tiger Woods and Eliot Spitzer stories tell of marriages gone awry: husbands condemned as ogres, wives admired as innocent victims, and the "other women" disparaged as not even worthy of respectful attention. Either no one is at fault, or everyone is at fault. To use the term "cheating" in these stories is ludicrous. It's far more complicated than that. One thing I feel certain ... we know how to fuck, but we don't know how to talk about it. We don't even know how to talk during it.

We are all way over our heads in this passion business.... it's larger than our ability to cope. We are like idle sunbathers basking on a warm shore, then getting hit by the tsunami of roaring emotional tides that few of us have the skills to handle. Possibly, the polyamorists are closer to the reality of the situation. They have one thing over the rest of us.... honesty. "Do as you wish, just don't lie about it. If you have to lie, don't do it." The solution is as varied as there are humans trying to find their way. So, just because one person's way is not yours, do not judge.

As I turned to walk away from the marina, a shadow passed over me and I saw an enormous pelican flying overhead. It looked wise and grandfatherly. The pelican seemed to peer at each boat, each one a ship of fools.

Human society has yet to formulate a sexual ethic that works. There will never be a workable sexual ethic as long as men see women as either angels or whores, good girls or bad girls; and as long as women see men as either cheaters or faithful. The self-righteous are the masters of the double standard.

Pelicans are monogamous for one mating season, yet seem to start all over with new prospects the following year. Who knows what the pelican knows? That we all want to belong to someone and have a safe place called home? But, that home should not feel like a trap?

Whatever, in the end and in a perfect world, love should not be for sale; love should be free.

Happy Valentine’s to Everyone

2010-02-14T07:14:00.002-05:00

However it might come to anyone who might read this, I wish you a moment of romance on this day. It could be a glance of sensuality in a crowded space or the pleasure of full embrace in a private one. It could be given freely, or given at a price; though a case could be made that we all pay some price for the love we receive. In that light, we should drop the judgmental crap and honor the giver and receiver in whatever way it happens. It's trite and overworked sentimentality to say it, but I'll say it, "Make love not war!"

I was lucky enough to visit Pearl over Valentine's weekend. Friday night, I drove through a snow storm; crashes and flashing lights on the interstate in the blinding white swirl, and behemoth trucks flying by spraying slush in my face. But, I arrived safely to find myself by Saturday afternoon in the steamy warmth of Pearl's loft studio room. Teenagers do this, but grownups can too, as I did, catching Pearl in an unsuspecting moment with the camera on my cell phone.

She had been giving me some well-appreciated attention, but turned for a moment to pet her new male kitten, Spike. I had suggested the name Spike to give the little kitty a hook for validating his manhood. And, on this Valentine's weekend, Pearl validated mine.

As Sam and Dave said in the 1968 Motown hit: "You didn't have to squeeze me like you did, but you did, but you did; and I thank you."

Another hooker movie: “Combien tu m’aimes?”

2009-12-05T08:14:00.002-05:00

I watched this one for a second time on streaming Netflix last night. It's irresistible; a 2005 French film, "How Much Do You Love Me?" If the color, the light, the ambience, and the music in the opening scene doesn't completely captivate you then you don't have a pulse. It's essentially a comic farce with heart, satirizing elements of 70's French "art films" and spoofing Ingmar Bergman's existential Swedish dialogues from the 60's. Does the director know he's doing that? I don't know, but he's old enough.

Francois is a boring French office worker who one night walks into a hooker bar and meets Daniella (Italian actress, Monica Belluci.) He offers her the proceeds of the lottery he has just won if she will live with him. She accepts knowing she'll eventually have to deal with her gangster pimp, Charly (Gerard Depardieu.)

As with most "hooker movies," it's a man's fantasy, wanting it all in one woman (good girl/bad girl, devil and angel.) The women seem want to give the same. Ahh, what fools we men are! And, "fools rush in where....." Well, you know.

It's one of the most forgiving films of human frailty I have seen. Everyone looking for love in whatever misguided way seems to find it in some measure. The musical soundtrack is sensational alternating between musky saxophone jazz and Puccini arias... the arias punctuating the farce.

The finale, a party scene worth the whole movie, recalls Woody Allen's comic Greek chorus finale in Mighty Aphrodite, an "I'm OK, you're OK" song and dance. It expresses what I'm finding to be the burgeoning theme of this blog: We are all voyagers on a "Ship of Fools." Be tolerant of each other and hug your neighbor.

Women’s Shoes

2009-12-04T09:34:00.003-05:00

I've always known about and marginally appreciated a woman's love of shoes. I love shoes myself, but in less quantity. I have a 25 yr. old pair of Brooks Brothers loafers (they sell today for $400.00) that I polish with loving care, and have resoled three times.

So, I wasn't entirely surprised when Pearl, again picking me up at the train station, drove me to her home in a new pair of fantasy shoes. As I relaxed on her sofa in my jeans and Brooks Brothers loafers, Pearl parked her legs across my lap to give me a better view of her Hollywood/fairy shoes.

Well, that was the beginning of another wonderful evening of exotic lovin' with Pearl. The next day, Saturday, we decided to go out to lunch. Pearl dressed in an equally interesting, but alternatively bold manner: Harley-Davidson boots. Talk about making a statement with your feet. I was beginning to understand the female psyche more than ever, and better late than never.

Saturday night, was a retake of the photo session from the last visit, a refinement of a few details, but this time I fully appreciated the shoe impact. The entire photo is so theatrical that we are saving it for the right presentation, but here again is a cropped corner for the footwear.

Of course, the greatest delight of shoes may be the moment that they come off. We even have a colloquialism for it: "Sit back and kick your shoes off." In anyone's mind, it's a sign of relief and relaxation. So, Saturday night was eventually shoeless, exhilarating, and passionate. Again, I get up early on Sunday for coffee and personal inventory. As I drifted back to the bedroom with my camera, I found Pearl in restful repose as lovely asleep as she is awake and engaged with life.

If you are wondering here, how I am so immersed in my experience with Pearl, yet still write posts regarding "open relationships," I should explain that I have no interest in pursuing anyone other than Pearl. My writing about "alternative relationships" is a purely theoretical exercise that I feel intellectually compelled to explore, but at the moment have no interest in acting upon. I will continue to explore and write about it because I think I may have something to contribute toward solving the mess that our society has made of sex and relationships.

Open by Jenny Block

2009-12-03T09:15:00.002-05:00

In this wilderness of erotic blog writing a book title, Open by Jenny Block, kept getting attention, and I finally read it. She has written a very personal and honest story of her search for happiness within a traditional marriage. The search resulted in an "open" marriage keeping her family with child intact and functional, yet allowing her the freedom to pursue extra-marital relationships. She did this with the consent and cooperation of her husband, and in a prosperous residential community that frowned upon such arrangements.

Jenny Block's story is worth reading for the fact that she emphasizes the very personal and individualized nature of each person's and each couple's search for happiness. She wants to free society from it's judgmentally restrictive view of marriage, but at the same time preserve marriages for the good things that they provide. Though easily dissecting all the hypocrisies that society promotes about love, relationships, and sex, she wouldn't begin to tell anyone else how to do this. She just explains very well what finally has worked for her. And, apparently, with the afterword by the husband, it has worked for him as well, though he has felt very little need for extra-marital relationships... an ironic myth-buster in itself.

I would disagree with some of Block's assertions, such as, that love and sex can be completely separated in the human heart. It seems more complicated to me than that. And, understandably, her book gives a feeling that her entire life has been a search for sexual happiness, which is a bit one dimensional, but probably understandable since she is paddling upstream against public opinion and has been working very hard in the last couple of years to get this issue as an acceptable topic in public conversation.

Her blog, http://open-marriage.blogspot.com/, and her website are promotions for her writing, and are really worth seeing for the attention she has gotten in the national media. She does mention, in her blog, going to the porn awards event in Las Vegas, which disappointed me since I consider porn to be about 95% a pretty nasty business, and not a healthy way to explore our sexual desires. She also seems to question that there is anything such as excessive sexual preoccupation or sexual addiction, though there is plenty of evidence (as I can personally confess) that one can be as self-destructive and compulsively obsessive with sex just much as someone can be with food or alcohol.

On the more positive side, Block really brings the issue into the mainstream for those of us who have thought polyamory was the sole province of "Pagan/Unitarian/computer geeks." And, her use of the term "open" more often than "polyamory" frees the issue from the ideological side trip that polyamorists seem determined to journey.

Still, something seems missing from the open marriage argument. My take on it is, more than providing an outlet to find new partners, it may be better seen as a way to keep from losing old ones. This is something I rarely hear mentioned, the tragedy that in our culture of serial monogamy, we leave old partners... those with whom we spent so many years, however haplessly, trying to find some love and meaning.

The other thing I miss in writings about open relationships is an emphasis on how we can care about and care for those we love, whether they be one or more. Once the numbers issue is settled in anyone's mind, we are still back to square one: how can we actually connect with the heart of another person.

More from that Night

2009-11-18T21:59:00.003-05:00

Photography was supposed to be part of that train station/trench coat evening. It turned out that Pearl had much more of a planned scenario than I realized and she had put together some props with a bit of "red velvet swagger" mixed with erotic literary references and some other items of mythical meaning that all added up to a few really special photos. Here's one very small cropped corner of one photo which is her foot resting on a copy of "Delta of Venus."

I was feeling a little silly about the posed shots I wanted to take since her theatrical sets had been so creative. Mine was just a typical run of the mill "dominance fantasy." In fact, since Pearl had hinted at what she would be wearing, I had made a sketch of how I would like to pose her for a photo and emailed it to her a couple of days earlier. Here's the sketch followed by the actual photo I took.

Though I'm fond of the enhanced photo, I must remind myself to tread very lightly on the dominant/submissive theme. I can lose myself in places I'd rather not be in that state of mind, like digging a hole I find it very hard to mentally and emotionally climb out of. I'm much more comfortable with the view of Pearl in the drawing I did in the last post, sunny and free, surrounded by flowers and blue skies.

I've always had some suspicion that having dominant sexual leanings, was the refuge of emasculated men... a sort of compensation for a lifetime of non-assertiveness. So, playing these games: blindfolds, bondage, etc make me question my integrity and worth as a man. Still, to photograph a woman in a such vulnerable position and attitude gives me a powerful erotic rush. But, it also scares me and makes me concerned for my character.

But, Ok, sometimes I just want to be bad, and enjoy a little naughty side trip into the netherworld.

She Wore Little More than a Trench Coat

2009-11-15T22:01:00.003-05:00

Visiting Pearl has been the most fun I've had in years, but the 2 ½ hour drive was tedious, so I decided to take the train. Pearl was delighted with the plan, and said, "I'll pick you up at the train station wearing my trench coat and very little underneath."

Train stations... trench coats... my film noir dreams come true!

When her car pulled up at the station and I hopped in, to my surprise, the trench coat was red, and very short. Ahh, glad this movie was in color. I couldn't resist pulling out my camera for this shot on the drive to her home. Pearl has no lack for imagination on a Saturday night. It began with her flashing me from red to black lace in her candle lit boudoir. So, the evening was a long narrative dance, slow and seductive.

However late I'm up, I still get up early for coffee, pastry, and reading or meditation. I returned to the bedroom with my camera to find Pearl still comatose from our night's delights, and her cat very impatient with the situation.

All my photos of Pearl have been oblique and discreet to preserve her privacy. But, I've wanted to show her face just to reveal her vibrant approach to living life to the fullest. To do that and preserve her privacy, I've drawn her instead, as I see her, but really, much as she is.

To make clear the personal and meaningful side of all this, I'll remind the reader (and myself) that this blog began in a state of dire deprivation of human touch that I had imposed on myself for several years. This was because, for me, touching and being touched by a woman carried a price of eventual hurt and confusion almost too painful to bear. But, the touch deprivation became unbearable in itself, and I solved that in the most impulsive and unplanned manner. It was a real step forward in personal acceptance and understanding. Now, the desire for touch has been satiated far beyond anything I had hoped, and I'm back to the human situation we all eventually face, "How do we relate to and care for another person?" That's what really matters, and possibly we should throw away the rule book and reinvent the story. Maybe we'll end up back home where we all started but with new rules and a new awareness of and appreciation for those we love.

(PS. A pleasant surprise to me is that Pearl has left a couple of comments on this post, humorously giving the story from her point of view. Of course, I became progressively aware that she had made considerable preparation for this night. That she was thirty minutes late to the train station didn't matter one bit to me. I would have waited hours for the evening that we eventually had. And, her comment that her mother went shopping with her for the exquisite bit of black lace that she wore under the trench coat amused me enormously. We should all have such mothers.)

Mars/Venus: Talk about it.

2009-09-30T08:04:00.002-04:00

We go to a small town museum with big surprises. As I said after our visit to the larger museum, "watching Pearl watching art" is as interesting as the art itself. Pearl sees more than I do in a piece. I react quickly and simply, but she knows where it comes from and where it's trying to go.

Near the end, Pearl stands in front of this piece of folk art and says, "Now there's Thomas Hart Benton with soul." In a way, I saw what she meant, but more than that, her comment revealed that she had remembered our conflict over Benton at the other museum. I often think what I say is not heard or held in regard, but she had heard and remembered, for a month.

My mind wandered to the whole issue of sharing thoughts, feelings, interests, who we are, and the sensitivity of being heard and respected or being judged critically. Initial attraction between a man and a woman is so easy, uh, it's genetic. But, where do we go from there? There's a yearning to be validated as a worthwhile person, to be understood and accepted.... whether short term, long term, (friends with benefits) whatever. My communication skills in this arena seem lacking, at least they don't get me where I want to go. The safe thing to do is stay securely isolated, yet lonely. To make the connection, I walk out on a light limb of vulnerability holding myself and the other in positive regard. The risk is, the limb may break.

This Kiss

2009-09-22T23:19:00.002-04:00

"Getting laid is bad for blogging," Pearl said... or something like that. When there's a hunger (emotional, physical, or spiritual) there's a need to spill it into words that others might read. When the hunger is satiated, the need to write diminishes. Too bad we don't celebrate in words when real life is going well.

So, I'd like to celebrate here briefly. A couple of months back, on my July 23 blog post, I lamented that some years ago I had spent a weekend in bed with a very responsive female friend only to be disappointed on Sunday by her judgmental comment that we had "done nothing for three days", like it was a waste of time. I got more comments on that post than any I've written, very positive comments praising the notion of an occasional weekend marathon with a willing partner.

Little did I know, mysterious as fortune for fools might be, that one of my readers of that post on that day would greet me in her home some six weeks later for a luxurious weekend in bed. I didn't even know Pearl when she commented on my post. So, it was unimaginable that I might walk in her front door, which I did a couple of weekends ago, and not step outside her home for three days. But, it did happen! We basically followed the very script I had proposed in my July post... sex, cook, eat, talk. Over and over and over. And, Pearl had nothing but nice things to say, as I finally walked out her door to return home.

I've heard it said, but never experienced it so loud and clear, "Careful what you wish for, you may get it." No regrets here on either side. God does sometimes smile on the most undeserving of us. Instead of "wasted time," let's call it "quality time."

Another hooker movie, Night Shift 1982

2009-09-01T07:41:00.002-04:00

Well, I didn’t get this one from Netflix in time so it’s worth adding. Night Shift was Ron Howard’s first hit movie as a director, and it shows the promise that he fulfilled two years later in Splash. It’s in the romantic comedy genre, but the entire scenario centers around a group of hookers whose pimp gets murdered and they end up looking for “better management.” As always in these stories, the hookers are loveable, genuine, and beautiful, the kind of girl every guy would want for a girlfriend and even take home to his mom (well, at least his dad). It’s uncanny how this theme has continued from movie to movie since the ‘60’s, in spite of the contradictory public and legal attitude toward prostitution. For instance, you’ll never see a straight news article in the mainstream press that confirms this popular Hollywood attitude. Are we confused in the U.S.? Duh!

And, the typical ending persists: hooker falls in love with guy who rescues her from the trade, and consequently the guy gets the best of both worlds, in and out of bed. It’s well worth seeing for a couple of light-hearted, fun hours with a warm fuzzy conclusion. And, if you ever wondered where the song, “That’s What Friends Are For,” came from, now you know. A few years later, it became a number one hit as a fund raiser theme for AIDS research.

Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, 1748

2009-08-30T14:30:00.002-04:00

Written in 1748 by John Cleland, while in a debtor's prison in England, the fictional account of Fanny Hill was never legally published in Britain until 1970, a remarkable 222 years later. Its legal publication in the U.S. occurred three years after that. Of course, prohibited copies of it have circulated in notoriety since Cleland first wrote it. That this rather harmless and celebratory tale of prostitution in Merry Olde England was for so long banned, tells us more about the history of sexual suppression in our culture than it probably informs us about the actual life in brothels of 18^th century England.

Cleland's avoidance of four letter words to describe four letter acts, is reason enough to take a look at his story. His humorous and formal use of language is overwhelming, for instance, as Fanny takes an entire paragraph to describe "a maypole of so enormous standard... it stood an object of terror and delight... and it now fell my lot to stand his first trial of it, if I could resolve to run the risk of its disproportion to that tender part of me, which such an oversized machine was very fit to lay in ruins."

In the story, Fanny does not get into the business of prostitution exactly as a voluntary career choice. She is rather tricked into it (at too young an age) but in Cleland's wishful thinking, she very quickly embraces her work. Her brothel was run by a wise and frugal madam, and the clients were mostly wealthy Londoners. Possibly, Cleland knew of such from first hand experience, possibly such experience is what landed him in debtor's prison.

The sexual encounters eventually assume a consistent pattern telling much about the mythical imagination of men in 1740. All men have enormous erections, all women are both in fear of them, yet desirous of them, and after an initial discomfort, the women have earthshaking orgasms with vaginal intercourse alone, much in contrast to what we understand today. Lesbian encounters are applauded, but male homosexuality is condemned as an abomination. Oral sex is non-existent in this story which was the most puzzling part for me. Was it actually not practiced for some reason, or was it considered too taboo to tell, or was it just Cleland's lack of experience and information? And, typical even of today’s erotica, nothing is ever mentioned of birth control or disease prevention.

At the least this story informs us that sexuality was of interest in an English puritan culture that otherwise forbade its discussion, not only of interest, but partaken with the unique wink, chuckle, and fun that the English seem to have and we in the U.S. do not. Also, it appears to be the beginning of the history of censorship that lasted over 200 years through the era of Lady Chatterley's Lover and Tropic of Cancer till the dam finally broke in the 1970's for better or worse for all of us.

The text and the audio book in .mp3 format are available for free at gutenberg.org. Actually, the audio book is very entertaining listening which I did on my forest walks much to my own amusement as the joggers and dog walkers passed me by.

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, My Hooker Movie Reviews, 1980 to present

2009-08-22T07:34:00.003-04:00

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas 1982

A robust musical song and dance tour de force in celebration of the old time, mostly obsolete western brothel, this movie has one of the most entertaining opening 20 minutes of any of hooker movie: pure musical/sexual hilarity. It just goes to show that with a little money, sex, cooperation from the sheriff, and proper supervision, folks can have some "good, clean fun." It's actually a true story of a long term brothel in a country farm house in Texas which made big news in the early 1970's when it was shut down, and an article appeared in Playboy telling the story. You can't beat Dolly Partin as the madam, Mona, and Burt Reynolds as the sheriff, Ed Earl. Though the songs are mostly forgettable and the dialogue is "high school sophomoric" in places, there are moments when either the pure enthusiasm or the personal drama really touch the heart. When you see prostitutes dancing with johns like it was Agnes de Mille choreography and either Oklahoma or the Music Man, it sort of levels the playing field concerning what's "right and wrong."

An unexpectedly poignant scene finds Mona and sheriff Ed Earl having a campfire rendezvous on a lonesome Texas hillside, drinking a six-pack and looking at the stars. Mona and Ed Earl have been lovers for years, and they are talking about life, love, religion, sex, morality, legality, and sin. It's a conversation worth hearing as they snuggled in the firelight. More than a conversation, it's a social/political treatise on the absurdity of the moral self-righteousness of our laws regarding consensual sex between adults.

The story spins on as a Houston TV personality starts a crusade to close Mona and her girls down. The brothel, called the "Chicken Ranch" got it's name from the 1930's depression era when clients had no money and paid in live chickens. It had been a respite for both World War I soldiers, and then their sons during WW II. And, the University of Texas or Texas Aggies senior football players, whichever won the yearly game, always got a visit to the Ranch, presumably paid by wealthy alumni. Mona had built enormous goodwill over the years with her courtesy, her clean and healthy business, and her charitable contributions.

As the drama weaves its tale to the final conclusion, real lives, and wounded hearts are on the line. By this point, sentimental sap that I am, tears are running down my face, and I'm blubbering in piles of kleenex. Mona sings, "And I Will Always Love You" to Ed Earl and I'm a puddle in my chair. Dolly Partin had written the song several years earlier, and though it wasn't in the Broadway version, it was added to the movie (clearly the movie's best song.) Ten years later Whitney Houston sang it in the movie, Bodyguard, and it became one of the top selling single songs of all time.

So this romanticized story, which stays pretty close to the actual events in Texas sort of put an exclamation point for me on what I have been feeling for the last six months. As the year 2009 began, I was the same old Richard I had always been, struggling for personal or romantic fulfillment in any number of frustrating and unproductive ways. The possibility of seeing a prostitute or escort or hooker or whatever you want to call her had never occurred to me. In fact, I probably disapproved of such practice, though I never gave much thought to whether I did or didn't.

My decision to partake of "love for sale" was not a well considered decision. It was more like something kicked me in the butt and said, "Get out and live a life, or you are going to die alone and lonely." Within a couple of hours of hearing that voice, I was withdrawing hundreds of dollars from an ATM machine. Six months later, I found Pearl. Was there a connection? Never had I thought that seeing an escort or two or three was the key to the door that would open me up to living a life with real women rather than sitting at home dying alone with my fantasies. As a good friend of mine always says, "You've got to get out and meet and greet the people!"

This experience has also changed my attitude toward the world's oldest profession. From this point on, I will always make an effort to promote the legalization of prostitution in the U.S. (as this movie does,) and to defend the legal and civil rights of prostitutes. And, it’s changed my attitude toward relationships in general. Go ahead, make mistakes, talk about it, forgive and embrace, respect everyone, and be tolerant of however hapless humans choose to find love.

Risky Business 1983

What can you say? The best feel good hooker movie ever? Tom Cruise dances in his jockey shorts in one of the classic comic scenes of all time (and 26 years later it is still copied as a TV commercial during the NCAA basketball tourney), and the movie just keeps getting better after that scene. A business night of fun in the Chicago suburbs. If ever there were a positive portrayal of the profession, this was it. Then to cap it off, Rebecca de Mornay makes the hottest of hot love on the Chicago elevated train.

Pretty Woman 1990

Really, this is a love story, whose female character happens to be a prostitute. It's more of a rich guy/poor pretty girl story. And, it has a fine twist on the Pygmalion plot, where, rather than try to reform or educate Julia Roberts, the rich guy (Richard Gere) delights in her lack of sophistication, and makes everyone respect her in spite of it. Of course, they fall in love, and it's happiness and money ever after. Again, it hints but barely that Gere is reaping enormous sexual benefits in this arrangement. He gets love, and one hell of a hot woman at the same time.

Mighty Aphrodite 1995

I must be a sucker for a movie, because this one's really stupid, but I liked it anyway. New York plot scenes alternate with a comic Greek chorus which offer farce-like narration from the ruins of some old Greek theater. It's another Woody Allen film (how many has he made? a thousand by now?) and he acts in it. How does such a nerd always get the pretty girls? It proves there's hope for any guy with imagination. The story is that Allen's character, Lenny, and his wife, Amanda, adopt a baby. Lenny finds out that the baby's birth mother is a prostitute/porn star, Linda Ash played by Mira Sorvino, who at 5'10" has legs that make fools of wise men and we see plenty of them. Linda's hooker character is pretty dumb, much in contrast to the usual savvy heroine of hooker movies. But, she has a big heart, moral character, and a refreshingly blunt, unashamed enthusiasm about sex which comes out in constant hilarious one-liners. The plot never has the interpersonal punch that it promises, particularly in reconciling birth mother and child, but it ends with everybody happy, and the Greek chorus singing "When You're Smiling, the Whole World Smiles With You." What's not to like?

Dangerous Beauty 1998

True story of Veronica Franco, a courtesan in Venice in the late 1500's. It portrays prostitution as a product of social structure, it contrasts "love for sale" vs. "true love," and it covers all sides of the issue: boring wives vs. love wise courtesans, men who want both, social and religious hypocrisy, courtesans who influence history, and hookers with hearts of gold. Every character is an idealized, romanticized model. Though, in stark realism it describes the severe syphilis epidemic that plagued Venice during this period. It seems that the Catholic church blamed the syphilis epidemic on prostitution and started executing them as heretics. Sounds like things have not changed much today since escorts are still blamed for STD's though the statistics show that they are a minor source of them. The movie is well worth seeing.

Moulin Rouge 2001

This is one of the silliest movies I've seen in a long time, a slapstick musical that I had difficulty watching all the way through, except for the fact that I have this thing for Nicole Kidman, whom my sister in Nashville is always seeing at the neighborhood pizza parlor with her hubby Keith Urban. (beside the point I know) This is actually the same story as the 1936 movie, Camille, with Greta Garbo, just turned into a farce musical with Elton John songs. But, the classic hooker movie themes are still present, and probably my favorite scene is when Kidman, the Courtesan, is having an encounter with her young suitor on top of a decorative elephant shaped structure. They sing, banter, and dance while debating the issue of "true love" vs. "love for sale." It's a great scene, but to watch the rest of the movie, I'd suggest having a bottle of booze handy. Then it might be fun. I don’t drink, so it was not that much fun.

Memoirs of a Geisha 2005

A curious movie, with spectacular photography and sets. A nine year old Japanese girl is sold by her family to a Geisha house. The girl, Sayuri is physically abused and mistreated in the house, but eventually is rescued by a kind and respected Geisha mentor who trains her in the Geisha talents of art, music, literature, and conversation. When Sayuri comes of age, her virginity is auctioned at her debut, a public performance attended by wealthy invited guests. The Geisha seems to have been much more of a social and entertainment companion first, besides being the obligatory sexual partner. It was of course, primarily a business venture, but historically run by women for women, however tough the women were on each other. The ultimate goal was to find one wealthy man who would become the Geisha's sole patron. World War II changes everything, and a tangled love story mixes with business.

Others of this period:

Sharkey's Machine 1981

Night Shift 1982

Trading Places 1983

The Courtesans of Bombay 1983 (India) Netflix

Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers 1987 use your imagination, mercifully this one is unavailable for rent

Leaving Las Vegas 1995, real downer, more about alcoholism

Devdas 2002 (India)

The Whore's Son (Hurensohn) 2004, Austria, a teenage son wonders why his mother keeps going out at night, then discovers she is a prostitute.

Monster 2003, sad, but true story, very difficult to watch

Sakuran 2006 (Japan)

Pearl and Art

2009-08-18T07:46:00.003-04:00

For the third weekend in a row, Pearl and I met. Saturday afternoon it was the art museum. I'm a self taught art lover, Pearl has a degree in it. Pearl knew the contemporary artists; unless they're dead, I don't know them. And she not only knew them, she liked them.. So, as Pearl appreciates an abstract painting (by Diebenkorn who actually is dead), I stare in puzzlement and slip out my camera for a quick shot.

Pearl looks at art with a more critical eye than me. I either gush with adoration or am totally bored by a piece. She is more detached, but clearly knows more about it... not only the art history, but the content of the paint, and the variety of tools... showing me strokes that were made by tiny brushes. Pearl doesn't like Thomas Hart Benton as she told me when we looked at this one. "The characters are too cartoon-like," she said. "Oh, OK," I responded. I can handle that, I thought, dying inside. Benton is one of my favorite.

As we walk through the museum, I often found myself watching Pearl watching art. She was quiet while I blabbed on about Georgia O'Keeffe. I expounded on the irony of world history that O’Keeffe could find such tranquility in this southwestern church in 1945 while the rest of the world reeled in the aftermath of World War II.

We both grew restless indoors and knew that outdoors there was an “art walk” across acres of grassy meadows. At the same time I was appreciating all the creativity around me and possibly because of it, I was craving “touch” with Pearl. You can’t hug and kiss in an art museum… (or can you?) I couldn’t. But, somewhere in the outdoor expanse I knew I would have a chance.

As Pearl walked through these giant concrete ovals, I snapped another shot and my heart swam in the artistic message and female symbolism. At night the ovals are lit by the lights on the ground and they appear to just float on the landscape.

The hug and kiss came in a secluded outdoor structure, and signaled that it was time to head to my home for a weekend of food and sensuality. Art as aphrodisiac? Yes, for me, as long as I celebrate individuality. And, what better environment than art to joyfully embrace another’s opinions. Men and women (excuse my preaching) get lost and confused when they feel territorial about preferences that are so personal and really have little consequence for what two can share with each other.

Let it go! And, let go we did. In a classic romp of tangled sheets and mangled pillows. After dinner, again at 2:00 am, a short nap, again at 5:00 am, a long nap, and again, then a sumptuous brunch, then again.

Pearl gives of herself completely with a whole-hearted enthusiasm and abandon that makes me smile and reassures me in the ability of a woman to heal a man’s wounds. I gave for the love of giving, expecting nothing in return, but got more in return than I could ever have expected.

Old Testament Verse

2009-08-17T08:12:00.003-04:00

Behold, you are beautiful, my love, behold you are beautiful.

Your eyes are doves behind your veil.

Your hair is like a flock of goats, moving down the slopes of Gilead.

Your teeth like a flock of shorn ewes

That have come up from the washing.

All of which bear twins, and not one among them is bereaved.

Your lips are like a scarlet thread, and your mouth is lovely.

Your cheeks like halves of a pomegranate behind your veil.

Your neck is like the tower of David, built for an arsenal

Whereon hang a thousand bucklers, all of them sheilds of warriors.

Your breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle that feed among the lilies.

Until the day breathes and the shadows flee,

I will hie me to the mountain of myrrh and the hill of frankincense.

You are all fair, my love; there is no flaw in you.

Song of Solomon, ch. 4, v 1-7

My hooker movie reviews: 1936 – 1980

2009-08-15T04:04:00.004-04:00

Camille 1936

Greta Garbo was nominated for best actress in this story of a Parisian courtesan, who doesn't believe in love, but allows Robert Taylor, as Armand, to try to persuade her of the possibility of romance. Thinking mistakenly that Armand has no money, Garbo (Marguerite/Camille) is torn between love of Armand and sure money offered by a Baron (a sugar daddy/sugar baby arrangement.) There's a dramatic/tragic poignancy in Garbo's portrayal of the life of love for sale. Elegantly staged and directed, with a party scene of restrained debauchery worth seeing. Armand's father pleads with Marguerite to give Armand up for the sake of his career. It's a classic dramatic dialogue exploring all the social and moral issues related to such choices.

High Noon 1952

In this classic western shootout, the character, Helen Ramirez, is not specifically portrayed as a courtesan, but with a little decoding of Hollywood decorum could be understood to be one. At any rate, she is a woman of multiple partners who lives above the saloon. But, her importance is that she is the closet conscience of the town reading character and courage far better than the church going moral cowards. And, she seems to understand men better than any woman in town, even the hero's new bride played by Grace Kelly whose face could launch a thousand horse drawn buggies.

World of Suzie Wong 1960

Stylized and hollywoodish, this film defends Suzie's profession based on poverty and social structure. Very non-judgmental of prostitution and racial issues. The classic love affair: man falls in love with prostitute, he loves the woman but disapproves of her lifestyle. Double standard in a way, much of movie is non-judgmental about lifestyle, but Holden loses it at times and rants about Suzie being a prostitute. It's curious that Suzie expresses her regrets over living "the life" by periodically riding on the ferry and posing as a rich virgin. Love conquers all, Hollywood style, when Suzie and artist Holden commit to each other.

Never on Sunday 1960

Melina Mercouri plays Ilya, a prostitute in a Greek seaport who is independent, wildly popular with the sailors, and will not entertain any man she doesn't like. This 50 year old movie, in my humble opinion is the best of this bunch. Jules Dassin, writer and director, also plays her suitor, Homer, who desires to teach her the glory that was Greece: Plato and Aristotle. Again the man is fascinated with the erotic lure of the prostitute, yet determined somehow to educate and change her. But this time the Pygmalion story backfires, Ilya won't change. The Oscar winning music is great, the Greek dancing is seductive, and it is thick with a thoroughly engaging story and characters even though half this movie is in subtitles. There is endless banter about the psyche of hookers and johns, and all the traps one falls into trying to stereotype either. Melina Mercouri, best actress nominee for the Oscars and winner of the best actress award at Cannes, is surely one of the top ten sexiest leading ladies of the last 50 years. Get it on Netflix!!

Irma la Douce 1963

Terrifically well made, directed, acted, and filmed. Great script and dialogue. One of the best if you can suspend judgment over the dated aspects of it, and somewhat enjoy a musical comedy. The Bartender, a very significant character, is the social philosopher defending prostitution. Irma, Shirley McLane, proudly defends her profession, and generally respects her johns. There are pimps in this one, and they are comic/sinister characters, yet shown to be an integral part of the system in an exuberant Parisian marketplace. Jack Lemmon starts out as a cop who arrests Irma, but loses his job when it is revealed that the police chief is one of her customers. Lemmon, of course, falls in love with Irma, brings in the moral judgmental hammer, gets her pregnant and marries her. Movie ends with a marvelous wedding scene.

Belle de Jour 1967

Certainly not in the romantic comedy category. And, not a great movie in terms of directing, and cinematography. It's one of those French movies in the 60's and 70's that just seemed disjointed and not particularly going anywhere in a hurry. Though it was directed by a Spaniard. It would possibly be a forgotten movie if not for the stunning beauty of Catherine Deneuve. But, it is an interesting portrayal of a small professional boudoir in Paris in the 1960's. It describes the typical "john" as having one endless fetish after another, something I'm not hearing as accurate. And, it takes a unique perspective on social mores that create a split personality of sexual restraint and sexual abandon in the same woman. It also deals with the good girl/bad girl inner conflict of Deneuve's character, often something understood in the mind of men, but in this case in the mind of the woman, a conflict exacerbated by our social myths. Very briefly, in flashbacks, there is a hint of childhood sexual abuse of Severinne (Deneuve) and that it contributes to both her frigidity as a wife and her promiscuity as a prostitute.

The Owl and the Pussycat 1970

A romantic comedy, Pygmalion type story, which works in and around light weight and humorous characters. George Segal tries to inspire to better things the uneducated but street wise Barbara Streisand, and Streisand shows the prudish and naive Segal that no man is beyond seduction by a woman who knows what she is doing. Not the best movie, but an effort again to counteract hooker stereotypes. There's an impressive scene where Streisand blows up and protests against Segal's judgmental type casting of a prostitute's self-image. Eventually, she gets her straight laced man stoned on marijuana and loosens him up in a wonderful bathtub scene. Of course, in the end, love wins, and Segal lures Streisand from the street life.

Klute 1971

This is a murder mystery which is much more penetrating and realistic than other flics concerning the personalities of the hooker and of the men who have her. It's much more cynical about the lifestyle, and explains how many hookers get murdered in New York city. Jane Fonda's character is in psychotherapy through most of the movie, trying to deal with her love/hate attitude toward being a prostitute. And, in much of the movie she is dealing with her mistrust of men always expecting betrayal by them. Sutherland is the typical straight arrow detective who, like all men, cannot resist a woman with an oversized sexual persona. In spite of the cynicism, it still has the romantic Hollywood ending, "man rescues hooker from lifestyle as they fall in love and walk off arm in arm."

Pretty Baby 1978

This is a one of those movies that makes you think, "You know, I really should not be watching this." It's that naughty. But it was a major production, superbly acted, skillfully filmed and directed, and full of the colorful and bawdy culture of 1917 New Orleans... even an Academy Award sound track. The problem is this: the central character is a twelve year old girl. Violet (Brooke Shields), is the daughter of a prostitute (Susan Sarandon.) In an outrageous auction in the brothel, Violet loses her virginity to the highest bidder for $400.00.

Well, it just goes from decadent to sordid, with little editorial comment on whether this is an injustice to a child. The nude scenes of Violet, cut from the original movie, are now restored to the DVD. One wonders if such a movie could even be produced in today's moral climate. Like Lolita, Pretty Baby appears to have an unashamed appeal to pedophiles and, in spite of any disclaimers, lacks any moral comment that would redeem its reason for being.

More from this period:

Lola Montes 1955, true story

Story of a Prostitute 1965 (Japan)

Cemetery Girls/Vampire Hookers 1972, if you dare, John Carradine is the vampire pimp

Ai Nu (Intimate Confessions of a Chinese Courtesan) 1972 (Hong Kong) a supposed cult classic with good reviews, (Netflix), a revenge story of Chinese girls forced into prostitution (clients turn up dead.)

Cinderella Liberty 1973

The Happy Hooker 1975

Taxi Driver 1976

Finding a Pearl

2009-08-12T19:43:00.003-04:00

A few posts back I mentioned getting interested in finding a girlfriend, if an older guy can still call her that. At the same time, I was thinking that when I found her, I wanted to be honest about my escort adventures. A barrage of comments stormed back, all saying, "Don't tell her, she'll never understand." I took those comments seriously, but I'm also pretty stubborn and decided I would make up my own mind about. I did "come out" to one correspondent on the personals site, and, as predicted by my readers, it didn't go well. One unkind comment led to another and the correspondence ended.

But, there was a woman who was not on the dating site. I had found her blog through a word search ("sensuality") some weeks ago. I was fascinated by the penetrating, deeply personal, and perceptive writing on her blog and I left a comment. Without my knowing it, she began reading my blog. A couple of weeks ago we emailed each other and discovered we lived only 2 ½ hours apart. Pearl, years younger than me (and apparently not deterred by the revelations of my blog), surprised me by immediately suggesting we meet half way for dinner. She sent me two photos of herself knowing that I could not refuse when I saw them.

A week later I found myself standing outside a very nice restaurant watching Pearl turn into the parking lot. As she stepped out of her car (dresses are so short these days) and stood tall and slender before me with a smile that could melt steel, I took a deep breath remembering "when gifts like this, however rare, come along, accept them with gratitude." At a three hour plus dinner our conversation weaved a multicolored fabric between us, and simultaneously I watched Pearl, talented artist that she is, order oysters Rockefeller as an appetizer and turn our smitten waiter into her adoring servant.

Walking outdoors, I faced Pearl and said, "Shall I get us a hotel room?" She answered, "Yes." And, for the next four hours, the universe revolved around a king sized bed, stars spinning in a night sky of magic, satiating a hunger derived from extended deprivation. Just this past weekend, I found myself in her beautiful home, again quenching a thirst for touch.... not just of the skin, but a thirst for that drink of companionship where long draughts can fill an empty soul.

Blogs as aphrodisiacs? Apparently so. Nothing could explain the attraction so quickly consumed were it not for the careful reading of each other's blog. Through the reading, we half knew each other before we met.

Metric Monday

2009-08-10T08:22:00.004-04:00

Two are better than one,

For they have a good reward for their toil.

For if they fall, one will lift his fellow;

But woe to him who is alone when he falls,

And has not another to lift him up.

Again, if two lie together, they are warm;

but how can one be warm alone?

Ecclesiastes, ch. 4, v 9-11

Hooker Movies

2009-08-08T08:45:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago, I got interested in watching hooker movies, most of the better known ones, and it's interesting how many there are. Most of them are fantasies in the minds of men. It has to mean something, and say something about our culture that there is such a generally favorable fascination with prostitution in movies while at the same time our social mores and the press are condescending, judgmental, and punitive toward it. This is the universal hypocrisy which prostitutes and johns must view with complete awe.

Just for example, how could there be such incredible shame and condemnation related to Eliot Spitzer's exposure of visiting a prostitute when at the same time we revel in the profession through romantic comedies like Never on Sunday, Irma la Douce, The Owl and the Pussycat, Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, and Pretty Woman. And Spitzer's hooker was the epitome of the nice middle class girl that the movies seem to idolize. But, hypocrisy is the fuel that our society runs on, so what's new?

Recurrent themes in the movies:

1. Hookers are smarter than most, they understand hypocrisy, they know that any man can be seduced, they know what a man likes, they have loving and generous hearts, and at the same time they have no interest in "real monogamous love."

2. On the other hand, there's a contradictory theme (in the same movie, sometimes) that the hooker has been burned in love, and is cynical about it, but deep down really wants a good man to come and rescue her from her lifestyle.

3. And just as contradictory is the theme that the prostitute is the Eliza Dolittle waiting for her Professor Henry Higgins to teach her culture and refinement. Of course, the movies don't mention the implied benefits that Professor Higgins will redeem, you know, what Eliza will teach Professor Higgins in bed, but I'm sure Higgins understood. Again, men write this stuff.

4. Hookers are a very important component to a community. They really keep life running smoothly and everyone seems to be an accomplice: law enforcement, business men, politicians, priests, etc. In most popular portrayals, it looks like prostitution is the lubricant (pardon pun) without which society would have a psychic meltdown.

5. There is no limit to the weird imagination of men who's fetishes seem comical to the hookers, yet the hookers are happy to satisfy in a non-judgmental and accommodating way. From what I'm seeing, this is way overstating reality. In a way, it is a put down of johns and men in general, making them the brunt of a condescending joke. For example, in the Owl and the Pussycat, Barbara Streisand rants on about the john who likes to roll hard boiled eggs across a floor toward her, and Belle de Jour where Catherine Deneuve lies in a coffin while an aristocratic john babbles over her about his dead mother.

5. And, just as oddly, another contradictory theme runs throughout where the hookers generally respect their johns and vice-versa, again the romantic comedy version.

6. The theme of exploitation of women is generally not mentioned in hooker movies, particularly romantic comedies. But, even in non-comedies, the prostitutes are portrayed as strong, independent and generally in charge.

The unstated theme:

What I think the hooker movies hint at, yet never have the nerve to say is that hookers have a unique willingness to satisfy the sexual appetites and desires of men, implying that such men are not getting these needs met by wives or girlfriends. In my humble opinion this is somewhat true in real life. (Of course, a further possibility is that the reason the husbands are not having their sexual desires met by their wives is that they haven't a clue how to satisfy the wife.... so the wife thinks, why should I bother to satisfy him.) Though blogs I'm reading indicate that there are legions of wives out there who are eager to satisfy themselves and their man, I suspect that the majority of relationships are stalemated where the women have lost their erotic imagination and replaced it with food, children, career, or religion. Men, driven by whatever evolutionary impulse charges their batteries are then totally mesmerized by the hooker, the willing seductress. The movies never say this, but this why I think there are so many of them.

Most of the movies are available on Netflix or Turner Classic Movies. Being a Netflix addict, I've watched many of them and will review them in a later post.

Ethics

2009-08-06T07:57:00.003-04:00

I've been wanting to say something about ethics relating to the escort experience, and I've written some things out for myself which sound way too pompous and over the top, then I delete them. So, here's trying again. The more I read blogs by escorts, the more I realize that many johns are average sorts of fellows like me who are respectful and well-mannered, but at the same time, there's a certain number who are "Neanderthal Jerks."

So, simple as it is to say, the primary ethic would be for all concerned to treat each other with the same respect, care, and consideration that any human interaction would ideally be given. It's hard to remember, in the heat of sexual excitement, that limits and permission are still rules to be followed. Men are somewhat hard-wired by evolution to take what they want and ask no questions, but those days have been over since we were advised thousands of years ago, to "treat others as we wish to be treated."

Though I have not encountered an escort who is in trouble and under duress with her lifestyle, I expect there are many out there, and I would hope that I would not engage with one of them or in anyway take advantage of their vulnerability.

Though others might disagree, I'm not sure that any girl under the age of 25 should be doing this. I have seen lots of profiles by 18 year old escorts, and I wince at the idea of patronizing that young a girl. I can't imagine that she is old enough to have any understanding of what she is doing.

Metric Monday

2009-08-03T06:54:00.004-04:00

A book of verse beneath the bough,

A jug of wine, a loaf of bread - and thou

Beside me singing in the wilderness,

Ah, wilderness is Paradise, enow!

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Metric Monday, Loretta’s ditty!

2009-07-27T01:24:00.004-04:00

Kate, of Sex in the Suburbs, has suggested that we add a little verse to begin the week.

Loretta’s a woman who uses her head,

She uses it when she goes to bed.

At times with me, or with a friend.

With either sex, at either end.

Talking to Jesus

2009-07-23T07:15:00.003-04:00

My brief experiences with escorts have given me a new appreciation of the delights of sensuality, and, honestly, have made me more aware of how the women I've known (wife and lovers) have so often abandoned their sense of sexuality or at least are conflicted about it. About 7 years ago, I had one of my 6 months relationships, about as long as any have lasted since my divorce. She was a very attractive woman whom I liked pretty well. Our kids were in the same private school, and we had some friends in common, a predominance of Quakers, actually. So, doing stuff together was pretty easy. She was very responsive sexually, and loved to have me "eat her pussy" (sorry Nabakov, I couldn't think of any other way to say it) ... endlessly, and she had endless orgasms when I did it, "talking to Jesus at the peak moments." She never mentioned him (Jesus) otherwise. Oddly enough, she seemed to have little interest in giving me oral attention. I didn't think much about it at the time because intercourse was very satisfying and I knew that was going to happen eventually.

The point I am trying to get to is this. One weekend we went out of town to a mountain retreat. We had a little log cabin with a big bed and a hot tub. So, except for a few walks around the area, and dining out, we pretty much stayed in bed the whole weekend, and she seemed like she enjoyed it tremendously.... at least she told "Jesus" she did. But, at the end of the weekend, she started making some sarcastic remarks about the fact that all we did all weekend was have sex. Her remarks had sort of a "work ethic" tinge to them, like we should have spent some time chopping wood or something useful like that. And, her remarks also had an anti-sex flavor as well, as if civilized, intelligent, educated people really should know better than to do "that" all weekend. I was pretty irritated at her comment.

So, what I'm saying is that I see nothing wrong with an occasional entire weekend in bed. In fact, every now and then, my perfect weekend would be sex, cook, eat, sex, watch a movie, sex, talk, cook eat, sex, sleep, sex, talk, cook, eat, sex, watch a movie... well, you get the idea. I do stuff, you know, I have a little work ethic in me, and I like to talk about world peace and my carbon footprint. Still, every now and then, what's wrong with fucking all weekend????

Is Complete Honesty Possible?

2009-07-18T10:14:00.002-04:00

There's trouble here in "Centerville, USA." I'm in a dilemma. Having been bereft of female companionship for four years, I was seized by a sudden madness four months ago to "have it" and "have it right now." I ended up in the arms of a couple of escorts, and the experience turned out to be something far beyond what I expected. I found a new respect, admiration, and fondness for a profession I had rarely given a moment's notice.

Because of this, my desire for the more consistent companionship of a woman has been renewed, and I signed up on a personals site. I will meet my first possibility tomorrow morning at an exquisite European quality bakery. However, I have no interest in leading a double life. I want to be honest with any romantic or sexual partner about my personal sexual activity. So, I'm compelled to eventually, not tomorrow, but before "the deed is done" to be sure, explain that I have recently visited an escort, and actually might like to do so in the future.

I'm assuming that this explanation would not fall upon happy ears, and would probably end the potential relationship. I do have an interest in some form of "open relationship," which is very much of a minority point of view for most women, though not all. In my endless reading of blogs in the last four months, I have even discovered that some escorts have a poor opinion of "open relationships" and would not want be in one with a romantic partner. Escorts as providers, in some cases, feel like they are the guardians of traditional monogamy, and that seeing a married client is her way of helping that man preserve the integrity of his monogamous marriage... a hard concept to get, but a prevalent one I think.

It gets real complex at this point and I'm not sure I have the social skills to weave my way through it. Once one gets over the fantasy of Snow White and Prince Charming riding away into the sunset never to look elsewhere than in each others eyes, the possibilities and scenarios become very challenging.

Being honest about whatever I do is very important, and I really don’t know what I want to do until the situation occurs. But, I know I don’t want to lie about whatever I do. I have made an internet friend with whom I have been emailing, a wonderful woman who has been very hurt by a couple of deceptive men in her life. I found her on one of the most artfully literary blogs I have read. It has been a warning to me about the harm we can inflict when we are dishonest.

Escorts vs. Psychiatrists

2009-07-11T12:08:00.002-04:00

Both are expensive, and both, in a sense, are "love for sale." And, I assume that neither gives me a moments thought when I am out of sight and not offering compensation for their services. Now, I have seen the psychiatric version of "love for sale" countless more times than I have seen an escort. And, I have never gotten a call, an email, or a note from a psychiatrist saying, "I haven't seen you in a while, I miss talking to you, just wondered how you are doing."

But, to my surprise, this past week I got an email from Loretta wishing me a happy July 4 holiday. Score "one" for the escorts, and a "0" for the psychiatrists. Clearly, Loretta was hinting, "I miss you. I'd like to see you." Score one more for escorts, and a minus one for the psychiatrists.

When I have left a session with an escort, I have felt happy, exhilarated, and renewed with a better attitude toward the world and my place in it. When I have left a psychiatrist's office, I have felt confused, diminished, and angry... and I paid dearly to feel like that. Score another for the escorts.

I was thrilled to get Loretta's email. I wrote her back saying how much I missed her, that I would like to see her again soon. I asked how she was, how her son was doing, and wondered if she ever had times when she felt lonely and without a friend. (Yeah, I know, I don't have respect for professional boundaries, but I just see everyone as a friend... regardless that it's against the rules.)

Well, would you believe, Loretta answered me with a wonderfully newsy email saying: "I enjoy leisure cups of coffee in the morning watching different kinds of birds eating from my bird feeders. I have to walk my German Shepherd every morning usually between 5:30-7:00. I like exercise,wishing I had someone to ride a bike with me."

So there, score another for the women we pay for love. I have been seeing the other helping profession off and on since I was in college, and I'm still crazy. I may know more about "why" I'm crazy, but I'm still crazy. So what do I have to show for the thousands of dollars I have given psychiatrists and therapists.

And, here, Loretta is hinting that there might be a bike ride (off the ledger so to speak) in our future. Now, if I just knew her dress size.

To be precise, Minnie was not my first

2009-06-27T12:09:00.002-04:00

It was Delta Dawn, 40 years ago. Yes, just once, and I never paid for it again till this year. I was a 20-year-old kid, visiting New York City, and walking at night on a quiet side street one block off Times Square. In the stillness of the moment I heard that slow click of high heels that takes my breath away. "Want to have a good time?" Turning, I saw a lovely young black woman, slim, svelte, beautiful. Caught with my heart in my throat, I quickly surmised the situation and said, "How much?"

"How much do you have?" she answered. I pulled out my billfold and said, "Ten dollars." Remember, this was 1969. "Oooh sorry, that's not enough," she answered warmly and started walking away. My heart dropped as I watched her turn the corner into Times Square with its bright lights and crowds of people. I checked my wallet again. Hey, there was another $10.00 I hadn't seen in the darkness.

I dashed around the corner dodging pedestrians. She was gone. Damn. Running through the crowd hoping to get a glimpse of her, I looked far ahead on the sidewalk. Between two people I saw her beautiful ass lazily sauntering along in that tight skirt and her fabulous legs on those irresistible high heels, black purse rocking against her knee. I caught up with her and whipped out my wallet, "See, I found more, I have $20.00."

"Put that damn thing away," she hissed. "You want someone to see us?" Naive beyond belief, I got it, and quickly stashed the wallet in my pocket. "Follow me." We turned the corner onto another deserted, dark street. The tiny hotel, no wider than 25 feet, must have last seen grandeur in 1930. Men slouched in a bench against the wall; a dirty tile mosaic on the floor had once been a masterpiece. The brass chandelier, now dusty and tarnished spoke of the Roaring Twenties and bathtub gin.

A fellow behind the desk in a sleeveless T-shirt smoking a cigar, slid Delta a key as she walked past him. There was barely space for the bed in the room, and it was entirely dark except for the dim city light through the window. In spite of the dingy decor, Delta exuded a warmth, beauty, and seductiveness that typifies the paradox of New York City.

For some reason she never removed her bra, though I saw and felt every other velvet inch of her. And, she explored me as well, so gently guiding me through only my second sexual experience. She skillfully used her mouth saying she was particularly in the mood for fellatio. Me? I was clueless and unprepared, so if she hadn't provided the condom, I would have been out of luck. As I slowly glided to completion inside her, I had the thought that I will remember every detail of this moment forever. And, I have.

She dressed and asked about me. "I'm going to be a history teacher," I said. Pondering a moment, she answered, "I wish I had studied harder in school. I grew up in Mississippi picking cotton. That’s one damn thing I’ll never do again. I work in Woolworth's during the day."

I've remembered that night fondly for the last 40 years, but never thought about paying for love again till about three months ago. Still though, the click of high heels on hard concrete sends a thrill up my spine and makes me think of Delta.

Giselle, the Gypsy Dancer

2009-06-20T22:33:00.002-04:00

In the late summers of the 19th century in Bulgaria, the mountains were filled with gypsy camps. Rogues, musicians, magicians, barterers, philosophers, and lovers circled their painted wagons and built campfires... singing, drinking, gambling, playing music, and dancing late into the night. Above the trees the sparks from the fires drifted up toward the stars, and the sky echoed the sounds of distant guitars, mandolins, and fiddles.

Around one such campfire tired old men and lusty young ones chanted with the singing mandolins to the passionate movements of the Giselle, a gypsy woman, who was dancing in circles around the fire. The warm light from the fire set her bare shoulders glowing as her skin dampened with sweat from her wild motion. And below her shoulders, her white peasant’s blouse gathered at the tops of her arms and only partially covered her breasts. Her long hair tossed one way and then the other soaking up the sweat from her body. A red cotton skirt fitted snugly around her hips, and then hung loosely over her strong legs. In her bare feet, she would charge toward the fire and stop at the last moment twirling her skirt ferociously at the flames sending a shower of sparks into the air.

As she circled the fire again and again, the men clapped to the rhythm of her feet and the guitars. Each of them wanted her, and in some isolated second, each of them imagined that he had her. The men said she appeared to be in a trance, lit from some fire within, but without their knowing it, she was always looking for a man who could match her passion.

He didn’t move with the crowd, he didn’t move at all, he just stood there arms folded and his back against an oak tree. Only his eyes could be seen gleaming from under his dark hat.. His black shirt unbuttoned at the top revealed a forest of black and silver hair. He had joined the caravan that afternoon as it wound it’s way up the dusty mountain road to the plateau, but no one knew where he came from. There was a rumor that he had killed a man, a matter of justice for an injured party.

Each time Giselle circled the fire she fixed on the two eyes shining out from under the hat against the oak tree. It was her secret, and it fed the fervor of her dance and her passion. The rhythm of the guitars increased in pace, faster and louder, and the mandolins found counter melodies from somewhere deep below that moaned to the accompaniment of what would sound first like sighs and then like screams coming from the violins. Gypsy music sounded like love making, and they all rejoiced in it. It would start slowly with gentle touches and steady foreplay, then would build upon itself, refrain by refrain, till it reached this moment where the clapping of the chanting men, and the frenzy of the musicians brought the woman dancing near her peak.

The dancer's head now leaned back, eyes half closed, and with lips apart she changed her motion to one more bluntly directed at the men. Her feet spread apart and her knees bent, she jerked less gracefully and more provocatively toward them. With her fingers clutching at two handfuls of the red skirt, she inched it up her thighs as her thrusting movements left no mystery to the ritual. All the men were imagining they were having her, and she knew this and loved knowing it, in fact she had always felt born for these moments. She knew she had the power to set men on some mythical dream of an archetypal act of love, and that they could live on the gift of this dream that she gave them. They would go to sleep happy and wake up happy knowing that if they could ever have had her they would have made love to her like princes.

The music ended amid the cheers of the crowd. Giselle stood still, head down with her breasts heaving. Slowly, she moved into the crowd, and walked through them as if she didn’t even see them, directly toward the oak tree. The men parted in front of her, and when she reached the tree, he was gone. Her eyes darted quickly around, but he was nowhere. A quick expression of hurt and betrayal flashed across her face and she ran into the dark behind one of the wagons.

In the dark, she felt a hand clutch her hair, and pull her backwards almost falling. Another hand quickly covered her mouth to muffle her scream. She struggled fiercely, her arms swinging back to hit him, and her legs kicking back as a bucking mare. He bent his head and bit the back of her neck to quell her, the brim of his black hat brushing against her head.

“I want you,” she heard him say. “I’ve wanted you since I heard about you a year ago, and I’ve been traveling from camp to camp till finding you today. I want to take you away from here, leave now, say goodbye to no one. You will be mine, and you will belong to me. You will have my babies.”

She grew still as she heard his words.

And he continued, “We will live with eyes only for each other, always. We will grow old together and our children will dance forever in the joy of our love. Come with me now.”

He slowly removed his hand from her mouth, and she was silent, her body spent and limp. He took her by the hand and started stepping quietly and slowly toward his horse. Most of the camp was settling into sleep and ignored the pair as they mounted his horse. She wrapped her arms around his chest, and leaned her head against his back. “And you will belong to me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered as the horse trotted out of the camp and down the hill.

In Praise of Strippers

2009-06-12T23:07:00.002-04:00

A few memorable nights stand out over the last 30 years. It's a Friday night, late; the room is crowded with loud, beer drinking men, the light is dim except for the one spot on the stage, and into the circle, knees bent and arms raised, enters a girl who can generate electric intensity, and she knows it. By this time in the evening, the half-hearted dancers, the fillers, and the wannabe's have all come and gone. The Queen of the Pelvic Thrust has arrived; the girl who gives Bump and Grind its "steam engine" due is stomping her stilettos into the thumping hearts of helpless men in her spell. They cheer wildly in unison and she responds with an "in your face" heart attack hump that sends the men home to fuck the brains out of their lovers and wives who wonder where this Bull came from, but, eyes rolled back in head, ask no questions, and hear no lies.

All dancing is a mating ritual. Strippers just get it, when the fox trotters and the contra dancers barely notice. Even ballet. Look at the "Rite of Spring" in some of its raunchier versions, or Baryshnikov in his codpiece, or Pilobolus for God's sake. Not to mention the cabin scenes in Dirty Dancing.

I have seen strippers who could dance circles around trained modern dancers, and strippers who could do things on a brass pole that defy belief and gravity. And, it's usually not the so called "gentleman's clubs" where the action is, it's the back street honky tonks, where I'm so out of place, but love to go. There is where the strippers are who love their work and are dearly appreciated. Are they the second oldest profession? Maybe so, because they have forever known that they are on a mission from God to turn men into howling wolves and then send them home to make babies.

Mermaid Minnie

2009-06-10T07:34:00.002-04:00

Thanks everyone, for the comments on Mermaid Minnie and my seaside adventure/fiasco. In retrospect, I was more amused than discouraged with this first escort encounter. As I was driving away into the sunset, I was laughing as much at myself for my complete inexperience with the lifestyle, and was thinking, "You know, I can figure out how to do this and have a good time with it."

On her escorts.com profile, Minnie claims to have been escorting for nine years, and she has several very good reviews for "full service" sessions.

My take on Minnie is this. First of all, I'm pretty sure she was stoned on something. I figure she has an arrangement with some fellow, a quasi-sugar daddy type, to use his yacht. The boat was easily a $100,000.00 piece of property, possibly worth twice that, and with my understanding of yachting, most boats sit vacant in harbor most of the time. I'm sure she was talking on her cell phone with the guy who was in the big black SUV, and was very eager to get done with me and back to him.

Since she was in a resort area and must have many very transient clients, she probably knew she could treat me poorly and not have it hurt her trade, and being stoned, she just didn't care. Since I told her it was my first time, she may have assumed I didn't know anything about writing reviews. And, I would not write a poor review since the review system is a bit distasteful anyway. Though I have really enjoyed writing a good review, and I do read them.

You know, the escort business seems to me to be an intuitive situation where both client and provider must get very skilled at judging character on the spot and making quick decisions. It can be a learning process. If I knew what I know today, I would have just said to Minnie, "Thank you, but something doesn't feel right about this," and left before ever reaching for my wallet. Maybe it would be good for everyone to understand that after five or ten minutes, it’s Ok for either person to say “no” and part ways with no hard feelings. From what I've read on blogs, the escort is much higher at risk for having a bad experience than the "john."

Actually, Ramona was not my first

2009-06-06T11:06:00.002-04:00

It was Mermaid Minnie, but it only lasted fifteen minutes, so I figured it didn't count. About 12 weeks ago, I was in a coastal resort and the word "escort" had put a buzz in my head I couldn't shake. When I called Minnie, I said it was my first time, and I was nervous. She said, "Oh, sweetheart, you'll be fine." With that, I found myself standing at an ATM machine withdrawing bundles of cash.

As I pulled up to the condominiums, Minnie was standing on the street, in the rain, wearing a denim jacket, jeans, cell phone in one hand and cigarette in the other. "We're going on a boat," she said. "Huh?" I answered, "You live on a boat?" "Sort of," she replied. Being my first time, I had nothing to compare, but this experience was looking a little strange. For one, Minnie was not walking real straight. For another, her speech was very slurred. But, she was pretty.... God, was she pretty, just like her website photos, and there was clearly a nice figure under those jeans, But, she kept talking to someone on her cell phone. We walked to the marina with acres of proud white yachts tied to the docks.

"Here it is... hop on," she said. I found myself sitting on a sofa in a floating love pad, very big and plush with two bedroom suites. I started to wonder if a drug smuggling Mafia boyfriend was nearby. And, whomever she was talking to on the phone didn't sound like the girlfriend in trouble she said it was. "Let's get business done first," she told me. I handed her what her website said was the "special rate" for the day. "No, it's more than that. That's an old rate on the website, it should have been deleted." I thought this was a little unprofessional, but I gave her the extra amount. (I looked at her website today, three months later, and the "special" is still on it.)

I'm a first timer at this, as I said, but I'm no dummy. I was beginning to get the idea that I was being had... or at least partially had. This girl was being deceptive, discourteous by talking on her cell phone, she couldn't walk straight, and she couldn't talk right. And, there was a tall bottle of whiskey in the middle of the table about half full. Yeah, I could see all this, but she was so damn cute.... and those jeans were so damn tight. And, I was so damned excited. I thought, if I don't get mugged and dumped in the ocean, it will be worth it to just see what's under those jeans.

So, Minnie pocketed her expanded fee, and pointed to the bedroom in the lower deck. "We're going down there." Now, I'm sitting on a bed without a clue as to what happens next. "You are nervous, aren't you," she said, and she just sort of stood there like I was supposed to do something. "Take off your clothes," she directed me. Caught off guard, I asked, "Can't this move a little slower? Could we possibly just sit and kiss for a minute?"

"Oh, I don't kiss," she said in the most solicitously apologetic, but slightly insincere manner. I asked, "So, what are we going to do?". At that question, Minnie straightened up like a school teacher giving an assignment. "We are going to get naked, and I am going to suck your dick," Well, that cleared up one question!

She slipped out of her clothes faster than a Texas tornado, and in seconds was sitting cross-legged and naked on the bed. Wow! "You are absolutely beautiful," I gushed. She answered with a brief, ingratiating "thank you," and waited while I slowly, clumsily undressed. Remember, this is the first time I had seen a naked 20-something in over 25 years, and I was praising both God and Darwin for the glorious site in front of me.

So, here was geezer Richard, drooling through his beard, sitting naked next to renegade starlet Minnie. She rips open a condom, pulls roughly at my limpness and somehow unravels the condom on me pinching and pulling all the way. It hurt. In an instant she was sucking with the desperation of a runner eyeing the finish line. I had been grabbed by the harpy of the deep blue sea who was determined to devour me in short order and, without mercy, finish me off in record time. It did not feel good.

After a couple of minutes of Minnie on autopilot, she stopped, looked down with a puzzled expression and said, "What's wrong?" She was referring to my limp nothing she held in her hand. I was happy she quit... it was great relief from the painful piranha like biting I had been enduring. "I think it's a little too fast and too rough," I replied.

"Oh Ok, well, lie down," she ordered. I did so and she whipped her body around placing her glorious bottom inches from my face. She started on me again with a slower attack. It wasn't working and I knew by now it would not, but I was stunned to find myself peering into the eternal openness of womanhood right before my nose... the most exquisite gynecological rendering that nature could possibly have presented me. I had been sort of told by Minnie that I should only look and not touch, but that was gift enough. I wondered almost aloud that such a perfectly beautiful body could be host to such a really insensitive personality.

Finally, I said to her, "Minnie, you know, I just don't think this is going to happen." I had wakened her again out of her trance. She turned her head to look into my face. There I saw the curious blend of beauty and clueless, the most gorgeous ass on earth an inch from my lips, and her beautiful but puzzled head turned toward me, a small drip of saliva on her lower lip.

"Guess we're done then," she said, and as quick as that she was sitting on the boat potty, door open, peeing. She said, "I don't give refunds." Her jeans were back on just as quickly. I struggled to pull on my pants.

"I thought that I paid for an hour," I suggested. "Well, you said you were not going to get it up, and I don't know what else to do," she answered.

She was already walking off the boat, cell phone in one hand and lit cigarette in the other. I looked at my watch. It had been only fifteen minutes since I had entered the boat. As we got to the parking lot, I saw it. I was toast. There was a monster SUV, glistening black and menacing looking... idling and grumbling. And Minnie headed straight for it. "Oh no, my executioner." The windows were tinted dark, and I could not see inside.

Minnie stopped suddenly, turned to me, walked back and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Come back next time and I'll give you a better deal."

"When pigs fly," I thought. She closed the door behind her in the SUV. I walked briskly to my car. Had I gotten the Mafioso final kiss? Followed by the end? Then, I was in my car and leaving, a free man. I had spit in the face of social mores, my first walk on the wild side. I laughed into the sunset and considered myself lucky to have my wallet in my pocket, my head on my shoulders, and all my fingers.

Loretta

2009-05-30T22:58:00.002-04:00

Loretta is the proverbial "hooker with a golden heart." She was gracious far beyond any professional need to be so. She was overflowing with hospitality as we slowly danced and chatted to the playlist that I had brought on my iPod. During breaks from our lovemaking, she told me about her grown son whom she dearly loved and about his career aspirations and the talks they had about it. Then she related pieces of her life story, her growing up in a farming family, milking cows and riding horses. As a young girl, her father had warned her not to ride her horse when he was not around, and she had always broken the rule and ridden alone because she loved it so much.

As we listened to Jerry Butler singing "Your Precious Love" she told the story of that song playing at a high school dance and the class nerd asking her to dance and at first refusing. Then when he was persistent, she finally said, "yes," and discovered that he was a superb dancer and they remained friends throughout high school. These stories got shorter as our passionate involvement increased.

Loretta loves sex. I am not so naive as to ignore that her job is to present herself so, but I am also no novice to this stuff either. There were many things she did that were beyond acting for me and could only be interpreted as a sincere love of self-gratification. The result of all this is that I went way beyond my imagined limits of what is prudently safe to do orally.

As I may have said in previous posts, I come to this adventure with a pretty much perfect record of health safety in sexual terms. Combine that with the fact that my only other sexual involvement with a woman in four years had been with Ramona two months earlier, a pretty tame event. Possibly because I had informed Loretta how low risk I was as a client made her feel free to be much more uninhibited with me.

However, I have done endless internet reading on "safe-sex" and am particularly impressed with the Denver, Colorado escort, Beverly Fisher, and her essay on precautions. According to Beverly, latex intervention should be involved in all "wet" contact except kissing. Why kissing was excluded, she was not clear. Well, I thought her suggestions, though cumbersome, were probably pretty good health insurance, though it involved purchasing some "sheet goods" I hadn't a clue where to find and even gloves which I could get but hadn't bothered. In the heat of the moment with Loretta, however, I ignored all Beverly's suggestions, except the universally agreed upon one of a condom for intercourse.

So, I'm sort of wondering if I am capable of handling this kind of involvement with escorts if I can so easily disregard precautions and engage in my predilection for unbridled oral gratification.... where my tongue is a fearless warrior and romps wherever it pleases which is pretty much wherever it is physically possible.

When Richard Rises to the Occasion

2009-05-25T22:35:00.002-04:00

I was disappointed by Ramona's mysterious and unexplained disappearance from the local social scene, not that she owed anyone like me an explanation. I've read enough blogs and reviews to know this can and does happen frequently. As the weekend wore on, almost on a rebound, I began thinking (obsessing actually) about Loretta, an older escort, (I suspected over 50) whom I had frequently seen at a couple of sites. Her reviews were unanimously positive.

So, within a couple of emails and one phone conversation, Loretta had set up a 3:00 pm date Monday (today) with me. Knowing my slow cooker ability to perform, I booked Loretta for two hours, though my wallet winced at the thought. Also, remembering that I hadn't cared for the music on the radio station Ramona had been playing, I decided to take my own music to Loretta. So, much of Sunday was spent putting together a two hour playlist on my iPod which was guaranteed to enhance my mood.

The first song was Nora Jones' Turn Me On and I added another 32 songs that lasted exactly two hours, almost to the minute. It was packed with steamy "make out" songs from my past... the 60's on through the 90's. Smoke Gets in Your Eyes by the Platters, It's Just a Matter of Time by Brook Benton, Cry Me a River, Don't Smoke in Bed by Rita Coolidge, Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain by Willie Nelson, Stormy Weather with the saxophone of Ben Webster, For Your Precious Love by Jerry Butler, Jessie by Janis Ian, Tears Don't Care Who Cries Them by K.D. Lang, Tenderly by Rosemary Clooney (I was reaching back to the 50's), and finally I Need a Man with a Slow Hand by the Pointer Sisters. I was packing the deck with all the help I could get.

So, at 3:00 pm today I walked into Loretta's hotel room with my iPod and a miniature but powerful set of battery powered JBL speakers. Loretta, standing there, smiling and proudly posing a magnificent lusciously fit mature body, had turned on a radio.

"Uh, Loretta, do you mind? I brought my own music."

Humored and interested she watched me set up my speakers and iPod. As Nora Jones huskily purred out Turn Me On, Loretta wrapped her arms around me and said that was one of her favorite songs. Within minutes, my equipment was responding with pointed vigor. Loretta, an exemplar of encouragement and positive reinforcement was skillfully guiding me down the path to fulfillment.

What followed was one of the most slurpilacious (don't look that up) couple of hours of oral entanglement that I have ever experienced. Like blind sucklings searching nourishment, we wiggled and wriggled into endless contortions. It must have been about ten till five that I erupted with a long over due fountain of gratitude. Loretta, barely dodging the shot, cheered my messy contribution to the tangle of sheets we found ourselves in.

And, yes, I did take that photo of the mushroom.

Ramona disappears

2009-05-22T22:20:00.002-04:00

Well, not without saying goodbye. She did send me an email saying she couldn't have a picnic with me on the river, that she would not be "working" for a while and that she is leaving town for the summer. Sudden, unexpected, and disappointing news.

Just as my effort for a continuous arrangement with Ramona was beginning, it has ended. Not only will I not be able to give her my best shot, so to speak (since my first shot misfired,) neither will I get a chance to have the conversations I had wanted to have with her, or even ask her about the Lolita story.

A part of me wonders if she is telling the truth, if this was not just a way for her to say that she didn't want to see me. Was I becoming a "high maintenance" john with my offbeat requests like a picnic on a river.

Hopelessly Romantic

So, this afternoon I felt the need to go walk along my river. I love the smell of the pines, the rush of the water, the change of the seasons, the lonely fat snake and the blooming laurel I found today, and even the mostly bare limbs in winter like the day when a friend snapped a shot of me resting on a rock.

As I walked into the woods on this warm May afternoon, I plugged my iPod into my ear and listened to the innocently romantic songs of the World War II era, like Vera Lynn the British songstress singing White Cliffs of Dover. (Lest you think I'm terminally old fashioned, let me remind you, I also have Amy Winehouse on my iPod.) At heart, I'm incurably romantic. I both love it and suffer from it having romanticized over a lifetime most of my 30 plus girlfriends (including my former wife). It has given me some of my most intoxicating moments, and some of my loneliest moments. And, now, Ramona... in my imagination I made her my Macedonian gypsy enchantress, a role she never asked for and never fulfilled.

It’s More Than Just Recreation

2009-05-15T08:51:00.002-04:00

I tried my best to get interested in the Russian novel, The Master and Margarita, that Ramona recommended, but I just could not. It was too metaphoric and symbolic for me. All the characters represented someone or something else other than who they actually were. Of course, since the novel was written in Stalinist Russia, it would be impossible to publish anything that actually said what you were thinking. One would always have to write in code.

What really interested me, though, as well as threatened me, was Ramona's fascination with the novel, Lolita. I downloaded an audio version of the complete book and listened to it on my iPod while I was driving on a 1200 mile round trip to a family funeral.

I doubt that many people understand why Lolita is such a threatening story for a man. It is because Nabakov, without shame, exploits the feelings that most men have for a pubescent girl. Of course, most men, myself included, never act on those feelings, but at the same time can feel frightened when those feelings are aroused so mercilessly as Nabakov does. Eventually, as the novel progresses, Nabakov inserts his disclaimer that such an exploitation of a young girl can not only rob her of her youth, but also destroy her ability to function as a healthy, happy adult. Which is why it is a crime, and why no mother has named her precious daughter Lolita since the novel appeared in 1955.

But, Nabakov plays with the male reader, and hearing the story can really make a sane man crazy, jerking around with his sense of primordial lust and his ethical values. Frankly, it left me pretty much an emotional and psychic wreck. Combine that with the age difference between me and Ramona (60/26), and it really plays awful games with my mind.

I began to think again that I possibly should have chosen an escort over 40 years old. There was one who was over 50 who was truly stunning in her presentation. But, she did not have the aesthetic and literary imagination or the cultural curiosity that Ramona expressed. I can hear some readers thinking, "You know it's just sex, an escort doesn't have to be a cultural soul mate." But, friends, it's never "just sex." I firmly believe the greatest erogenous zone is between the ears.

I'm glad I listened to Lolita all the way through, however, but I certainly will never listen to it again, or read it again, and yet, Ramona had read it at least three times, and got more out of it each time. What did she get out of it? Had she been exploited? And, if so, would it not be too painful a story to read over and over? Or does she have another take on it, a vindication by the reckoning that Humbert gets as he eventually is brought to justice.

I wanted to ask her, and I wanted to know even though her answer might make me feel even crazier.

I have invited Ramona to a picnic next week on a rock overlooking a river. Though we live in a metropolitan area of over 1 million people, in a five minute drive and a 10 minute walk we can be in the middle of nowhere... the exact spot, in fact, of the photo below.

I told her that I wanted to meet her away from the "boudoir" just one more time before heading back to the Hilton to fall into her arms. The intention of the picnic, of course, is to heighten the anticipation and excitement that will enhance my performance in bed. Not to mention that, in spite of the expense, I will enjoy taking a beautiful woman to my favorite overlook where I have been taking girlfriends for over 40 years. So, as we picnic on the rock, should I bring up the Lolita story and ask her what it is that fascinates her so? Is this too invasive a question? Am I intruding too far into her personal space?

You know, as I read other blogs, of both hookers and johns, I see that most recommend a sense of detachment from inter-personal intrigue in favor of considering this primarily a recreational experience. But, it's my life, and for me the inter-personal intrigue is recreation. I have no girlfriend or wife, and Ramona is my only outlet on the stage for the drama that unfolds between men and women. And, in spite of whatever angst I seem to be expressing about it, I am actually enjoying this experience immensely.

After Dinner Conversation

2009-05-06T21:39:00.002-04:00

I sent Ramona the following email:

I enjoyed dinner, Ramona. I just ordered the Master and Margarita online. I'll probably get it next week. I'm a little embarrassed that I've never heard of it. Wikipedia says that it is considered one of the greatest novels of the 20th Century. Maybe I'll finish it before I see you next time.

Richard

Ramona replied:

I think you'll enjoy it. There's nothing like reading a great book for the first time.

PS Thank you for dinner, I look forward to seeing you in the future!

Brief and succinct as usual in her correspondence. Clearly, being email pen pals on a frequent basis is of no interest to her. Whether other Johns suffer from departure withdrawal or not, I don't know. But, I long for her, as much as I know realistically, that for her, she'll barely think of me for the next three weeks till I contact her again.

Dinner with Ramona

2009-05-06T21:29:00.002-04:00

Part of the reason for meeting Ramona for dinner was just to remember what she looked like. The hotel room had been so dimly lit, and I had spent half that time with my eyes closed. She looked different, of course, in florescent light, less exotic, more like an ordinary person, dressed in mall slacks and casual sweater. Her face, which I couldn't take my eyes from, still excited me remembering the joy of kissing her. She was very friendly to me, but avoided much eye contact. Of course, I was looking for more eye contact than any woman could graciously reciprocate.

I was trying for what I could to get her attention, just to get her to remember me, or think that I was special among her men. This was a need of mine that I had to assume was a non-issue for her. Just being with her in this public place excited me, being seen by others, wondering what they were wondering.

We sat in a round semi-circular booth at the restaurant, a highly acclaimed gourmet food emporium. I was cautious in how close I slid to her, but she easily moved more than half way around the soft cushion toward me. I finally had to spill my anxiety about the dinner date, "You know, I've been really nervous about this dinner, wondering if we would have anything to talk about."

"We can talk about anything you want," she responded. She seemed relaxed, but somewhat detached and distant. Possibly this was keeping her boundaries clear, which made sense when I looked at it from her perspective.

She started talking, in fact she seemed pretty good at filling the air with chat... something I've never done well. "Did I tell you I was born in Macedonia?" she asked. "Well, yes," I responded as I pulled out of my pocket a map of Macedonia I had printed off Microsoft Encarta. She laughed as she saw it and began pointing out her small hometown and describing the mountainous terrain.

We were getting somewhere. I felt that I was making a mark on her memory, that I was not just another face in her crowd. My guess is that for most other Johns this is not important, but how do I know? Possibly, they all want to be considered special, to think that I'm the one guy she remembers at least as a personality and a nice fellow.

It got better. Honestly, I couldn't tell what I said that meant much to her, but she did take an interest in the fact that I was good at sailing boats, and that I had kept a journal of my thoughts and feelings since I was in college. At the same time, I was memorizing her every word. She seemed to speak so easily and spontaneously, though continuing to avoid much eye contact.... my problem, I'm sure, not hers.

Whether she was looking for a conversational spark or not, I don't know, but she seemed to be better at such a search than me. Eventually, the topic landed on reading, and she blossomed on the topic. "I first saw the movie, Gone with the Wind, in Macedonia, and I fell in love with it," she said. "Coming to this country by the time I was 10 years old, I already knew some English, but as I got better, I read Gone with the Wind and liked the book better than the movie."

She continued, "I've read a lot of Russian fiction, both in English and Macedonian, and it's interesting since Macedonian and Russian are both Slavic languages, the Macedonian translations are much better reading. You know, translations needs to give all the feeling and color of the original and sometimes Russian to English can't do that."

Oh my, I thought. This young woman is talking linguistic circles around me. I'm here trying to get a psychic connection so I can better make love to her next time, and she is here expounding on the wonders of translating fiction. "There's a great Russian novel I recently read called The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov," she continued. I had never heard of the book, which I later discovered was an acknowledged 20^th century classic. She briefly summarized the story for me as a satire on communist repression during Stalin.

At this point our knees touch under the table and she lets hers press against mine. I'm finding the connection I had hoped for.... something that would give me an identity with her other than just a name and an appointment.

She added, "It's funny though, the first Russian writer I read was Nabakov, who actually wrote Lolita in English. Lolita is one of my favorite books and I read it again every few years. Each time, I see things in it that I never got the previous time. You should always re-read books that you really like."

Oh, my God. How deep am I in, and into what? This 26-year-old woman has just told me, a 60-year-old man, that she has grown up under the influence of one of her favorite novels, Lolita. I'm no dummy or stranger to the depths of the subconscious but I had never thought that my brief venture into Neverland would bring me face with the scary issue of Lolita.

I now remember asking her by email if she might find it uncomfortable being seen in a public place dining with a much older man. Her brief email reply was, "Age is not important."

I was not about to discuss the implications of her fascination with Lolita at this busy restaurant.... what it might mean to her, or what it implied about some childhood story of her own. That would be for another day, and was pretty much out of bounds for what I understood to be the limits of invasive conversation with an escort, sort of in the privacy and "no drama" category.

The Lolita story had never really held a lot of fascination for me, and I was truly not overly obsessed with younger women. I found older women very appealing. It was really the artistic, creative imagination and political leanings that Ramona showed in her internet profiles that interested me. I had actually tried to contact a couple of older escorts (in their 40's) but had not gotten a reply. I am self-righteously reaching here, to hang on to some understanding of myself, that I am thoroughly grounded with integrity in what is appropriate or not with age differences and violation of boundaries.

Still, it's shaky territory when one of the aspects of this fantasy land escort adventure is that an older man can have an erotic adventure with a much younger woman that is not possible in normal social interaction. While I am stretching the norms of accepted social behavior, it is important for me to maintain a safe set of boundaries to assure myself that I am not crossing dangerous borders of ethical standards. So, I would have been perfectly fine if Ramona had never mentioned Lolita. Though Ramona being 26 years old is years within the age of consent, she has introduced a disturbing issue that most responsible older men would not want to come near.

So, where was I? Yes, let's get back to a safer topic, like translations and native tongues. I said in reference to Nabakov writing so well in English, that Joseph Conrad, another superb writer of English grew up speaking Polish. She had not heard of Conrad, which told me something. We English speaking sorts have such conceit that we are the center of culture, it is refreshing to see the other side, that as close as eastern Europe, we are not that important. Ramona had read Margaret Mitchell with enthusiasm, but had yet to encounter, Heart of Darkness.

Being a good John, I kept my eye on the time, and when our hour was up, I thanked Ramona for joining me. As we walked out of the mall into the endless parking lot, I indicated the direction of my car. Hers was the other way. At the point we parted, there was a distance between us. I stopped briefly and said, "Thanks again." She stopped, turned around, walked a few feet back to me, and said, "Kiss?" She kissed me firmly on the lips. She turned and left, and as I was walking to my car, I was hoping that at least one passerby had witnessed that kiss.

Conversation is an Aphrodisiac

2009-05-06T21:15:00.002-04:00

I knew that I would eventually have a very satisfying experience with Ramona if I wanted it. But, I needed to set the scene, plant the garden, to speak, before it would bloom. So, I figured that meeting her outside the boudoir, taking her to dinner in a nice restaurant, for instance, would be a good move. Conversation, for me, is an aphrodisiac. Not, knowing if that would interest her, I emailed and asked and she responded, ”I would like that very much."

Safe Sex in the 90’s for the 50 Something Crowd

2009-05-06T21:05:00.002-04:00

As a late 40's early 50's divorced fellow in the 1990's, I was making confused though earnest efforts to have some kind of a functional, albeit part-time and often long-distance romantic relationship with a woman. None of these relationships overlapped, they had a beginning and an end with a period of reflection (however unhelpful) in between. Four or five experiences stand out, and I remember being surprised that the women seemed much less interested in bringing up and discussing the safe sex issue than I was.

This discussion usually occurred, at my prompting and their reluctance after the first couple of sleepovers. Since these women were post-menopause, the intercourse was without benefit of condoms, and I saw not a glimmer of hesitation from any of them to jump into the sack. They were all hard-working (church ladies... as if that made a difference) ... very educated, professional single parents with teenage kids .... kids who were being told constantly by these very same mothers to practice safe sex.

When I brought up the topic of safe sex with my lovers (all beautiful women, might I add) they were on one hand slightly offended and on the other apologetic that I had been the one to mention it. Most of these women had at least one other partner since their divorce, so there was an arithmetic, if not a statistical possibility of risk.

Our conversation focused on AIDS, since that was everywhere you looked on TV and in print. Considering our demographic, sexual orientation, minimal number of partners, and lack of intravenous drug use (stick a needle in me? are you kidding, I haven't even tasted alcohol in 18 years), our possibility of carrying HIV was not even on the chart it was so minimal. Yet, that is what I persuaded at least three women and myself to get tested for.

There was one humorous occasion when, after 6-8 weeks of gloriously uninhibited and unprotected sex, Mary and I decided to get tested for AIDS. Together we went to the local Planned Parenthood Clinic, hoping not to run into some teen we knew, her daughter for instance. Used to greeting a parade of young girls in a hormonal rage, the clinic was at first confused as to why we were there. But, we were tested, and within a couple of weeks delay assumed to be free of AIDS, sort of by default, we just didn't hear anything, I had to call to ask. When I requested a printed certificate, there was a bit of hesitation as if it were not something normally given. I went back to the clinic to get my certificate and was disappointed at what I got. I was thinking, naively of course, that I would get a beautiful printed page emblazoned at the top with a banner: "Richard .... does not have AIDS." Instead I got sort of a blurry copy of a fax with a barely legible notation at the bottom. "Results: negative." Of course, to me, the results were POSITIVE, and I resented the idea of "negative" though in clinical lingo, that's the right answer.

The absurdity of all this is that what these women and I should have been discussing was not AIDS, but herpes, chlamydia, yeast, and whatever other pesky problems were a real possibility. These conversations never occurred, and mostly we continued enthusiastically exchanging bodily fluids until the inevitable unresolved personal issues of immature adults, who never learned to work out emotional differences, put an end to the fun.

There were two minor bumps on this landscape of otherwise perfect sexual health. One woman, whose home cleaning habits were far below my standards called me at one point to declare that her sons had develop an itchy problem called "scabies." I had wondered why I was getting these itchy red spots on my stomach, and she confirmed that was the problem. She gave me the solution, some kind of antiseptic shampoo, cleaning of all bed sheets etc. This problem, quickly resolved, confirmed my strong belief in impeccable housekeeping and exhaustive personal hygiene, and, by the way, ended that relationship.

Another incident which may be somewhat controversial is still worth mentioning, and that is "yeast issues" with women and my love of the art of cunnilingus. In the mid-90's with my dear lifetime friend, Annie, I found my head blissfully buried for hours it seemed in her mound of Venus. Eventually, while dating Annie, I developed a most outrageous anal itch, though she had absolutely no symptoms of anything. It got worse over a period of 4-6 weeks, and made hiking impossible. With great embarrassment, I went to a doctor whom I knew as a friend, and confessed my dilemma. I gave him whatever details of my sexual life he requested. Once he realized I had nothing other than singular sexual activity with one woman and a sumptuous diet of vaginal effluence, he gave me a prescription for a pill, one very expensive pill, a magic bullet he called it, that he usually gave only women for yeast infections. I took the one pill, elaborate packaged by "Big Pharma" almost as a pearl in a jewel case, and within two days my itch had vanished never to return.

In my minimal research on this matter, the interaction of yeast issues (even asymptomatic) between men and women is not well documented, particularly in relation to how it effects the man. Annie was duly insulted that I thought this anal itch of mine might have anything to do with our lovemaking, but I'm thinking there is a connection, even if there might be such a thing as a pre-disposition on my part, or even a particular vulnerability at a certain time. I may be wrong in my diagnosis here, but I'm willing to be informed by anyone with knowledge or experience in these matters.

So, in this long-winded tale, I really have no conclusions except that supposedly mature, intelligent men and women, even the older and wiser of us, still are pretty unskilled at discussing health issues related to sex. And, I must think that many people just choose abstinence rather than deal with it, and in the process deny themselves a lot of physical and emotional satisfaction... and, in my humble opinion, make all of us more irritable and abusive to those around us.

At the same time that I seem so tuned to these health issues, I have chosen a path with escorts, though maybe only one at this point or one ever. This may increase my vulnerability to disease or infection who knows how much? In my imagination possibly a 100 to 1 increase, but I have no idea, and there is really no accurate information out there. It's interesting in reading escort's blogs that most say they have had no or at least minimal health problems. Still, that's no statistical reassurance. Many may have had problems who never got to the point of blogging. However, the independent escorts, in the higher price ranges, do seem to be very competent at staying safe.

The Day After

2009-05-06T08:03:00.002-04:00

As to my performance or lack of, as I said, it was no surprise to me. The unfamiliarity of being with a stranger in a business transaction inhibited me considerably. And, the 35-year age difference felt truly surreal, like a dream that I shouldn't have been having. I suspect that I would have felt more at ease and less lecherous with a 40 year old, or older escort.

Of course, I can hear a chorus of advisers saying, try a little Viagra next time, which is absurd, and I'll tell you why. I have a private opinion that Viagra is just a pharmacological scam for husbands who are bored with their wives. Something tells me that men who take Viagra in order to perform for their wives would have no problem if they allowed themselves an alternative "lust object." (My unsolicited advice to such men is work on the relationship, don't tinker with medication. But, what do I know; all my relationships are blowing in the wind.) I know for myself that I could have gone home from meeting Ramona and performed perfectly with internet pornography. But, that is why I went to see Ramona, I am sick to death of masturbating to internet pornography. I was beginning to think that the only way I could experience sex was with pornography, and that was not how I wanted to live.

Since I made this decision to quit pornography and masturbation several weeks ago, I have not done either, and I feel much better for it. I have made a decision to be a functional man with a "real woman." I see this experience with Ramona to be the beginning of that journey.

The other impression I have from my date with Ramona is that I realized, "This is what it's like with a woman who is totally willing to give her entire attention to pleasing a man." If I had experienced that in the past, I couldn't remember it. I kept thinking how many of my former lovers were so selfishly focused on their own pleasure, a symptom of women's liberation, I guess... a reaction to the historical denial of a woman's right to experience her own pleasure. As with many justified social revolutions, the pendulum has swung the opposite way to the extreme. And, I was a part of it. Being a "new age sensitive man" I have made Herculean efforts to please a woman for most of my adult life. But, after being with Ramona, I'm thinking, "You know, this giving of pleasure can be a two way thing. Each partner has an unlimited right to experience it."

Landing on the Moon

2009-05-05T07:16:00.002-04:00

I did my best not to acknowledge the fact that I had inadvertently scheduled this life-changing event on April Fool's Day. Self-doubt over my decision, however, had really taken a back seat to enthusiasm for a possibly liberating experience. At two minutes till 7:00 pm I called her on my cell phone from the hotel parking lot. When she answered and gave me her room number, I felt a rush of illicit exhilaration, the thrill that men for centuries have had when parting that forbidden curtain and entering from daylight into secret night.

I set the alarm on my cell phone to 7:55, having dutifully read at some escort's website that on an in call, the man should be courteously responsible for the time limitations. As I entered the hotel and stood in front of the elevator door, two young women behind the registration desk smiled at me. Yeah, there I was unregistered, no baggage, and holding a plastic shopping bag with violet tulips peeping out the top. Oh my, I was sure they knew what I was doing.

I knocked on room 434, hyperventilating and heart in my throat. The door cracked open and a beautiful head leaned forward, black hair, wide and smiling eyes, wonderful lips opened to bright white teeth. More than I had dared hope, Ramona was pretty, very pretty. I walked in; she shut the door, and stood close to me. My heart rate would have been about 125 at this moment. "Tulips," I said, holding up the bag.

Both of us fumbled a bit with the bag getting the vase out and on the dresser, to the extent that the light plastic bag ended up kind of floating in the air and became a comic obstacle between us. "You want the bag back?" she asked. "No I was just trying to fold it," I replied, in my compulsively neat habit. As the bag issue resolved itself, she stepped close and kissed me on the lips. The kiss lifted me to a height of intoxication that never subsided for the next hour.

Standing beside the bed I was in a dream-like state as Ramona nibbled on my neck and began unbuttoning my shirt. By now she had lifted off the light sheer fabric of her dress and was standing in black bra, black panties, black stockings and high heels. My hands stroked her starkly contrasting white skin, so intensely smooth and warm.

As the dream and the minutes followed, I can hardly remember how the progression to laying bare and side by side occurred, but soon we were there. The wonderful sensation of just being in this place with this woman, who was fulfilling my expectations of what this would be like, was all that I really asked of this first time. I explained to her, "You know, I have no expectations further than just being here like this. I don't even know if I can perform as you might expect, but whatever occurs this is really wonderful. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she replied. "Is there anything in particular you would like me to do?" Ramona made it clear that she was looking for cues. She was patient, quiet, slow to move, but clearly waiting for a hint of what she might do to please me. Since just being there was enough for me, I wasn't able to tell her anything in particular. But, knowing me and my love of giving and tasting, I found my face inching down between her lovely breasts, over her stomach, across her pierced navel, and to a neatly trimmed patch of hair, and then below.

For a while, still in awe that I was doing this, I nuzzled and licked, to her kind, responsive movements, and soft moans. Eventually, she covered her mound with her hand, indicating enough. I rose back to her face and she gave me a deep kiss. She then sat up and leaned forward, and I found myself nose to shoulder with a most ornate tattoo. I had never in my life expected to be this close to "body art," in fact, much the opposite: I had made every effort not to be. In an instant, I had a completely new and positive attitude toward tattoos.

Always, liking to intersperse lovemaking with conversation, I asked, "So, what kind of blues do you like?" She had mentioned it on her profile. "Well, I've gotten interested in the field recordings that a man named Alan Lomax made of southern blues guitarists 60-70 years ago." What? I thought! I'm laying here with a beautiful young woman, 26 years old, who lived her first 10 years in Macedonia, and we are discussing American ethnomusicology? "Yeah, I know about Alan Lomax, in fact, I met his sister once," I answered. She seemed surprised at that. I talked a bit more about some Lomax recordings, Leadbelly, etc, and that I had also met blues musicians Brownie McGhee and Sonny Terry who had been friends of Lomax. This odd conversational interlude did give us a "real world" connection in an otherwise "extra-terrestrial" experience. I lazily trailed my fingers up and down her thigh.

Now, I lay back and her head floated down my body. The tender feather touch of her lips on me seemed the most wonderful sensation I had known. Either, it had been so long that I had forgotten what it was like, or Ramona had the experience, the willingness, and the ability to make this a truly memorable moment. My verbal appreciation to her for what she was doing was lavish, so it was probably surprising to her that I was not getting an erection.

This did not surprise me. I knew that I would have difficulty relaxing in this totally new situation. Performing sexually with a time clock of one hour was not something I had ever been challenged to do .... not to mention, with a complete stranger, no matter how lovely, caring, and willing. In a sense, it was easy to temporarily forget that this was a business transaction, but other things were harder to forget. I was probably feeling some guilt at what seemed like the undeserved luxury of being a 60 yr. old man with a beautiful 26 year old woman. Besides that, my pattern for a lifetime had been an extended "mating dance," something that grew over days or weeks, and on the night it finally happened it took hours ....a first movement, an allegro, an adagio, an entire symphony until the final crescendo. There had always been a harmony, a history, a chord progression, a personal connection, a mutually entertained acknowledgement of desire and romance.

I explained to Ramona, that on this first time I might not get an erection, no matter how happy I felt to be here with her. She said she understood and it was not a problem, though I was concerned that she felt she had failed in some way. I said, "Let me see if I can get one on my own." As I started touching myself she gave me attentive looks and caresses. Then she did something that swept me into her web completely as a loyal believer in her willingness and desire to give me what I needed and wanted, before I even knew myself what it was.

I'm uncomfortable describing specific anatomical acts, but what Ramona voluntarily did at that moment felt spectacular, and sent an electric charge to my psyche that cemented my connection not only to Ramona, but to the profession she was practicing. It was something I cannot remember a former lover ever doing, a tender, loving, selfless, and completely unashamed act. In a moment, it really redefined for me what a sexual experience might be, and honestly made my former lovers appear selfish, lazy, and unimaginative.

It hardly mattered to me now that the erection was not going to happen on this day. My cell phone alarm went off. I had totally forgotten I had set it, and Ramona was startled by it. Our time was over. As I got dressed, Ramona, in her typical understated manner said, "You're a nice man. I hope you come back."

"Believe me, I will," I said as I left the room.

Day Before the Big Dance

2009-05-05T06:32:00.002-04:00

Email from Ramona:

And the time is almost here :) I will be staying at the following hotel: Hilton on University Drive. When you get there @ 7 just give me a ring for the room # and directions to my room.

Kisses,

Ramona

ph: xxx-xxx-xxxx

Somehow, I had never understood the "in call" or "out call" part of this. Well, I did know that out call meant coming to my home, which wasn't a real possibility as long as my son was living at home during his freshman year at college. As to going to "her place," I had, without thinking, assumed this meant her apartment, condo, or home nestled in a quiet neighborhood. Yeah, right, how would that look to neighbors with a line of guys rolling up to the house.

So, I quickly understood that they rent a hotel room to schedule a series of meetings. I also began to understand that there are some overhead costs to the escort for this: room, supplies, internet fees, clothes, transportation and the time all that consumes, not to mention the "office time" of correspondence and maintaining one's online persona in several provider sites. Record keeping, calendar keeping, and some skill at remembering one John from another. Then add photography fees if you want to get professional, on and on. Plus, more than average make-up time, manicure, hair care, and hopefully endless showers and "detailed hygiene" between clients. Clearly, as an independent, they had to be pretty good at managing time and money, not to mention that punctuality would be of primo importance, on both sides. If you couldn't handle being on time, this would be a failed enterprise. I'm beginning to see that if they are good at this and do it well, it's pretty hard work.

Getting clean!

2009-04-24T07:02:00.002-04:00

Since I had read so many profiles and looked at many provider websites, mostly hosted by escorts.com, I realized that showing up neat and clean was important. Most of these websites have a page called "etiquette," which often lists proper behavior, discreet payment procedures, and most of all hygiene. Apparently, this is necessary because guys must have a poor reputation for showing up unshowered and smelly. Not that I would have, but I took this cue to heart and for days before my first meeting with Ramona, I began flossing religiously followed by listerine. I cut my toenails and fingernails, even started using a fingernail file for the first time in years. I used hand lotion a couple of times a day.

I trimmed my beard regularly. Got some conditioner for the little hair I have left and even used a blow dryer. Bought a pack of Irish Spring soap and scrubbed every crevice. Shined my shoes, bought new socks and underwear. Took my sports jacket to the dry cleaners, ironed my pants and shirt. If nothing else, I would show up groomed to perfection. Interestingly, and no surprise, as this went on for a couple of weeks, I began to feel better about myself.

Though a moderately neat person anyway, I was looking better for work and was thinking that my clients were noticing this change as well. My attitude about work even improved, and I lost a few pounds and was eating better, healthier food. I started hiking in a local forest for 30-40 minutes at the end of each day. All because I was going to meet a seductress whom I didn't even know, but she had stated, "Boys, hygiene is important. In order for me to be at my best, you need to be at your cleanest. If you are not, I will make you take a shower. watch you while you soap up, and tell you if you miss a spot." I had never taken such good care of myself when meeting potential girlfriends over the last 15 years.

As I was reading the etiquette page of numerous escort's websites, I came across a particularly detailed list of manners and hygiene which really set down what these women are up against and the efforts they make to deal with it. This escort, a truly foxy 5'11" slender rail with forever legs and cannon ball buns listed not only the college by name where she received her undergraduate degree but where she received her master's as well. And, she showed her face in upwards of 100 photos on her website. Clearly a bold, self-confident woman whose intent was to take charge of her situation, she stated the following:

"Turn offs: Bad hygiene, bad breath, smoking, drunk men (how can you be a gentleman if you are drunk), rude language and/or behavior, inappropriate questions, drama, busy bodies, disrespect toward me or my playmates, expectations from an encounter that I am uncomfortable with, and pushy, aggressive, arrogant, behavior."

Though it appears that these women may be strict as school marms in keeping men's behavior in line, I'm getting the impression that they are in a constant contest to maintain tolerable boundaries and feel safe and respected, and that they have had numerous bad experiences from uncouth men. To slightly paraphrase The English Courtesan, she says on her blog, "If it smells bad, don't suck it!"

Well, Having aced the grooming requirement, for Ramona and knowing I would ace the polite, courteous gentleman request, I had one more preparation that I had not anticipated. Each escorts website had a page called "gifts" which listed each girl's favorite token visiting gifts. A little miffed that a gift would be entertained on top of the steep hourly fee, I still thought, well, that's another way to insure a positive attitude from Ramona when I arrive. She had mentioned tulips as a favorite flower. So, I went to the florist and found myself at home carefully cutting and arranging a vase of violet tulips.

When Richard pops the STD question

2009-04-24T06:54:00.002-04:00

My rendezvous with Ramona is only two days away, and I'm both excited and apprehensive. I have wanted to ask her about health status, particularly after reading the STD section in the Diary of an English Courtesan. I was concerned actually about French kissing and unprotected oral sex. Though most escorts seemed to be very generous with such favors, the English Courtesan apparently discourages it. Of course, my preference was for uninhibited oral passion, but I had fear I would be crossing some sensible "safe sex" line that I had never crossed.

Nowhere on the web could I find any statistical evidence of what my real risk might be.... I wanted a New England Journal of Medicine exhaustive study that told me in percentages what risk I was taking. Apparently, there is no such study. Though I could easily learn my risk of having unprotected intercourse in South Africa, there is nothing to tell me what risk I'm taking (herpes, for instance) in French kissing a 26 year old discreet and intelligent escort in middle America.

Since so few escorts in their profiles or websites discuss this, I was hesitant to be very blunt with Ramona about it, but I wanted to ask and I sent her the following email.

Ramona,

Sorry for so much email, but a couple of important things I thought I should mention. I cannot tell you how excited I am to be seeing you on Wednesday at 7:00. As I told you, this will be my first such experience, but more than that, your unique sensual imagination and your personality, that comes through in your writing, appeal to me very much, not to mention your lovely photos, which are true erotic art.

Please do not expect a vigorously energetic experience from me. I've read a number of reviews by clients of other escorts at escorts.com telling of exhaustive aerobics where multiple events take place in a short period of time. Remember, that I am 60, and slower and gentle is all I ask. Though I am fit and extremely healthy, and hike for miles in the forest, an athletic contest with you is not what I'm looking for.

I do have one question, since your profile and website say to ask what's on one's mind. I've seen very little mention on anyone's profile about maintaining good health. I am probably one of the lowest health risk individuals you will ever meet... as in ZERO risk. Thought you would like to know. I am sure that is also of importance to you. Possibly, it's considered a turn-off to talk about it on a profile or website, but it is of interest to me and actually is not a turn-off at all. Is there anything you would like to tell me about that?

Again, I am counting the hours and minutes till I see you. Ahhhh, you heard that before? Well, it's true. The excitement and anticipation that you provide is as important as the real moment itself. I'll phone you Wednesday morning. My cell # is xxx-xxx-xxxx in case you need it.

Very Best Regards,

Richard

Very soon, I received the following less than completely informative reply from Ramona.

....and don't worry we can take it nice and slow- it's my preference as well. As far as other health concerns, safety is #1 for me always. I get screened once every 2-3 months and always play safely.

Well, that "safe sex" explanation was far below the English Courtesan's guidelines, and I figured it was probably typical of other local escorts as well. I was clear, as everyone seemed to be on the obligatory condom for intercourse, but French kissing and oral sex seemed like the "gray areas." I was already committed emotionally and was clearly ready to take risks that I had never before considered. I rationalized my decision, creating my own imaginative statistics for my personal situation, and honestly didn't give it a moments thought once I met her.

Corresponding with Ramona

2009-04-24T06:47:00.002-04:00

I have set up my first meeting with Ramona for Wednesday April 1, 2009 at 7:00 pm at her place, wherever that is, I have no idea. Today I received an email from her.

Hi Richard,. It's great that you joined Date-Check! I looked up your profile, I'm so happy you took my advice. It will make things so much easier when trying to see established and professional ladies :) I'm also very happy that I will meet you next week and I'm looking forward to it. I hope you have a great weekend,

Kisses,

Ramona

I replied:

Thanks, Ramona. Actually, I'm less interested in meeting a variety of professional ladies than establishing an ongoing arrangement with one.... hopefully you, if it works out. Enjoy your Sunday working on your novel.

Best,

Richard

When Richard finds Ramona

2009-04-24T06:43:00.002-04:00

Still looking for my most compatible match, I am browsing profiles when I see what looks like a vintage sepia-tone photo of a woman in dark stockings half clothed in a knitted sweater with strings of pearls draped around her breasts. The photo could have passed for an 1890's box camera portrait. Wow, who has that kind of imagination and can post an image so starkly in contrast to all others on an escorts site. I started reading about Ramona (not her real escort name of course, so don't even try an internet search for her.)

Ramona understated her promotional paragraph, which was in itself appealing, in contrast to many who guaranteed the experience of a lifetime. She simply said she was here to please, and that she enjoyed making people happy. She was apparently new to the escort endeavor and was 26 years old. But she expressed an offbeat sense of humor ("I was a pin-up in a former life.") and a attitude that satirized the glamour aspect of this and emphasized the personal intimacy of it. In her photos, she was not a Sports Illustrated swimsuit candidate, which was low on my priorities anyway, but she had an entirely appealing appearance with a lovely erotic invitation in her camera poses.

As I followed the link to her website, I found more photos with the same flair for creativity, staging, and vintage erotica, which she stated as one of her interests. Since her face was not visible in the photos, I felt that typical anxiety that I might start fantasizing a face to my own desires and, when meeting her, be disappointed by an entirely different look. However, her few reviews said she was refreshingly pretty.

She joked a bit about working six days a week and taking off Sundays for church and writing her novel. I wondered if this were a reference to the classic hooker movie, Never on Sunday. She further said that she had lived her early life in eastern Europe, but had been in the US for the last 15 years. This stoked my fantasy of a gypsy maid growing up around the Black Sea. To add to her persona, she was the only woman I had seen who listed on her website a favorite charity, an international network where one could support small enterprises in developing countries, as small, for instance, as a weaver in Afghanistan, or a farmer in India.

I knew I had found my match, if she would consent. I emailed Ramona with my photo and she immediately responded with a welcoming invitation to become her client, with the only request being that I pass the validation process at Date Check. Being self-employed this was a bit more difficult than usual, but I gave Date Check enough pertinent information about me including some Google hits that they approved me as a solid citizen who was actually who I said I was. Apparently, for guys with a steady job and employer, they really call the employer under some innocuous pretense to verify the employment with that company. A little scary, but Date Check says that after the verification they delete all personal information from their data base. I can only assume, though I haven't asked, that they also verify that the women escorts are not cops.

Who will she be?

2009-04-23T14:36:00.002-04:00

Being self-employed as well, I find myself spending a little too much energy on this search.... energy that might better be spent running my own business, especially knowing that my monthly expenses were suddenly going to increase a bit, if I follow through with this plan. Still, the time spent browsing escort's profiles was a real pleasure. I was first of all struck with the mostly positive regard with which the women presented themselves. Possibly, in dark moments, this regard wilted and a sense of sinking in a sea of doubt would overcome them, but in the spirit of self-promotion and independence they all stressed their insistence on providing a life enhancing experience, and at the same time demanding complete courtesy and respect from their clients.

This is the antithesis of internet pornography, which for the most part portrays women in submissive and degrading interaction with men. God knows who the guys are who run the internet porn sites, but from what I've seen they are pretty much Neanderthal jerks, with extremely limited vocabulary, no sense of beauty, and no respect for women. They continually push women into more and more extreme acts. One would think while surfing internet porn, that fisting, watersports, severe bondage, and extreme facial splatter are normal sexual events casually enjoyed by most women. In my experience, in a reasonably active sex life over 40 years, I have never known a woman to even mention such, and honestly, I had never imagined such till I sank in the mire of internet porn. And, it either speaks poorly of human nature, or at least of mine, that no matter how much I kept telling myself that I would refrain from going to those sites, much to my shame I too often did.

Back to the escort ads, as I'm saying, I am finding them very unlike pornography. The women being independent are saying this is what I am wanting to offer, it is pleasurable and respectful, and it has boundaries, which I will not cross. Now, if the reality does not measure up to the promotion, at least the ideal is out front at the beginning. Such an ideal gave me a much more positive attitude than I had anticipated when I began browsing profiles.

As alluring as many of these women were, it appeared to me that most were not looking for my demographic: late age, former counter-culture 70's hippie, with very liberal politics, an inordinate interest in introspective psychology and spiritual matters, a prolific reader from Tolstoy to Tom Wolfe, and a 12-stepper devoted to personal inventory and making amends. They seemed more interested in business high rollers, or traveling dot com geeks with padded expense accounts and generous per diems, or as one said, "golfers on vacation." Others specified "elite gentlemen," I assume meant to arrive at a rendezvous in a BMW wearing black socks, white cuffs, and $80.00 Ralph Lauren ties. Possibly, this was simply to discourage the unshaven beer truck driver, I don't know.

Some of the ads, though clearly beautiful women were a bit too "dancing with the stars" glamorous for me. Silicone implants were another excluding item for me, though I may have excluded some very interesting women completely on that one item. Being 60 myself, I was very drawn to older women, as few as there are. A couple of forty something women and one over 50 provided the most professional and spectacular presentations that I saw, and had an endless trail of glowing reviews from men. Very few of the women's photos showed their face, but in the reviews the men continually commented how beautiful some were. "It was like kissing the most beautiful girl on campus," one said, an experience most men never had but always fantasized.

So many profiles offered the "GFE" the girl friend experience, meaning that for a moment the business transaction is forgotten and the escort is able to shower the man with the love and affection of a romantic and adoring girlfriend. Some reviews attested to the truth that some escorts can summon the energy and acting ability to make this happen for an hour. (I was beginning to be concerned that in only one hour I would never be able to even begin to get in the mood.) And, at the same time, I was impressed that some of these women were able to create this mood on a repeated basis with repeated guys time after time. Also, I was wondering... how many in a day, how many in a week? Questions that really I'd rather not, at this point, know the answer.

Another interesting characteristic some women clearly stressed was that they really enjoyed their work, and as earnestly as they said this, I had to believe that some were telling the truth. Unless I am a completely naive fool, I'm beginning to see this as something I had not imagined. My stereotype till now was that escorts were in the business out of some desperate circumstance and dire need. But, reading the profiles, the best at least, I'm seeing mostly clear-headed practical choice rather than desperation. If they are all putting on an act, it's a hell of a good effort. And, in the glowing reviews for some of the women, there is no mention of other than a clear-headed practitioner doing a remarkable job of providing a fantasy experience.

Often a woman would say that she only worked with men she liked, and that the ideal situation is a steady stream of trusted and repeat clients, some of whom might eventually be called friends. I'm idealizing at best here, and I'm aware that there is another side to this, a down side, even a tragic side, the stories we probably never hear. But that would not be a reflection on the trade itself. Look at the marriages we know in "mainstream life," the successes, but at the same time the trail of tears many of them leave behind with poor children wondering what was the name of that hurricane. It's life; it's all just life on earth among the people.

Thursday March 19, 2009 As Richard regains his senses

2009-04-23T14:08:00.002-04:00

Slowly, I found my head rolling down the halls of this internet love bazaar, and screwed it back on. I was here for the real thing, not another fantasy. The women's profiles gave an email address, phone no. (with a subscription to escorts.com) and a link to an individual webpage (usually hosted by escorts.com) in which each escort elaborated on favors, compensation, manners no less, expectations, and style of operation. They also posted a photo gallery, non-explicit, and often tasteful… well done photography, even artistic at times. Here, for instance is a remarkable escort photo found on escorts.com, that took imagination on the part of escort and photographer. It is followed by a fantasy painting I’ve inserted by Maxfield Parrish. One has to wonder if the photographer of the escort didn't have that painting stored somewhere in his memory.

These websites referred to even more websites, a seeming never ending labyrinth that could become confusing and overwhelming. They would suggest, "See my reviews at TER (The Erotic Review), Southern GFE, Preferred 411, Date Check, Best Known Secrets, Big Doggie." Huh? Big Doggie? All these sites would give a bit of information about the escort, but you would have to pay to get the complete information. There are more sites than I mention here, a frustrating collection of them, all competing for your attention and money.

Who runs these websites and for whom? I've got to assume that they were created by men for the benefit of men because they have an elaborate review system where johns can post detailed, specific reviews of escorts, so explicitly described as to be distasteful, leaving no mystery or romance to the experience. I can imagine the women feeling more like merchandise on a platform with their anatomy being so analytically described and their performance and actions being broken down in play-by-play commentary. To my mind, this transaction is an art form and a drama, not a biology lesson, or a Kinsey Report. It's clear from the women's websites that they see themselves more as romantic service providers fulfilling a fantasy dream than the cafeteria line dinner selections that some websites make of them.

Still, the websites, such as Date Check, are a benefit to both provider and client that I had not expected. In my enthusiasm for the excitement of soon embracing my siren in the intoxicating aroma of a candle lit room with musky saxophone music playing, and my face buried in a lush of cascading hair, I had forgotten for a moment that this is universally illegal in the US. and is potentially dangerous to both parties, but particularly to the women. With the benefit of the internet, they are now liberated as independent entrepreneurs, but at the same time more vulnerable without the oversight of an agency, or a house or the apparently obsolete villain, the pimp. So, there is an elaborate validation system to ensure that a client is an ordinary fellow with at least a work history, a driver's license and presumably no criminal record.

There is also a carefully choreographed, double blind payment system described to obscure the reality of this transaction.... "leave a white envelope on the bathroom counter, never mention money or sex (imagine that!!) and anything we do other than talk and hold hands is because in the first 15 minutes, we fell in love and with mutual consent we ......." well, you get the idea. I'm assuming, as I read the papers and watch the news that this underground industry is so open on the internet and widespread across the US that law enforcement has chosen to leave it alone, unless you are the governor of a large state.

Wednesday March 18, 2009 When Richard discovers the internet love bazaar!

2009-04-22T06:34:00.002-04:00

Until now, despite my skill at internet searches, it had never occurred to me to look for escorts on the internet. Whenever the notion, however briefly in the past, had come to me to imagine paying for female companionship, I had assumed finding a phone listing somewhere, making a call, and having some "Sad Eyed Lady of the the Lowlands" pull into my driveway, in a 15 year old dinged up Toyota. She would walk into my living room, perform her task without expression, and leave with her compensation.

I could not have had a more outdated and ill-conceived notion of what was really going on when I opened the web pages of Escorts.com. There I found the most remarkable marketplace, more like a Sultan's palace with a thousand gold leaf rooms, and behind each door was some beautiful seductress doing Salome's Dance of the Seven Veils luring me to come smell her perfume.

(Without our fantasies, what is there? Follow me to the video of Rita Hayworth, as Salome and her dance for King Herod, if you want to get the sense of what I was feeling. As much as the dance itself is worth seeing, the lust in Herod's eyes is even more telling.... of the helpless fool all of us men are at the seductive glances of a beautiful woman.)

Back to escorts.com, I found myself without a conscience in a candy store. "I want her... no, I want her, wait, no, that one.... ohh, my God, it's her." I could have browsed escorts ads forever, each one pulling me, sucking me in through the screen of my monitor.

These were no "sad eyed ladies." These were swashbuckling love bandits, independent entrepreneurs, running apparently very lucrative and robust cottage industries, an underground "economic stimulus package" beyond anything Obama has imagined..... legalize it, tax it, and we would balance the federal budget. No bailout needed here. These women, erotic pirates of the high seas, were calling their own shots... when, where, with whom, how much, and with extremely detailed anatomical favors, meticulously described with a plethora of abbreviations describing specific acts.... gee, how could you remember who did what and where and whether it was covered or bareback, a term I had never heard as a sexual reference.

I began feeling, "tie me to the mast of my ship, or I will completely lose my compass course on where my life is meant to go... I understood now the fear of Ulysses who wanted to hear the Siren's call, but not get caught irretrievably in their web.

Monday March 16, 2009, When Richard makes his decision

2009-04-21T22:55:00.002-04:00

At age 60, never having considered "love for sale," I decided in a day, to do it. Having been free of relationship entanglement for four years, and divorced for fifteen years, I had settled into a routine of self-satisfaction with the aid of the ubiquitous sexual images of the internet, which was no satisfaction at all, just pain and depression.

Once making the decision to pay for female companionship, I felt shaken with fear as my Judeo-Christian heritage came charging like a freight train thundering disapproval. Though I had thoroughly demythologized my childhood religion, I almost heard a voice say, "You will now live forever among the banished and the damned." However, I thought, you know the life I've been living ain't so great, I think I'll risk it.

Still I was trying to figure out how such an act that I had never considered, could at this moment and at my age seem like the right thing to do. I was an Eagle Scout, by God... and I am on the board of a large service organization that gives young people a marvelous opportunity to grow into giving and productive adults. I had spent a lifetime reading spiritual literature: Thomas a Kempis, Thomas Merton, St. Francis of Assisi, the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, Emerson, Thoreau, and the life of Gandhi. In the back of my mind, I hear chorus of escorts saying, "Such guys as you are among our most loyal customers." The escorts of the world, our best critics of universal hypocrisy, would laugh at my naivety.

Often I had prayed for a life of celibacy, juxtaposed just as often by a life of endless lustful fantasy, painful bouts with degrading pornography, and truly addictive feelings of sexual urges that felt out of my control and way beyond the boundaries of healthy desire.

Trying to make sense of it, I realize that my life circumstances are such that I do not want to deal with a romantic relationship which I seem talented at messing up anyway. I have several good women friends including my ex-wife with whom I spend time, but I have no interest in sleeping with them. Still, I very much miss that wonderful feeling that at the end of the day, or at least a day here and there, I might have a warm soft woman I can crawl into bed with and squeeze. Call it a genetic predisposition, an evolutionary inevitability, a culturally acquired taste, or a spiritual/physical need, but as much as I try to escape the desire, it returns to me like a storm. Blame it on Cole Porter's Begin the Beguine, or Bob Dylan's Lay Lady Lay, or Donna Summer's Hot Stuff, or even Walt Disney's Snow White, or my mother, for God's sake, or even Charles Darwin, but somewhere in my youth, it was hard wired into my psyche: "Caressing a warm muffin at day's end is a man's birthright."

As well, I want relief from the solitary confinement of masturbation and pornography... I want an escape forever from that trap. To lie next to a real, and a kind, considerate woman and be a decent man about it, even in a business transaction, suddenly seemed to me to be the perfect solution. It seemed like it would be a sort of sexual healing that would free me to live the rest of my life with the interest and enthusiasm I felt as a young man.

Am I in complete denial of where I am headed? Am I kidding myself, or have I found a path to sanity? I've always been a fool for women. Who knows where this will lead.