Three Four Seven: Morning, Rain

 I've posted this before. It is one of my very favourite stories from Jill in Wellington. It's been eight years or so since she first wrote me about all this, and the story is still amazing and shattering. It's been a major fantasy image for me ever since. I want it saved, and I only wish Jill could be here to tell me more.

Rain was pelting on the windows. i woke up on the floor, naked under a kid's Toy Story blanket. dry mouth, pounding headache, very shakey. i sat up, and looked around for my clothes. an asian girl was snoring quietly on the couch. there were bottles strewn everywhere. i felt sick and dizzy. my black jeans were in the corner of the room, covered in mud. my keys and $650 were scrunched into my pocket. weird, i never carried that much cash. i pulled them on, then vomited into a pot plant. i couldn't see the top i thought i'd been wearing, so i grabbed a men's shirt that was hanging on the back of a chair and buttoned it up. i had no idea where i was or what i'd been doing. 

i wandered through the small apartment. there were three men asleep in one of the bedrooms. in another bedroom was a few weed plants. i looked in the fridge and took out a beer. one of the men woke up and asked me if i wanted a smoke. we stood on the balcony, under the eaves, and smoked in silence. i have no idea who you are, he said. i just shrugged. you're wearing my shirt, he said. i just looked at him. i was feeling too dazed to put a sentence together. you can keep it, he said. he flicked his butt off the balcony, and offered me another. he lit it for me. 

can i see your tits, he asked. i nodded, and he undid the buttons on his shirt. can i take a photo, he asked. i nodded. he took out a battered iphone and took a few pictures, then started slowly sucking my nipples. he was tall, and dark haired. he had a beard and green eyes. i fucking love your tits, he said. 

do you want to suck my cock, he asked. i undid his jeans and took out his cock. i got on my knees and took him in my mouth. i was still feeling sick and almost vomited once or twice, but i loved the feeling of him in my mouth. 

do you want me to fuck you, he asked. i nodded, with his cock still in my mouth. i stood up and he bent me over the balcony and slowly peeled down my skinny, muddy jeans. he kissed my neck and fucked me in the rain. the motion of it made me vomit over the balcony. i moaned at him not to stop. it felt so fucking good. his hand was rubbing my clit and his cock was deep in my cunt. i had purged and felt light and pure as air. he came, and rested his body against mine. he pulled my jeans back up, and buttoned my shirt. he put another cigarette in my mouth and lit it for me. i walked to caitie's apartment in the rain barefoot. i wasn't so far from there, 4 or 5 blocks. 

Amazing story. I fell in love with it as soon as she sent it to me via email. I always loved stories from Jill's Slutty Party Girl past. Caitie, by the way, was Caitlin, the girl Jill was dating at the time.

It floored me a couple of years ago when she started backing away from stories of her past. It wasn't that she was rejecting having had promiscuous, often random, sex with strangers and Older Men in her teens and twenties, it was rejecting the stories themselves. She was crossing the bar into her early thirties, and she saw herself as a serious professional, as a chartered accountant at a high-powered boutique firm in Wellington-- and someone like that wouldn't have stories like that. Stories about sexual adventures and encounters, however powerful, however hot, weren't something she should be telling people. She didn't want to be tagged as a Posh Slutty Party Girl now that she owned a house and was trying to be made a partner in her firm. 

I live through stories-- my own and others'. Stories are the way we present ourselves to the world. I liked Slutty Party Jill, Jill who could sit at a Wellington bar or lie next to you in a hotel bed and tell stories of adventures and encounters. I could understand her not devoting her nights to drinking bourbon and sleeping around now that she had a professional life to build, but I couldn't (and still can't) understand her redacting her past. 

I do miss her, and I miss her stories. I miss her telling me stories that would become shared fantasies for us. I miss the sound of her voice taking me into her memories. Right now, here in my flat, I miss the days when lovely, long-legged, underwear-averse girls would share stories and lives with me.

Three Four Six: Menu

One of the FMTY Girls at Escort Twitter posted a partial list of her fees. I'd known that the world of FMTY Girls was far beyond me, but I hadn't known any of the numbers. The girl in question is Toronto-based, and she posted a list in both $US and $CDN. I'd never seen anyone on Escort Twitter cite their prices before-- for obvious reasons --and so this did catch my eye.

I'm thinking that she posted a price guide because she was trying to move towards fewer but longer dates. Which is fine-- that seems very efficient. What I noticed was that a dinner date (specified as 4 hours) was...$US 1200. That brought me up short. That's a much higher hourly rate than I get in corporate life. And it's not all-inclusive by any means. The $US 1200 is just the provider's fee. Dinner at an appropriate venue is the client's separate responsibility. And of course there's a customary gift (lingerie, wine, gift cards, art books) when the client meets the provider. Of course there's the inevitable tip as well-- several hundred dollars at least. So the entire experience is likely to cost more than two thousand dollars.

And because I'm naive, provincial, and unlettered-- a rube --I have no idea  how the mechanics of the evening would work. A 4 hour dinner breaks down...how? Say, two hours at dinner and then two hours at the hotel? If so, you're adding the cost of the hotel room to the cost. I'd be afraid that the provider would tag me immediately as a clock watcher, and I'd be too ashamed of that to enjoy either dinner or time at the hotel.

Another FMTY girl at least offered in-call dinner dates. You appeared at her flat or hotel room and there was a catered dinner delivered. I'm assuming that the dinner and catering fees would be added to the provider's fee up front. But that would at least help defuse my fear of making a fool of myself at the restaurant. An in-call dinner also seems more intimate, and I'd hope that I could trust the provider to handle the wine list. 

On a 4 hour dinner date, I'd never be able to suggest that we move from restaurant to hotel room. I'd be too paralyzed to make that suggestion. I'd never be able to escape the feeling that any illusion of intimacy we'd created at dinner would evaporate during the walk/ride to the hotel. 

Two thousand dollars for a dinner date, even with a sexual encounter built in, is a daunting prospect. I could I suppose save up money to have one provider encounter a year-- spending two thousand dollars on an annual vacation isn't outlandish at all --but I'd never get over the feeling that I was wasting the provider's time. She'd see that I didn't know how to appreciate what I was paying for, and so much of what I would be paying for is the illusion that I did know, that I was the sort of person who could appreciate the world she'd be serving up.  As I've said before, I'd be hiring an "independent companion" to be a life coach as much as a sexual partner.

Escort Twitter is something I can appreciate as a kind of art exhibit. It's not a world I could ever be part of. If ever I needed a provider (or, yes, okay, a provider/life coach) I'd be better off finding the inevitable co-ed or grad student in Comparative Lit or French Lit who'd charge a fraction of an FMTY Girl's fee. I'd be better off with a hip girl whose performative role would be to talk obscure bands or films at a small bistro. She could make me feel like I still had some connections to academia and hip culture. I suppose that's my world, anyway. Expensive lingerie and Michelin stars aren't my world-- I'd never fit in there, even as part of an arranged performance.

Three Four Five: Senses

Tonight I'm thinking of Jill in Wellington. I'm thinking of the stories she'd tell and the long conversations she and I would have about our Pasts and our experiences. I do miss those, and I do miss her.

I told her once that I was a creature often beset with what I call JED-- Jealousy Envy Depression. That's a cocktail of things that aren't good at all. I've noted before that Envy is the sole Deadly Sin that gives no pleasure while you're indulging in it. And tonight I am thinking of things she told me that leave me envious and dejected.

Envy is my own Deadly Sin, the fault that I've never been able to escape. I'm not sure what exactly I want from it. The ability to tell good stories, certainly. The ability to amass stories that are as good as those other people have to tell. The belief that I'm as good as others. I certainly want those things, and Envy haunts me every day.

Let's consider a small story Jill told me back a couple of years ago. This is Jill discussing self-pleasure:

If i wait til late in the night, i get lazy and just use a Lelo on my clit...if i have more time then yes - fingers in my ass, too...  

honestly...i was so fucking drunk, i didn't know what i was doing. i just needed to feel so full, i had a Corona bottle in my cunt and fingers in my ass, i was alone and drunk and high and i came so hard, over and over. my sheets were a mess in the morning. but at the time, i needed it. i think i needed to prove i was all i needed, i could make myself feel everything i needed...

i filled up the Corona bottle with water from the bathroom and sat drinking it, tasting my own cunt and rubbing my clit, even though i had just cum.

i remember that night so well...

I do envy her that story. It's powerful enough, and it makes a lovely fantasy vision. And there's no equivalent for anyone male. She has her selection of Lelo vibrators--- charges them via USB port on her iPad 2 ---and her Corona bottle, carefully cleaned and wrapped in silk in her bedroom dresser. There's no male equivalent for that. She's able to have powerful and shattering moments all on her own. There's no male way to experience anything like that, no male way to be able to give oneself the belief that you could make yourself "feel everything I needed". 

There's certainly no way for me to feel sexually self-sufficient--- or sexually equal to someone like her either in terms of sensations or experiences that can be the raw material for stories. 

She writes that  I have quite a few Lelo toys - and these come in nice, plain black boxes -- so i usually keep my toys in the little bags they come in, in the original boxes -- stacked at the back of my bedside drawer. I'm male, and a gentleman of a certain age and background. I can't say anything equivalent or have any of the same kinds of experiences. 

And I'm eaten up with Envy that my experiences will never be as good as anyone else's.

Jill and her Corona bottle, Jill and her Lelo. One key part of what I envy her is just the ability to experience pleasure. I've said her before that I don't experience unmediated pleasure, that anything I feel is filtered through books and films...or filtered through all those years of academic analysis. Jill can listen directly to her body. She can let her body give her pleasure. She can be all she needs for pleasure.

I never feel any of that, mind you. I never feel anything that's directly physical, or that isn't filtered through a lifetime of reading. I know about pleasure from descriptions in books. I just never feel any of it myself.

I know about the accoutrements of pleasure. I know about crafting tales and scenarios to give pleasure. I know about critical theory and pleasure. What I don't know is how to feel pleasure, or how not to believe that nothing I feel is as good as what others feel. At my own advanced age, I have no idea whatsoever what pleasure feels like.