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.

Three Four Four: Boxes

I have been going through Escort Twitter these days. It's springtime, and the FMTY Girls are going on spring/summer tours. I do envy them: a working vacation in a posh resort or a four-star hotel is still not a bad thing. I suppose I do wonder, though-- is it hard to enjoy yourself when part of your job is enjoying yourself-- being seen to enjoy yourself  --in a swank setting? 

These things are beyond me. I take no pleasure in travel, since I'm likely to be traveling alone these days and of course since I'm a gentleman of very limited means.  I have to wonder if I'm even capable of pleasure when traveling with a lovely young companion. I'd probably spend my time being far too anxious to experience pleasure. If I were with a lovely, long-legged, panty-free young companion, I'd compulsively worry about all the things that could go wrong while traveling. I'd worry about whether she was having anything approaching a good time, about whether I'd reveal myself as a provincial-- a rube --in my choices for a hotel, for dinner, for wine. I'd be far too likely to paralyze myself with those anxieties. 

The FMTY girls post photos of gifts clients and patrons have given them. So many of the photos show the gift boxes as well as the gift. I can recognize some of the brands-- usually expensive lingerie. I understand that Agent Provocateur is an expensive line of slinky lingerie, although lingerie is never a gift I'd choose. I'm not fond of girls in lingerie. I prefer girls panty-free, after all. The stockings-and-garters look hasn't appealed to me since the start of the Nineties. Long, sleek, taut, tanned bare legs attract me more than silk stockings. I'm far more attracted to a girl in just a man's dress shirt than in lingerie, and of course I prefer my young companions to sleep naked. All I can do is look at the boxes and try to gauge what the price might be and what statement each gift-giver is trying to make. 

I'll admit that I do like some of the boxes-- elegant things. 

I have limited resources, so I'm not likely to give Agent Provocateur lingerie or jewelry. Books-- I do give books. And I have been known to buy my young ladies men's shirts or pullover sweaters. My gifts have been hand-delivered in New Yorker tote bags, but never in boxes from exclusive boutiques in NYC or London Town.

One of the FMTY girls did hint at her fee schedule. A gentleman admirer, she noted, was flying her somewhere for a long weekend. The fee, she noted, would pay her rent for two months. Based on rents for the city where she makes her home, that's probably half again my salary for that same period. Far and away out of my league. 

Well, I wouldn't know what to say to a high-end escort anyway. I know nothing about business-- and so many girls at Escort Twitter do say that they love talking about "entrepreneurship". Many are basketball fans, too. I know nothing whatsoever about sports. And I'd be far too scared to attempt anything with a menu or a wine list. 

These days, I'd feel the same about some young companion here. I'd be too anxious to go anywhere outside of a few small, hip places. I'm not even sure I'd risk a good sushi bar. I'd certainly never risk anything with a wine list. Doing anything where I can be seen to fail in public, where I could be seen to fail at being the person I used to believe I was, is far too much of a risk these days.

Three Four Three: Preferences

 I may have mentioned this, but I'll recount the story again.

Once, long ago, I took a test found in (I think) Playboy. The test was something like "What Your Tastes in Women Say About You". I can't recall how old I was, but certainly very early in my teens. I ranked photos of actresses and models, and I chose my favourites out of drawings of body types. At the end, I added up my score and was told that the total meant that I must be gay. 

After all, the women I chose were very much not the body type that was in favor in those days. My choices were clearly all for tall, very slender, very long-legged and small-breasted women. "Buxom" or "curvy" never crossed my mind. No woman that I fancied in adolescence-- or now --would ever evoke something like "va-va-voom!" as a comment. 

I thought even then that the authors of the article were idiots. I stand by that judgment. Even at that age, I was clear about my preferences. For women, yes. And I like to think that society's beauty standards caught up with my own. The age of the "bombshell" was replaced by standards I liked-- tall, leggy, taut-bodied, thin. I'd have always chosen the young Audrey Hepburn over Marilyn Monroe. I'd have always chosen a young Jane Birkin or a young Marisa Berenson over the standard Playmate of those days. Those were my preferences then, and they remain my tastes. Karlie Kloss and Anja Rubik and Aymeline Valade are all examples of what I find to be beautiful. I have no use whatsoever for the Kardashian look.

And yet one of the problems of the current day is that physical preferences are themselves subject to increased and hostile review. Having preferences, let alone talking about them, is becoming a Bad Thing. I do not like the current emphasis on butts. I look at photos of the FMTY Girls at Twitter or of current social media celebrities and just have no use for a look that emphasizes butts. My gaze focuses on long, slender legs and flat, hard stomachs and butts. I do realize that saying that I dislike big butts and fail to grasp why women pay for butt-filler injections puts me on the wrong side of current taste...and leaves me open to accusations of racism and "misogynoir". I do realize that. 

But my tastes remain what they've always been. The Young Companion of my dreams is very tall, very lithe, very leggy. She has never needed to own or wear a bra. (She dislikes underwear, of course). In tailored linen slacks and a very tailored, dangerously unbuttoned silk blouse, she's all legs and erect nipples and has that slouch-down-the-runway look that I've loved since I was a teen and first began charting out beauty and its implications for class and style. 

Well, so many things that I like are becoming unacceptable. That may be inevitable, since I'm a gentleman of a certain advanced age and very much out of step with social rules. And those rules do exist. Make no mistake about that. 

Bodies matter. I take that as a given. Bodies always matter. So do the stories bodies tell. My preferences, whether for lithe and leggy girls or for some s/m games, always suggest stories or films I want to live in. I suppose I do look at girls and see myself as a casting director for the films in my head. I like bodies that suggest certain things about class and settings, and those films are not going away.

It's not just that my particular tastes in female bodies are now seen as obsolete and regressive (or maybe even oppressive). It's that I read these days how having any tastes at all is morally flawed because any preference by definition excludes. And we're not supposed to exclude, these days.

It gets harder to discuss what does attract and excite me, and it gets harder to talk about the why of what I like. I have to say that I do miss the days when matching bodies to stories was something to talk about with lovely young companions.

 

Three Four Two: Pages

Does anyone know if actual porn novels are still published?

Long ago and far away, in my teens and in my undergraduate days, porn novels filled the spinner racks at all-night convenience stores and bus stations. There were other genres there-- mostly action-adventure series --but porn novels seemed to fill three-quarters of the spinner racks. I haven't seen porn novels sold new since sometime in the 1980s, and I've always assumed that videotape killed the porn novel. Reagan's attorney-general deliberately omitted porn novels from his anti-porn efforts because "who reads?" 

There are websites devoted to cover art from 1960s-80s porn novels, and the other evening I found a link to a Russian website that has the scanned texts of something like three or four hundred American porn novels from the 1970s and early 1980s. I suppose I'm glad the books at the site were all from American publishers. British porn is...depressing. British porn is at least as depressing and dreary as British girlie magazines. And I think I'd be afraid of Australian porn novels. There are limits. Yes there are.

Steven Marcus used the word "pornotopia" in his "The Other Victorians", and it does apply to 1970s-80s porn novels. In porn novels, everything turns on sex. Wealth or poverty exist only to provide excuses for sex scenes. All schools exist only as spaces for students and teachers to engage in breathless sex. All travel is from one site for exotic (or at least outdoor) sex to another. Everyone is either handsome/beautiful or, if gnarled and gnomish, at least shockingly well-hung. Any social interaction at all is an occasion for sex. And all sex-- hetero, gay, lesbian, bi, interspecies, incest --invariably produces multiple orgasms all around. Everyone is always ready for anything, and even if a character seems to be horrified or appalled, she (and it always she) is secretly excited and thrilled by what's happening. In porn novels, nothing exists that isn't an occasion for sex. No object exists that can't be used as a sex toy. No one is ever bored during sex, no one's disgust is ever other than feigned. 

The Russian website had a copy of a c. 1980 novel called "Donkey-Loving Schoolgirl" that was...hilarious and awful in equal parts. The writing was (of course) awful, but...not as bad as you'd think. So here we have a teen schoolgirl-- just turning sixteen --on a week-long summer field trip with a Future Farmers group. And...it shouldn't be hard to trace her story arc. In the course of the first couple of nights at a young farmers' convention, she loses her virginity while still on the bus...to her seat mate's well-trained dog. And some random, nameless boy who's been watching the girl and her seat mate with the dog. Young Denise (yes, she has a name) goes from Bronte-reading virgin to sex with boys, other girls, grizzled old bus drivers, dogs, donkeys, and a stallion. And of course with her own older brother. She also swears a public vow before a cheering crowd of other teens never to wear underwear again (I approve of that scene). By the end of the book, she and her brother are deeply in romantic love, and they're sleeping naked in one another's arms in a hayloft after he orchestrates her first time with a stallion.  

I'm not sure how you're supposed to respond to "Donkey-Loving Schoolgirl". It's all very light-hearted, and there's no post-Foucault focus on power structures. A random boy who sodomizes the heroine over a bus seat goes from shouting, "Take my jizz  you lezzie dog-slut!" to whispering in her ear that "your skin is like honeyed Asian silk". All I can imagine is the standard porn-writer trope of the Ivy League English Lit graduate paying his rent by writing porn. 

Porn novels in those days assumed that incest was commonplace, and that all suburban siblings were in and out of one another's beds. And of course there's an obvious meta-incest happening, too, since the authors of the novels manage to repeat one another's work and share character names. There's probably a bit of revenge going on as well-- Denise in "Donkey-Loving Schoolgirl" is always described by her full name: Denise Chapman. I'm taking it for granted that Denise Chapman is the author's ex-girlfriend or ex-wife, or at least the Unobtainable Beauty of his own teen years.

Porn novels were at least honest. I'm thinking of a series called the DB Collection-- DB standing for "Dirty Books". The covers were all flat black with a white number and the title. And the titles were things like "DB 1 - Stuffed With Big Black Dick" or "DB 4 - Fucking Her Tender Teen Asshole". You paid for nasty porn, and you got nasty porn. There was no way you could tell someone that you'd bought a title from the DB Collection by accident. You couldn't say you'd been looking for one of Tolstoy's later novels and picked up a DB title by accident. 

There's a whole body of discussion about how porn and erotica are different. One key thing, I think, is that '70s and '80s porn novels were much more about doing sex than erotica would ever be. Yes, the novels said, you can do that with an Irish Setter or a polished ivory statue of a saint. Porn novels never questioned the idea of going farther, or trying the most unlikely positions or partners. What you can try, you must try. Erotica can be about finding oneself, about discovering that you're submissive or bi or poly. Porn is about the functional possibilities of the world. There's no magic in porn, but there is a lot of...industrial engineering.

I spent a lot of time in my lost youth reading Foucault and his contemporaries, and reading 1970s porn through a critical theory lens is a comic experience. But I suppose that's not the way to read "Donkey-Loving Schoolgirl". It's the only way I can read it, mind you, but that's always been the problem with my reading. I assume that the author was at least as devoted to irony as I am, and he's feeding me postmodernist set-ups for jokes. 

I will have to spend more time going through the scanned titles at the Russian website. And I will have to tell you, my friends and readers, about the things I learned from porn novels back in the last age.

Three Four One: Connections

Tomorrow is Valentine's. That's always been a troubled day for me, and tomorrow will be no different.  I'll be alone, of course, and any connections I make will be with lovely friends I've known online.

This is the third calendar year of the Red Death. Whether or not the pandemic is winding down, we've had two full years of putting off social life.

When the Red Death began, I watched PornHub develop a whole "Covid Lockdown" genre for porn clips. The idea was simple enough. Two people-- roommates, step-siblings, neighbors --found themselves trapped into close proximity by the pandemic and ended up having unexpected sex just because of cabin fever, boredom, and availability. Some of the clips were unexpectedly hot-- I will admit that. There were a couple of step-sibling scenes that had actual thoughtful dialogue about why things were happening, and at least one clip that had a face mask and social distancing version of the classic pizza delivery trope. And, yes, a face mask can be quite hot. 

I'd thought that lockdowns and social distancing would lead to a revival of phone sex. I mean-- you'd have a voice on the other end of the line, and the storytelling nature of phone sex would help relieve the tedium of WFH. That doesn't seem to have happened, though. Maybe it's only that even the Red Death wasn't enough to make Gen Z  actually talk to people by phone. Maybe. But even if camgirls were able to make decent money during the pandemic, that's not the same as phone sex.

I do miss phone sex. I miss telling stories in the dark. I miss establishing a connection with a girl and building up layers to our fantasies. I miss the parts of phone sex when you move back and forth between a shared fantasy and just talking to one another late in the night. 

Memory says that back in the early Noughts, you made connections via email and then moved on to the telephone. And phone sex was something that played to my strengths. I always feel better as a disembodied voice-- let's take that as a given. Girls have told me over the years that I'm good at telling stories, and that I'm good at making them feel they can do or be anything. My NZ friend used to say that I'd done a good job at making her feel like she could live in a late-night world she called NSNL-- No Shame, No Limits. Hearing her say that to me all the way from Wellington meant a lot.

I have no clue whether there was an upturn in sexting statistics during the worst of the Red Death. I of course was never good at sexting. I'm a very, very bad typist, and I text with one finger. And text messages aren't a good format for complicated fantasies. 

In those awful years of 2016-2020, right up to the first lockdown orders, phone sex had faded away. I suspect it was also seen as problematic by Social Justice types. Phone sex has never escaped the taint of being an "obscene phone call", and the idea of shared fantasies by telephone seems to strike many of the gender warriors as somehow exploitative. 

But I do miss voices in the night. I miss creating shared fantasy worlds with lovely young companions. When we've all given up masks and social distancing and gone back to whatever  a post-pandemic normal may be, I suspect no one will be doing phone sex. After all-- we're all too exhausted to have the orgiastic post-pandemic Hot Girl Summers or revived Mardi Gras parties that were predicted back in 2020. 

I don't expect any late night calls, and I miss them.