It didn’t matter the hotel. All doors are the same and most men answer in a similar fashion. Slowly. The twist of the knob, the drop of the bearing, the click of the deadbolt. Nearby a businessman enters his room fatigued, his once stand-at-attention oxford ballooning at the back as if in a giant exhale of exhaustion. Maybe five doors down, with a cart beside him – two shiny silver domes, a bottle of champagne, strawberries, a room service waiter standing by. The waiter is young, wearing the white coat with the chain between buttons. He glimpses you, no overt cues and yet he knows. Your posture erect, wool Burberry coat, Lauren pumps, Coach envelope clutch. You could just as easily be sitting at the pub across the street from the train station, waiting for your husband. You could but you wouldn’t be. And this boy knows it because he is still young enough that his sense of smell is acute. He can smell you. He can smell you in a way that gets beneath the surface of the minds skin, where feeling reigns. His body looks up, locks on. You draw every molecule in and down some invisible drain through the floor.
Category: Courtesans
I remember this feeling. I entered the room and the John would be wearing the hotel robe. There would often be an agitation surrounding him. The air of the room was one of having been caught off guard, as if he didn’t have time to pull himself together and I was seeing him all strewn out. Pulled apart by longing, insecurity, fantasy, desire. My work was to massage that into his tissue, to extract the impurities, to return him to himself.
You. Ask. Me. To take you. There. I look, up. You smile. I break. Open. You wonder if I know. Who you are. Of course I do. I don’t want to. I do. You are too deep inside of my mind. My hand moves through you, molecules drifting. Your hips View full article »
This time last year, buried beneath many others, I discovered a new compulsion. I’d wake up early, maybe 5am, turn on my computer, make some tea and then sit at my window overlooking the Bay Area. I’d try to savor, but I am not so good at that. I just end up sitting there antsy, and made more antsy by trying to look incredibly serene.
Finally I’d open the computer and type in the words, View full article »
So now there is the gorgeous woman who had me to dinner last night. With my boyfriend and her husband and a possible television producer and really let’s be honest it is a set up for disaster so I turned it on, cranked it up. Pucci dress. Hermes boots. Nipples hard against the fabric. And her husband who has met me maybe ten times and who’s never taken much notice keeps repeating, “You’re gorgeous!” (meaning, “What happened?”). I am careful to not say, “your wife.”
I like that right at the gate, I knew we would not be fucking tonight. I like that the protective barrier of social codes encased each of us separately: two individually wrapped packages. There’s a freedom within constraint, the soft warm heat beneath a burka, an interior body brushing gently against fabric.
And I liked that the sticky thickets of etiquette were seamlessly and silently navigated, as he commenced the evening with a clear delineation, a subtle way of communicating that I was a woman, and he, a man. A communication delivered by sending not just the address but layman’s directions, acknowledging my remedial skills with even a gps. I like that he wrote, “If you see Beverly Glen, you have gone too far.” I like that the question of going too far was considered.
I find it curious that he goes into his room and puts his house slippers on. He tells me that he never goes barefoot. He informs me of this between imagining how Mozart’s sister must have felt – “something of a protégé herself” – and telling the joke.
A man walks into a bar with a piece of asphalt in his hand and says to the bartender, I’ll take one for me and one for the road.
I tell him that I like “a man walks into a bar” jokes and try to recall a joke that ends in “afraid knot” and then curse what has been aptly diagnosed by Deborah Tannen in You Just Don’t Understand as a female tendency to be bad at View full article »
I am walking down the long corridor, the gazebo hall and I spot him from way back. I’m wearing a long paper thin gathered dress, a beautiful warm rust color, my Dolce and Gabanna leopard heels and the long gold chain I wear everyday that moves like a compass needle aiming always at my pussy. My stride is fast until, getting closer I am blasted with a wave of sex and slowness. His gaze so potent it stops me. My will is hijacked. My hips lock down.
Now, slowly, my long legs moving towards him, he smiles quietly. A moment in his eye that says, “that’s better” and I hate him and crave him both in the View full article »
The whole scene feels as though it’s awash in Sepia. The booths, the brown leather upholstery, the table between us, the exposed wood with rings like fingerprints. I run my hands over the wood, feel the grooves tickle like Braille. Sitting across from him, I am upright solely because the back of the booth is supporting me. He is discussing the book he’s been reading, a true story about a plane that crashed on an island leaving only three survivors, two men and a woman. I can barely listen, because as the words tumble out of his mouth, he has already reached across the table, View full article »
No one wants to beg please. To let the word exhale like smoke from a cigarette you went around the corner to smoke. In secret. But then someone you know walks past. You try to hold your breath. The smoke exits without permission, every orifice.
That kind of please, the kind of please I say, in a whisper, in a quiet shame burning beneath the smolder. You know the one, the entirety of my View full article »
