Back In The Saddle

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” My client asks sheepishly as he creeps into my Jilly pad. I tell him “It’s the last room in the house.” He smiles as he makes a beeline straight to the back and closes the door behind him. I slowly make my way toward my bedroom where I hear him running water in the small bathroom I dream of renovating. I suppose he hasn’t done this before. I gather. Maybe he’s shy I tell myself as I fluff the pillows on my bed and check the music on my playlist to ensure there aren’t too many ’80s or classical songs lined up because I think this client needs something quiet and seggsy in the background. Now is not the time for the Go-go’s or Verdi and I pick a slow-burn playlist just in case he’s the type who needs coaxing. If you think what I do isn’t work then you’re sorrily mistaken. A man who I’ve only spoken to on the phone is now in my home and I have to be alert and ready for just about anything that could happen. So far, he’s just hiding in my bathroom, but when he comes out it’s showtime, and although I will be flirtatious and accommodating to him I’m sizing him up, looking at him backward and sideways for anything that might make me wonder if he’s anything other than just a regular dude looking for some fast pussy. Do this two or three times a day while fielding text messages, screening the ones that will fill out my Contact form, and creating content for Only Fans and you’ve got yourself an occupation. I take my time changing the playlist because he’s still in there. Ella Fitzgerald purrs “Cry Me A River” and I begin to float along the timber of her ethereal and eternally feminine vocals just as if I am transposing into a cloud rising now with the color of her genius and when I catch myself and come back down to earth it occurs to me that my client might not care for her music, but I do and I want to feel comfortable and soothed by something familiar because I’m getting nervous myself. Should I undress and lie seductively on the bed for when he reappears? Nah! Might scare the hell out of him and cause performance anxiety. I decide to sit upright on my bed in my black one-piece body suit with the snap crotch for easy access. My hair is freshly washed and styled. I smell like an angel. All I need is a man to keep me warm. Giggle… When I have too much time on my hands during a session my mind wanders and I jump to conclusions and assumptions about a stranger even though I know it’s a waste of time. I don’t know him and he doesn’t know me. So, we’re even. What I need is to put a cock into my mouth, but he’s thrown my groove off. Sigh. He finally steps out into the bedroom as I turn to greet him. Snapping out of it I ask him how his day is going and he replies “It’s going good.” He follows with “It just got better.” We both grin and look each other in the eye grateful that we are on the same page. I tell him to put his clothes on my director’s chair for safekeeping. As he undresses my eyes land on his bulge the way a man ogles a pair of great big titties at a wet tee shirt contest back in the day. I take note of the fact that his cock is weeping a little bit onto his navy blue boxer briefs. Good. He’s primed. I may have a touch of penis envy and I’ll be the first one to say that I’m addicted to cock just like the good Lord made me. Jesus and I talk about my issues sometimes and I usually walk away from the exchange feeling like I’m more self-aware and a work in progress, but just like my hometown pastor once said in a fiery sermon “The Lord wants to hear from his children and you can feel free to speak to him anytime and anywhere.” I think I speak with God more out of habit than sincere belief these days. Just feels right. I tell my client to lay on his tummy and I’ll massage his shoulders. His look of relief tells me that we will need to tread gently into this session and let him warm up. What the slut in me wants to do is to shove his BBC into my mouth and suck it hard like a frozen milkshake through a straw, and then pull the snaps on my one piece as I whip my hips around his head, lower my pussy onto his face while sucking him dry and grinding my flower all over his forehead, nose, and lips. Instead, I rub his shoulders, buttocks, and calves notice how tight he is, and strive hard to loosen him up as a song by Heart intrudes seductively:

"Come on home, girl," he said with a smile
You don't have to love me yet, let's get high awhile
But try to understand, try to understand
Try, try, try to understand, I'm a magic man.”

He flips over and touches my right hip softly. I ask him if he’d like a little oral and he says “That would be good.” I get onto my knees and straddle him taking my breasts into my hands. I reach for his hands and let him take over squeezing them and kneading them gently. As he fondles me I feel him growing harder down below me. He’s ready. Backing off of him I part his thighs and lay down on my belly between them. Taking a new cock into my mouth makes me feel like I’m home and I enjoy a deep sense of ease and comfort which I cannot explain. He gasps as I slide him into my hot little mouth and I begin to suck and suck, but not forcefully, but more as exploration. I’m trying to figure out who he is and a man naked, lying vulnerable in front of me is the best way. He touches my hair with his left hand and with his right bobs my head up and down his perfectly circumcised shaft. Several songs come and go on my playlist and while I’m completely engaged in our sex I’m also counting the songs because that’s how I keep track of time. I once read in an Eccie review that having a clock in the room is distracting for the client and the whore. It’s true. All you do is look at it because it’s there. So, I count songs not to be rude. He says “I want to eat you now.” I roll over onto my back and when he is positioned between my legs I reach for the snaps and my fluffy pussy springs forward right into his face. I like his gentleness and attention to detail. He’s creative and sexy and takes me in hand confidently and respectfully and I can tell he knows his way around a woman. He digs his tongue deeply into my flower hole and as he works to get me off he makes slurping noises and I grow wetter from his pleased hum. He looks into my eyes and says “I want to be inside you.” He helps me roll onto my side and I take a condom from the dresser. As I slip it onto his impressive member I notice how his cock continues weeping and as I handle him with my hands I feel semen surging under the skin. I lie back and he braces himself on top of my parted legs and pelvis. Entering me with a purposeful thrust he begins pounding me gently. I arch my back and he looks down at me but doesn’t kiss me. As he fucks me I feel how swollen his cock has become and it is almost too much for my tightness. I manage to squirt a little and that makes things easier for me. We continue like this for a while and I force my pussy up to meet him thrust for thrust. He’s about to cum and when he does he shudders and releases a desperate groan that shakes me to my core. When he recovers he sits on the edge of the bed and pants loudly. I say “You must have needed that.” He begins to tell me that he’s in the process of a divorce and that he woke up and felt like he needed “something” today. He told me it’s been a long time since he saw a prostitute and that he appreciated me being patient with him. His marriage had become sexless years ago and at some point, his wife didn’t care about sex or his pleasure. I told him I understood and that men going through a divorce wind up seeing women like me for various reasons such as encouragement and comfort. I think he just wanted to feel like a man again. As he cleaned up in the bathroom I put on a robe and asked him if he’d like a glass of water. He said, “I could use something to drink after that.” We both laughed and I turned toward the kitchen to get him a glass. We had a few more words to say to each other before he left and I remembered the men I’ve seen over the years who have come after years of no affection, looking for someone to see them and touch them. I’m a good place to start for some who need a friendly face. I can help you find a little confidence and give you some bucking up when you’ve had a long dry spell. As he left he gave me a sweet hug and said “Thank you.” I guess all that time in the bathroom when he first arrived was necessary. It had been a while since he had had sex and it isn’t easy even when you’re with a sure thing like me.

The Half & Half Special

Waking up from a sound sleep I answer the phone. Immediately I sit up straight and listen to my caller’s intention. “Are you Jilly?” I recognize a distinctively southern male voice and shake off the groggy feeling when you are in the mid-REM cycle and all is right in the world. I didn’t want him to think I was sleeping in, but I was. Had a tough night with a sprinkling of insomnia which caused me to oversleep and it was nearly 10:00 am now. My shop was open and I was late to work in the basic sense of what being late is for me. I do work for myself, but I usually get it together around 8:30 am and I’m ready for Freddy or whoever wants to window shop, ask questions or needs an actual appointment. He said he was from the Northshore and had a break in his day for a massage, or what my menu option is for massage. I call it the “Half & Half Special. I have had this offering for seven years now and it perplexes me that more men do not ask for it. It is my way of offering a quick visit without offering a quick visit which brings out the scarier and more marginal prospects. With the “Half & Half,” you get a decent Swedish massage because I’m not a massage therapist, but do you need me to be? Then the other half of your fifty-minute session is up to you. We can go for it. Or, you can just have a happy ending. I think it’s a bargain and the clients who have selected this sensual exchange have been lovely guys. Quick visits can be tricky in my experience. I remember in the past that when a quick visit guy arrives and takes off his clothes it can go two ways. He is either very noncommittal or barely looks at me. Or, he proceeds to sort of take over the situation and begins groping me even though it’s merely a massage. Lots of “if you want to upgrade you will have to pay for that” and “please don’t finger me so roughly” are the name of the game for some gentlemen who took advantage of the times I did offer a quick visit in my torrid past. Some quick-visit gentlemen are not gentle by any stretch of my imagination and I’ve felt maybe a little more violated than I would have liked to feel after they zip their pants and walk out of my door. So, I came up with my little system to weed out the more feral of men and it seems that it had to do with price more than anything. My caller said he would like to come within the hour and I told him I would be ready for him. I bounded off of my bed and tip-toed on the cold hardwood floors to my bathroom. It’s been so damn chilly lately in this old house it feels like a meat locker. After I wash my face, apply makeup, and brush my teeth I throw on a blousy thick cable knit sweater with panties and my fluffy knee socks. I decide it’s too cold for lingerie today and make my way downstairs to turn up the heat and do what I can to warm up before my client shows up for his sexy escape. The cat mews her good morning and asks for her breakfast. I comply. I then escort her to the door. She says goodbye and thrusts herself forward, but pauses sniffing the air outside as I hold it open for her. “Come on Ella.” I plead. “I have to get to work now and I’ll see you later.” And with that, she moves from the doorway onto the porch. I remember that I needed to pull the massage table out from the back of my downstairs bedroom door and set it up in the living room because it’s the coziest and warmest for playtime, but I haven’t had any go juice, meaning hot tea. Putting the kettle on I decide to not eat and wait for lunch because he’s coming soon and I will eat within the hour. It’s just a fifty-minute session. A little hot tea with a splash of milk and a spoonful of raw sugar will get me through. I always hate to eat before a date because if I get too full I feel like a tick and then it will be harder to suck a new cock or have someone bounce on top of me. I’ve never met this one before and sometimes on the phone, they sound too good to be true. I’m fairly sure that the man coming in the door is as familiar as any local guy I went to high school with. I laugh quietly as I sip my tea thinking “Is this the moment I meet a boy who sat behind me in English? It hasn’t happened yet by some miracle and by the sound of him he’s probably from the Covington area and I don’t know as many from St. Tammany parish as I do my home parish. In my haste, I realize I haven’t put a sheet on the massage table and make a dash for the stairs to where my laundry room is. Sheet in hand and coming back downstairs now I spread it out onto my massage table and grab my phone. Should I play that chakra healing music for this session or just some cool jazz in the background? I’m sure he won’t care, but I do want to set a nice mood, help him depart for a while, and stay true to my excellent work ethic. I care about my presentation. For this, I’m eternally grateful because I have a lot of repeat business and I can’t help but think it has a lot to do with good service. I’m an older mature MILF now and I want to make a good impression in case he wants to come back again some sweet day. Every little touch matters. I decide to play the chakra healing tones on my Spotify playlist quietly in the background. God knows I need my chakras cleared and maybe he does too. I light a candle and sip tea waiting for my client. He texts me that he’s here and I tell him I’ll meet him at the door. As he walks into my foyer he greets me with a shy, but giggly “hello” and the peach fuzz standing up on my spine relaxes. He stands about 5’8 and has a small to average build. His hair is sandy blonde and cropped short just like his momma used to cut it. I assume. Ooh wee! This is so easy it ought to be illegal. We make a few pleasantries and I tell him where he can put his clothes and where the bathroom is. I catch him looking at my legs which are the only things visible, peeking out from my big warm sweater telling only half the tale to where they lead. That is if he is bold enough to explore me. I smile sweetly at him and I’m satisfied that he’s at this point, mildly turned on if not intrigued. He looks at me and says “I’ve never done anything like this before.” I tell him to rest easy and that he’s in good hands as I motion towards the massage table. I tell him to lie face down and he positions himself on the table. I take off my sweater standing there now only in my panties and knee socks. I think I look pretty hot today considering how quickly I threw myself together for him. Soon enough he’ll see my naked, freckled body all natural. I begin by massaging his shoulders back and spine. I tell him to take a few deep breaths and that this time is for him and what happens is entirely up to him. He smells like a nice guy. I like the way his skin feels as I knead his muscles from the nape of his neck, down toward his lower back, ass cheeks, and legs. I want to fuck him. He’s got a nice cock and while it isn’t the biggest I’ve seen I like watching as it grows under his sack which is visible as I part his legs with my hands. Mercy! I do want to put that cock deep into my throat and hopefully, he will become so turned on he will begin groping my legs and ass which will eventually lead to him standing up and fucking me off of the side of the table. I’m giddy with the possibilities. He is shy, and I have to tell him it’s okay if he wants to touch my legs, breasts, or tummy as those are all he can reach. Slowly he begins to squeeze my ass and we talk briefly about what he does and why he’s off work at this moment in time and why he’s far away from his safer utopia on the other side of the pond. I’ve always affectionately called the Northshore the other side of the pond. He keeps growing larger and I cup it all in my hands. He lifts his hips slightly and continues to let me fondle his balls and nether regions seductively. I can tell that his fuzzy little sack is filling up. At this point, he rolls over and begins sucking my nipples as I am now leaning over his head. Dropping a tit into his mouth I feel how scratchy his stubble is on my tender areola, but I decide to just go with it and see where he wants this all to lead. I move towards his torso and begin rubbing his nipples and squeezing his sack in alternate motions. His cock is thick and hard and so ready for my mouth, but we have time and I don’t want to rush him. I continue kneading his hips and sack and legs waiting for his cue to wrap my lips around his cock or prepare to get him off with my hand. It’s now that I realize from the look on his face and his hesitation in touching me that he’s looking for the happy ending and he won’t be pounding me, but I’ll get to suck his great big throbber soon enough and that will do me good. I bring my tits close to his mouth again and he sucks them and half-heartedly licks my nipples. He’s ready for the finale. I crawl up onto the table in between his legs. I hold my breasts in my hands while kneeling before him on my knees. If he isn’t ready then I don’t know what else I can offer him. The message I’m conveying is “You can have it all if you want it.” As I move in and take his cock into my right hand he stops me and requests “Can you put a condom on me?” I raise my head and without hesitation, I say “Of course.” The relief on his face is somewhat disheartening, but it is his time and he can do whatever he wants or doesn’t want to do with the whore he’s already paid for. I climb off of the table and pick up the condom I had waiting for what I thought may be a sexy pounding. Sometimes I wonder what is going through the mind of the man who is afraid to be sucked off the usual way. Perhaps his daddy told him when he was younger it was okay to see a fancy lady, but just remember to wear a rubber because you never know. I cover up his now fading cock because the condom has given him a case of shrinkage. I blow him hard in an attempt to revive his deflating and less sensitive, covered cock until he sputters, wheezes, and exhales. As he composes himself I dismount off of the table and take a tissue from the box on my coffee table. Wiping lube out of my mouth with the tissue I ask “How was that?” He just nods his head up and down as he continues catching his breath. I’m not sure, but this might be the hottest thing he has ever done. He was here for the experience and it might have taken a lot of courage to call and show. I can respect that. Some men never make it any farther than that initial text of “Is this Jilly?” I can’t decide if they are playing or actually this inept, but they never call and that’s a shame. I watch him dress and help him to the door. That only took twenty minutes and I am in a different mood now than when I was before he came. I think about having something to eat, but I feel a twitch in my pussy and head towards my Jilly room looking for my vibrator and favorite dildo. Yeah. I’m going to have to rub one out before I begin my day.

Mama Tried

A small droplet of pee becomes a trickle and then a stream racing down my labia and into the toilet I’m sitting upon. Oddly enough this arouses a memory of the same sensation, but when I was a younger woman who was hungry for more and satisfied at the same time by the feeling of something, anything touching my vagina. I’m hungry still for someone’s new fingers exploring and probing my most delicate attribute and as I tear toilet paper off of the roll and blot my hole I think about the client who’s on his way and how much I like his fingers, his attention to detail and his patience with me. Always intimate and very focused and in the moment I find myself almost giddy and a little nervous as I pick up the house, mop, scrub the bathroom clean and tell myself to relax because it’s not like you haven’t seen him before. He comes as often as he can, but not like before Covid because someone decided that remote conventions are better. These days a great deal of the work force wants to stay home than get out of their onesies and come to the office and work as a team because of their anxiety, social phobias or whatever they tell themselves hiding away in dimly lit apartments believing the narrative of how their mother gaslit them. She is why they cannot work with others. Ugh! When will the obsession with ourselves end and we can go back to the way it was before when men were men, conventions brought in horny clients and it was okay because working girls like me were happy to receive them? As I wipe the kitchen counter I think of my own millennial who I gave birth to thirty one years ago. Although he is not as screwed up as he could have been, meaning he’s not into hard drugs and can keep a job, I cannot imagine being a son of mine and his tragic, drug addled father has been easy even if we don’t speak of these things. I do remember telling him that we all have to do for ourselves at some point and I think he’s finally received that message as he ages further into his prime. He is somewhat bitter and does blame me for just about everything, but I know he’ll mature. After he is knocked around enough by the world with its lofty expectations of who he should be, he will lighten up about the fact that this is all there is and trying to control situations because you don’t like conflict is futile and a waste of a life. Then and only then will he give me a small personal break. In the meantime I occupy my thoughts with clients and the other projects I’m working on for my future. I need a really good fuck today. As of late I’ve been rolling joints, or rather, cones because it’s easier than cleaning my bongs. In the upstairs den now I pull a cone out of its box, stuff it with a freshly ground sativa and enjoy this ritual as I think on the exquisite pleasure I will receive in less than an hour. Some clients you meet you can’t remember their name after the deed is done and some of them are hard to forget. Mr. R is my kind of man. Salt and pepper from head to toe, tall “ish” and a really good kisser. He’s the kind of guy who would laugh if I tried to put a condom on his delectable cock for a blow job. He eats my pussy like a dinner course with several courses and the first being French pate. Soft and exploratory at first and then creative and imaginative in ways that move me personally. I’m very grateful at this age that there are men who desire me so much they reach out by text to talk and connect when they cannot be in town. When they are in town sometimes they’ve come just to see me. He’s my age and we have many things in common with one being that our relationships with our children are virtually non existent. In his case his ex practiced systematic parental alienation and his child was always confused and felt guilty for having a good time when in his care. In my case, my ex was was a walking nightmare and I was only left with the option of moving out of state to give my son a peaceful childhood. However, as much as I did to teach him about how to treat others and what life is all about he has his father’s genes and you really can’t fight that. At least I can say wholeheartedly and indubitably that I tried. I’ve attracted men and women throughout my life who might have taken advantage of my kindnesses and good graces, but Mr. R always gives back to me in ways that surprise me. More than grateful for his sexual heat and tenderness, he gives me comfort and I am able to truly be myself in that moment if we’re talking or if I’m sucking his great big juicy sack. Sex with him is a rebirth and I believe every time we are together our coupling brings us peace and acceptance not only of each other, but of ourselves for our lives have seen similar losses and we don’t trust others easily. Smoking my blunt and petting my cat Ella, I stuff two more cones full of herb I plan on smoking with my guest. I head to the bathroom, splash my face with water and brush my teeth. I fill my claw footed bathtub full of water and add some bath salts gifted to me by a client who used to come more often. I cock my leg up onto the edge of the tub and with some non acetone polish remover I douse a cotton ball and rub my favorite pink polish off of my toenails. I want to look like I have it together when he comes. So, I plan on reapplying a new coat after my salty bath because he deserves fresh toes. I undress and slip down into the steaming water. I scrub my toes with my washcloth and shave my legs. He’s not a fussy fellow and I doubt he’d really care if I’m not perfectly groomed, but I do and even if he doesn’t say so I’m going to assume looking my best won’t kill his appetite. Rubbing lotion into my body now I think about how soft his hands are and how they feel kneading my soft and freckled shoulders and back and legs and ass and hips. Oh my! Back to reality now I apply my makeup at the bathroom sink, brush and style my hair and reapply my pink polish to my toenails. I tell Ella I’ll be back later, grab the two joints and head downstairs. Wearing just a beach coverup that looks like a big red and cream scarf I decide I’m ready. He will be here soon and I place the joints in an inherited China bread and butter plate and place it on the coffee table downstairs. As I sit on my couch and wait for him a song by country great, Merle Haggard with his sexy and deeply poetic baritone growls on my Spotifly playlist. “Not knowin’ where I’m bound And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.” It’s a song that I’ve heard a thousand times and I can’t help but think about my own mother and my grandmother who loved his music. If you are lucky you have had women and men in your life who put you first at times when it was impossible for them to move forward on some days. I’ve known that kind of love for my own child and if we don’t speak for a while I know that like the mama’s that put in the work to make me who I am I was able to rise to the occasion and do the same for my own blonde, beautiful boy. When I was younger this song made me sad and I recall my grandma singing it gently as we watched Merle on a TV show way back when. Now I sing these words as prayer because time has taught me that it is okay to enjoy the moments in my life even if I may or may not have failed someone I love. I don’t feel regret and I accept who I am and what I’ve done. It’s taken me a long time to get here and with that the doorbell rings. Transfixed momentarily, I rise and head to the front door. He walks in and sweeps me up in his tight embrace. Showering me with kisses from his great big chubby lips I bury my head into his chest and feel gratitude. I take his hand and lead him to the downstairs bedroom where I’ve led countless men before. He undresses quickly and gently slides my drape off my shoulders and I watch as it swirls onto the floor. I take a second and notice how big his feet are next to mine and instantly feel safe. In his creamiest and deepest purr he says “put this in your mouth.” I giggle as I look at his hand shaking his cock towards me like as if it was bait and I’m the cum slut he’s about to catch. Just take me in hand is all you have to do. He pulls me on top of him as he flops back first onto my queen sized mattress. My head is swimming and for a minute I close my eyes as he kisses me deeply, rolls over on top of me, sticks a great big finger into my throbbing hole and sticks it up to my mouth for me to suck it clean. I’m tingling now and as I slip down into between his legs onto my belly, I tell him to scooch up so I can suck him properly. Sucking the cock I know so well I begin to drift away to a happier place where sliding my mouth up and down onto this sizzling shaft drives me further into a whirl of ecstasy and perhaps a oxytocin high in my frontal lobe. He moans as he tells me to suck him slower and I thrust this cock further into my throat and just let it rest for a few minutes as he grows larger and larger in my mouth. He tells me he wants to fuck and he flips me under him as he climbs on top of my belly and begins thrusting his cock in and out of my fresh sea salt bath pussy. I cream and cream and as he continues pumping me at one point I begin squirting all over his rock hard cock and my clean sheets. As he nears his climax he pauses and says he wants me to lick my squirt off of his cock. With me still under him he moves his body forward and his cock up to my mouth. I wrap my lips around his messy rod, feel endorphins paddling inside my head out into the open water of an ocean full of bewilderment and once I clean up this mess his flips me over and pulls me up onto my knees. He wants to fuck me from behind and I as I stuff a pillow under my tummy for support he’s ramming himself into my hole for another round. He tells me that he loves my little hole and that he wants to fill it up with all his cum. He asks “do you want me to fill you up Baby?” I beg “this is your pussy and I want your cum.” As I lift my ass up higher to meet his thrusts his growls and whimpers become deeper and mysterious in color. I feel like he’s nearing what I have affectionately labeled “beast mode” and cumming is eminent. I love that he’s taking his time and I know when he does blow it will be monumentally satisfying for both of us. The good thing is he’ll take about fifteen minutes and we’ll do it all over again. So, when he does finish I will be sufficiently ragged out and I won’t have a care in the world. And with that he shutters and calls my name out from a very deep place in his core. I’m feeling all he’s feeling and his heat and intensity makes my knees buckle. We collapse onto the mattress with him still inside of me as he is the kind who wants to feel each pulse of his orgasm. When I can no longer breathe I tell him to roll over and in one swift motion he scoops me up and places me in a spoon position. Legs intertwined and arms wrapped around me I rest and inhale and exhale our scents. After a few minutes of silence I raise my head up and ask “do you have another one in you?”

Wanderlust

I haven’t written anything in a while, and it is not because I don’t have anything to say. Life has taken me in some new directions which I am learning to juggle with being Jilly and working on new projects, which are time consuming and important for the direction I’m heading, but distracting and leaves less time for creativity. As some of you may know I have gone on a few tours this year and while some climates are cooler and there disproportionately more single men in D.C., New Orleans is still my one and only love. Touring gave me perspective and a chance to live somewhere else for a little while, be anonymous and more of an observer rather than a participant as I watch daily life in places with more money, people and opportunities than in the city of my dreams. Funny thing. I always thought this town suited me, even at a very young age. My family and I would drive in from our parish very early and excited about what places we’d have lunch and dessert, pastries and pralines. Sometimes it would be just a mall day, and maybe we’d hit D.H. Holmes department store on Canal Street because it was simply divine. Just like a department store in New York it was the last of the grand stores left in 1970’s New Orleans and to a little girl from the sticks it was the premier place to buy your school clothes. I know it’s true because I’m not the only one who thinks it was fantastic and I’ve been to Fifth Avenue. When the day was won, I would flop into the back of my grandmother’s big Buick Le Sabre, hot, tired and usually not quite ready to go, but pragmatic about leaving only because I knew I would be back. As the car passed the Superdome, I would get up onto my knees backwards and watch the city and the colors of the sky as the sun set until we’d make the curve on I-10 right past Lake Lawn Cemetery and my mother would tell me “sit down.” I’d blow a kiss and whisper “see you soon.” I was always a little heartbroken that I had to leave. I’ve never felt quite like that about any city, but lately D.C. seems to have infiltrated by thoughts in a way I didn’t expect. It feels more alive, and the clients are smart and ambitious men with places to be and things to do. Former generals and captains of industry. You know the type. It’s so busy there. I feel like a country mouse come to the city looking for adventure, wisdom and if I’m honest with myself, a little change of pace. This summer in New Orleans has been the hottest on record and the tourists aren’t flocking here to nest, but catching connecting flights everywhere, but here. I paid attention to the crowds at Louis Armstrong as I came and went on my trips. I had some help from a generous follower who had encouraged me to come to D.C. for years. I’m fearless in some ways, but before Covid the idea of touring was never on my mind. I know how to hustle this in New Orleans and the city, and I are intertwined with her being part of the act. Would it be the same in a moderately priced hotel in the heart of the Foggy Bottom District? To my surprise the neighborhood I stayed in is very similar to the Lower Garden. So, I immediately felt at home. I could see the Watergate Hotel from my hotel and the Kennedy Center brightly lit up on top as a backdrop. As for the men, my very first client was an art lover and he brought me a thoughtful bottle of wine. He walked into my hotel room talking. A whirlwind of thoughts and ideas spilled from his lips. He threw me off guard, as I was halfway expecting to be busted, but I managed to redirect my brain and maintain some control and focus as he scooped me up physically and metaphorically in his tight embrace. He brought two plastic glasses and poured some of the wine, sat on the couch and told me about his life and how much he loved art and why. At some point a marriage goes south was the theme of his marriage and while I sympathized, I thought to myself how many times I’ve heard this old chestnut. I waited for him to make the first move and he did with a little help when I said, “let me suck your cock.” He wasn’t a young man nor old. He was fit and had a booming Northeastern accent, reminding me of the true northern gentleman. Think the detention teacher in “The Breakfast Club” or Jack Nicholson’s clipped and succinct droll in “The Witches of Eastwick.” Maleness, deep voices, and how masculine one is or is not fascinate and if I find you interesting, I might giggle and look at your bulge even if you don’t know I’m doing so. He let me give him this pleasure, but in a way, I felt like I had almost to force him to stay still. I got him undressed and onto the bed. He told me he thought I was pretty and how he loved redheads. I believe he told me his wife was similar in coloring and expression as I pulled myself over and on top of him as he lay back and let me wrap my lips around his throbbing shaft. “Don’t go too fast,” he warned as I slid with my mouth up and down. It’s always okay when my client asks me to be careful because I know he means he only has one in him, and he doesn’t want to blow it on me or in me too soon. However, he wiggled and seemed like he wanted to get away from me, and I wasn’t sure what he was doing. Ultimately, I understood this was his style and I just had to keep grabbing at him until he stayed put long enough for me to satisfy him. He rolled to one side and then got up onto his knees. He reached down and cupped my head with his hands and jabbered and moaned like a Pentecostal preacher full of God’s holy spirit. I felt dizzy from his chatter and his quick moves as he’d be on his back one minute and then he’d roll me and him to the side of the bed. It was hard to keep a grip on his cock as he would quickly detach and reattach because he didn’t want to come. Not just yet. At this point, I knew that there would be no fucking. The fact that I needed to fuck isn’t his problem, but it would have been reassuring being in a new place and all. So, I settled for what he was able to give me in return for assimilating into the whore of his dreams. This client and whore pairing was successful, albeit somewhat a trifle because I don’t think I truly was able to help him relax. He seems like a man who cannot turn it off. I liked him though, and he told me where I could find some good flower in town. When he completed the act inside my mouth, he dressed and sat back down on the couch. I remember him lighting up when he recalled where I could find the best local galleries and those all the way to Philly. He was the kind of man I’d like to meet at a restaurant unexpectedly and after some small chit-chat, we would decide to have dinner together. He was a great conversationalist and very knowledgeable about so many things. He even intimated that he’d like to return before I flew home, but I didn’t see his email, his preferred way of communicating until my trip was almost over. I have to say that I had so many men contacting me I think I became confused at one point and didn’t realize it was him. I must have talked to, emailed and chatted with at least twenty timewasters before I got to some real clients. In a wonderful act of karma, the Universe did reward me with a regular who used to see me on and off for years, in the time before Covid. He emailed me on P411, the Canadian provider network and told me he’d be in town late. He is originally from D.C. and used to work for previous administrations in a job which brought him to New Orleans a few times a year. Now he lives elsewhere and just happened to be in town on business. We first met at my original Jilly Pad on Terpsichore and he and I fucked like bunnies each time we met. He once said that there was a time after a particularly amazing romp, he bought a steak dinner on St. Charles Avenue. Watching from the restaurant as the streetcars rolled in front of him, while eating his meal, he said he felt like a king. Serendipity united us once more and when he walked into my room within minutes, we were having monkey sex. He stuck his dick so far into me and pounded me for what seemed longer than an hour. but at that point I didn’t care. He and I had what I call familiar sex. We have chemistry and a good report that is comfortable. So, I feel secure letting him drive the bus. He knows what he wants, from licking my pussy and giving me time to warm up and the creative way he eases slowly into my dark wetness when I am ready to receive everything he needs to unload. When he was through with me, I was one step from begging for mercy. I’m glad we stopped when we did because I was inches away from having to take a break. He rose from the bed and began to dress; I watched him pull his wallet from his pants. As he peeled back the hundreds from a wad intended for me, I thought it would be appropriate after the way he had taken me in hand if he just threw the money on me. Instead, he set a thousand dollars down carefully onto the credenza. After he kissed me goodbye and I was alone again, I settled back onto the bed. Taking the sheets and pulling them close up to my nose so that I could smell him on them I exhaled deeply. I really needed that.

A Bag Of Lays

*I wrote this one during Mardi Gras of this year. Meant to publish it sooner, but sometimes I get lost in the moss here in New Orleans and forget. Hope you all had a good one and maybe I’ll see you marching beside me next year with "La Société de Saint Anne.” This walking parade is also called the Krewe of St. Anne and begins in the morning near the tracks in the Bywater. This parade makes its way towards the French Quarter, taking as long as it takes, glorious with dysfunction and good will, spreading love and acceptance to all who tag along.

I’m having a hard time concentrating with this helicopter oscillating over my house. It’s Carnival and sirens and helicopters have taken over in what is usually a fairly quiet part of our metropolitan. I like Mardi Gras and even take the time to create a costume and march with the walking Krewe of St. Ann. I like to watch wide eyed newbies gush and exclaim as lavishly decorated floats roll by, their faces aglow as the Flambeaux flames fan them with heat and exhilaration. Then there are some fun Krewes like the “Lazy Boyz” which are always full of male bravado, revving their chairs and chewing on their fat cigars. Even a drunk fumbling and teetering on a curb as a band plays “Whip It” can be amusing if not poetic when it’s “Carnival Time.” I get that this is a joyous rite of our Spring season and we need those tourists dollars to keep things balanced. New Orleans tourism props of the rest of our state even though some of the people in our state hate New Orleans and Mardi Gras and don’t care if the reason they have a new City Hall is because of all this revelry. But, at this moment I’m trying to work and write in the middle of mayhem and possibly a few gunshots. I don’t live too far from the St. Charles parade route with its stately homes and the streetcar line that tourists gleefully ride from the Quarter, Uptown, to the river bend and back down to Canal Street. My life is humming along and I’m satisfied with my regulars and the new guys who want to put a face to the words they’ve been reading in my blog. As the sound of the helicopter fades into the ether I think about how fun it is to catch up with a favorite from the years before Covid. This typical thrill seeker or businessman would come to town for business or pleasure on a regular basis. He’d spend time at my pad and then maybe treat himself to a steak afterwards. Once his meetings or partying was done for the day he’d remember our interlude safe in his hotel room drifting off into a state of complete relaxation. I met so many like that in those first years on Terpsichore. It’s only been recently that I’ve connected with some of these classy gentlemen who, only have just now had reasons to come back to our shady little town. Today Mr. B. who loves to immerse himself in whatever New Orleans will gift him is dropping by today. He hasn’t been to town in several years and I can’t wait to hear about where he had dinner and how many parades he’s seen and or been a part of. I think about the masked riders as I apply my eyeliner. So many cocks. I spent a lot of time when I was younger being proud that I could keep all of the men (mostly my husbands) I had had sex with on one hand. I was out of control, but in control. If you know what I mean. Slowly, but surely I filled up both hands with the number of men who were lent my flower. After the age of 41 I was handing it out like a spicy cougar hungry for fresh meat. Exhilarated with my conquests and all of the hard cocks I had endured, I decided that what my mother had told me about sleeping around was right. “If you sleep with one boy it’s easier to sleep with another one.” Too true. Fucking when I needed to was rejuvenating and all of the bad things that are supposed to happen if you are promiscuous didn’t exactly come true. I just needed to be who I am. That’s all. It is easier to fuck one more man when you have already fucked so many. Just like eating a bag of Lay’s Potato Chips, “you just can’t eat one.” And why shouldn’t I? Who gives a damn if I fuck the whole of New Orleans and beyond? In less than one hundred years there will be no one around to remember what I did or even who I was. The client I have been waiting on is here and I run downstairs to greet him. I have always secretly called him the Connoisseur. He is fit and boyish for sixty years old. I’m sure he looks exactly the way he did when he was 21. Sometimes you meet someone who has managed to harness that inner light from youth and they smile freely and often. I think he’s probably aware that he’s dripping with boyish charm, but instead of drawing attention to it he uses this knowledge to gain what he needs in a kind and considerate way rather than fishing for compliments. I’ve seen him since the beginning and every visit is always better than the one before. Also, the bonus is he’s a delicious fuck and knows how to kiss. He’s a lot of fun and he makes me giggle as he tells me about his adventures since he landed. He laughs while remembering when he was having a drink Uptown and all of a sudden a parade appears. Feeling gratitude he sits back and enjoys his luck as if this was all for him. Then he told me about a wonderful meal he had a few days before. He went to Tulane way back and even worked at Commander’s Palace, but isn’t from here. He came here young and just got a taste for New Orleans and can’t stay away too long. I know how he feels. I went on two tours this year and I couldn’t wait to get back to my oak lined streets and the joie de vrie that is complimentary to those who fall in love with her. After a few minutes of catching up we decide to do the deed. He takes off his clothes and wryly smiles at me all soft and knowing because I’m one of his stops on his list for a reason. I push him down onto the bed and ask him “do you want a blow job?” He answers with a contented sigh “I’d love a blow job.” Positioning myself between his tone thighs I begin to nurse his tall and very chewy penis. With his hands he begins playing with my curls and sinks deeper into the mattress. I enjoy giving him pleasure because he deserves it. Sucking and letting his pre-cum tingle on my lips I change up for a minute and place one ball and then the other into my hot and greedy little mouth. He’s more of a quiet lover and although he isn’t making much noise I know he’s getting what he needs. He says he wants to eat me and I roll over and spread my legs wide for him to dive in, get lost momentarily in the feminine, and disappear for as long as he wants. I love a guy who doesn’t use teeth and nails to please me. It’s all in the lips and my client knows exactly how to touch a woman. He comes up at some point grinning and aching to get inside of me. I hate to say it after that setup, but we put on a condom and he gets on top of me and slides home. I love the way he feels and smells and tastes. I love that it’s so good that he returns when he can. He pumps me like an old lover who ran into me unexpectedly, bought me a drink and came back to my place. For old time’s sake. After I lie in his arms and we begin talking about what’s been happening in his life and mine. Eager to give him that second pop I begin sucking him again. He slides his hands across my back and lifts my face up to meet his as he sits up and sticks his tongue far down my throat. He smiles sweetly and tells me “I’m not sure I have another in me today.” I crawl back up towards him and kiss him with all of the passion of a woman who could use another pounding, but knows that I’ll have to wait until next time.

A Beautiful Cuban

He was exactly as I thought he would be. Smiling, with deep brown eyes that crinkle on the sides, he enters my Fort Lauderdale hotel room. No need to worry about this one. He’s as good as gold. Looking at each other up and down as you do upon first meeting we begin to giggle and he extends his arms and enfolds me in a warm and knowing embrace. He’s tender as a man can be and so very sweet. I want to eat him up! God! What a lucky break that I somehow caught his eye with the ads I put up on each online site that will have me. He tells me that he’s always liked “older women” and I tell him warmly “I’m glad that you’re here.” I take off my emerald green kimono and he begins taking off his burgundy scrubs. He smiles and looks me up and down as he places his clothes on a small table near the the dresser where the TV stands. I say gleefully, “you look great!” He answers with the same compliment and looks at me still smiling like a man that has everything he needs and more right in front of him. I sit down on the foot of the bed naked and although this is the way it begins with lots of clients I feel comfortable with him right away and can tell that we’re on the same page. We’re similar people and it just feels right in spite of our twenty seven years apart. In the time he’s spent growing up and learning how to be an adult I’ve spent creating my life which has come and is drawing nearer towards its finale with each passing day. His is just begun and he tells me he’s studying to be a Physical Therapist and the whore in me thinks “maybe he’s good with his hands.” Some ways of thinking die hard and he’s lovely to look at with his cafe’ au lait complexion, dimples and good nature. He says he grew up in Miami and that is where all his family is. Visions of Miami Vice, the Boat People and pastel buildings in pink and light blue flash through my mind and quickly dissolve as I gaze downward towards his beefy sack. His hair is long on the top with curls that are more locks than wave and that I think pairs well with his adorable personality. He’s boyish in manner and presentation even though he is a grown man, but my eyes have seen it all and part of me wants to make him a cup of cocoa with marshmallows and I could offer him some because I always travel with some for times when I want to eat dessert and conscientiously deny myself. I quickly dismiss this notion as he sits beside me on the bed and puts his arm around me. He tells me he’s seen my posts and ads for a while and I can tell he’s being honest as my eyes gaze lovingly at his growing and delectable young cock. He pushes me back onto the edge of the foot of the bed and gets on his knees while parting my legs. He asks “how do you like to be eaten?” What a guy! I tell him to just be gentle and to lick it like an ice cream while Spotify plays my favorites and Dr. John, with his Westbank gravel encourages us with “Such a Night.” I feel like I’m back in college and it’s such a sweet departure from my internal chatter which is ever present, but hidden in secret and I successfully hide from anyone who happens to be paying attention to me. He puts me at ease and I rest momentarily as the Cuban’s tongue probes my weeping cunt sending traveling tingles throughout my pelvis and up my belly. Delighted that he knows his way around a woman’s most delicate attribute I feel safe enough to put both feet onto his shoulders, exhale and let him give me this treat. My mind stops racing and I am present with him at this moment like we’re not strangers who have only just met, but actual lovers, familiar and intertwined, pulsing and alive, gaining momentum and heading towards the same place. I lean forward, put my hands in his hair and enjoy the silkiness of his locks, soft skin and watch him tenderly make love to me. I want to feel him on top of me now and I schooch backwards onto the middle of the bed. He follows me crawling forward, eyes meeting mine, but he stops me and pulls me towards his mouth again. It’s okay. I’ll have him on top soon enough and tell myself to be patient and that he’s here for now and nothing is going to stop our progress. I tell him when he looks up that this is “your pussy.” He smiles sweetly and says repeats that “it’s mine” and decides then to come up and be with me, but he flips himself over onto his back and pulls me close into him for a deep kiss. I lie near him on his left side and his cock that is now so rigid beckons me as it bounces up against his belly. Intimacy can be hard come by, if that’s what you’re looking for, but he’s sexually secure with himself and planned ahead, did his homework and methodically chose a woman who doesn’t play games, is hungry and seeking the same kind of sexual experience. We switch up now and he lies back and I crouch up onto my knees close to his left side. I take him in and admire his rigid cock with it’s blue veins, thickness, and I tingle inside watching it bounce lightly on his belly. I move in between his legs now as he touches my hair and brushes a handful of my curls back from my face. I want to put this lusciousness into my warm and greedy mouth now. I take him beginning deep at the base of his shaft and hold the head at the back of my throat and begin to pulse very carefully. My gag reflex is strong and my mouth isn’t as big as I’d like to be, but I manage and he moans slightly as I imagine this must feel fantastic. I think of a porn movie where the actress takes a big cock down her throat, gasps, spits theatrically and gives “Joe Blow” at home whacking it behind his computer enough time to explode from the mere sight of her. No. This is real sex and I only want to please him just as thoughtfully as he pleased me. He tells me he wants to be inside me and that he wants to see me sitting on top of him. Hastily, I put a condom on him and climb on top as I slide myself down upon his throbbing member in one smooth movement. I’m only too happy to give him what he asks for and just knowing how lustful he is for me makes me open up and get wetter as I now feel safe, secure and willing to give him everything I got. You know, just because I’m a hooker doesn’t mean I can’t reciprocate with a man who wants to share himself with me. As I grind into him he asks me to lean down and kiss him deeply. His tongue feels wet and hot in my mouth and I love the little noises he’s making as we both are matching strokes now. He’s grinding up and I’m grinding down in perfect form. I arch my back and put both hands behind me onto his calves so that I can really take all of him. My clit is a hot mess and continues to swell as he pumps me harder. He asks if it’s okay for him to blow and I say “as long as you give me another one” and he orgasms deeply and profoundly. I help him clean up our sex and we lie back and talk for a little while so that he has time to recover and get ready for round two. When he’s ready he places me at the side of the bed with a pillow beneath my ass for maximum deep pounding. He begins by spreading my legs as wide as they will go and sinks like a stone into my juicy hole. I can’t contain myself now and begin to gasp and cry out from the force of his hips pushing into mine. The bed is rocking, its coils are squeaking and I hear hotel maids in the adjoining room talking, but I can only wonder if they notice how loud our session has become. Between the sounds of skin slapping against skin, my screaming and his panting I decide I don’t care and let him fuck the shit out of me. My tits are bouncing and he’s beginning to work up a sweat as I loudly reach a climax and with that he grabs my hips and forcefully tears at my skin in an attempt to go deeper inside of me. His hands pinching me hurts, but I wouldn’t do anything to stop him now. I want him to bury his cock as deep in me as he can possibly go, writhe in orgasm and drop on top of me sweating and grunting once he’s entirely spent. He keeps fucking me several minutes after I cum and begins thrusting harder. He’s getting louder and I’m hanging on so that he has my full attention. I tell him “I want your cum in me!” He answers back loudly, “you want this cum?” I beg him for it and he bangs his cock into me with three hard thrusts and explodes into the condom in complete ecstacy. We’re giggling now and when I get up to walk to the bathroom my feet are fumbling and my hips are sore. He looks like a man who’s been drugged as he attempts to put his clothes. Our heads are swirling and we take a minute to say our goodbyes. He gives me another warm and generous hug and I thank him for all that he brought to our appointment. He leaves and as I’m going to the bathroom to shower the maid knocks on the door asking if I need anything. I rush to stop her from coming in and tell her “Thank you, but I don’t need a thing.” I’m not sure, but I think I heard her laughing as she walked away.

Built for Comfort

I’m driving through Louisiana State University last October and when the light turns red at the intersection of Highland Drive and South Stadium Drive I stopped. Why I was at this college is a secret, but feel free to get up and find some lube. I was scanning the coeds walking past me and without cause or reason my eyes laid upon a young blonde girl. She was waiting to cross the street in a champagne sweatshirt and sweat short ensemble, white tennis shoes and backpack. Very chic. What stood out about her the most was how lean she was just standing there shifting from one slight hip to another. She seemed a little impatient and I guess she was late for class. I noticed that her legs were as lean as her bones, but she wasn’t underweight. She was just skinny, but a healthy weight for her age and frame. I looked her up and down and decided that “she’s a spinner” and probably “weighs about a buck o five.” Never in my life have I been that lean. I have always had a roundness to my body and carry the quintessential Aline. This means I’m thicker in the waist, but have nice proportions in all of the other parts that matter. If a fashion designer was creating a dress for my frame she’d begin by sketching an upside down triangle. Broader in the shoulders, wide in the middle and on down becomes a perfect point because after the middle my hips and legs are narrow. Finding a dress that zips up properly has always been a challenge. It fits everywhere perfectly for my size, but the middle should be one size up. This is hard to find because you can’t buy a dress that fits like a size eight in the top and bottom and a size 10 in the middle. I can’t go up in size because the dress might zip right up, but be too blousy and hang off my shoulders. I can’t go down because the size I need doesn’t fit in the waist to begin with so I probably won’t get it over my head. Deep sigh. As I watched the perfectly coiffed coed cross the street I knew that she never had a problem zipping any dress right up and would always remain a pixie. But what’s it like for a man snuggling up to a tiny woman like her? She’s small enough for any guy to enfold her in his arms and cradle her like a kitten. As for me, I’m more woman than she’ll ever be and if I had to choose I’d take my ample and plush mom body over the spinner. You see, I’m built for comfort. My body has always been soft and comforting. When I’ve lost weight I didn’t feel like myself. I just felt less sexy and seemed anxious about my success and I filled my thoughts with disillusion. I’m what you call average sized. Although, if I put on just a little weight I sort of spread out everywhere, but I’m cautious and make sure that I can still fit into all of my favorite clothes. One time I was described as a “small BBW” in a review given by a hobbyist who enjoyed picking apart each woman he hired in his reviews. This review is still visible on the first member and provider board I belonged to, Eccie. I read what this troll wrote about me and in my newness of being a prostitute I thought my career as a whore is over and no one will want to take me and my fat ass on! I even asked him if he could just edit the BBW part out, but he said that “I feel a responsibility to the other members of the board to be as honest as possible and I stand by my review.” This wasn’t a sworn statement made in a courtroom in front of a jury and if he not been so fucking arrogant I might would have fucked him again instead of dodging his requests for years. One pregnancy is enough on a woman’s body if you ask me. I don’t know that it has ever fully recovered and after I had my son I began tipping the scale around 130-140 pounds and at 5’3 that is sort of the limit, but it’s not plus size by any stretch of my imagination. In spite of this first ill fated review I made around $13,000.00 that month and wound up losing a little weight because on this board they all want to try the new girl out even if she is less than perfect. In light of all that, today a beautiful young man in his thirties came to see me. I started with a little massage which didn’t last very long when he took over. He kissed the back of my neck and made love to me and it was good to see him after spending a long Christmas with my family. Gently he kissed and tongued the back of my neck and he’s squeezing my tits I asked him “do you know how beautifully toned your body is?” He blushed and replied “I’ve been jerking off to the thought of your hot body ever since the last time I saw you.” Yes. Once in a great “John” I get one and he comes for a while, maybe even years until fate calls him away. Spark! So hard to come by these days. Sometimes I think I carry the weight of a family that doesn’t love me. It’s just so hard to let go, but I’m weary from playing the role of the fool. As his hands cupped my face he consumed me as he smelled my hair. He spooned me from behind and kneaded my back, ass and calves. He turned me over and fucked me nearly the entire hour. I felt so grateful for him. He made time for me because he loves how he bounces off my tummy while holding my ankles as I have my legs spread wide in front of him poised on both knees. He gets off by demanding that I say his name. When he is close to cumming he pleads “say my name” and I struggled for a second to remember because I was caught up in his strength and his desire. I blurted out “fuck me S****” relieved I could remember as he flipped me over for doggy. He groaned and panted my name. He felt like a knife going inside. I wasn’t wet enough quite yet. I decided to ignore it and eventually I loosened up ready to receive his thrusts in and out of a pussy which was growing sore. I didn’t want to tell him to stop as I slipped deeper into a place and remembered it’s always good to have a cock you. Just go with it. I held myself up on my knees and squeezed his cock with all my might as it entered me in a series of hard thrusts which I knew would eventually lead to him releasing his seed into the condom I had placed on his hard, straight and very capable cock. We really like fucking each other and when this happens it’s always a cause for celebration because it’s rare. Instant chemistry is what I live for and while I do provide comfort and validation to a man when he’s world weary and in need of a boost, I still love a good pounding. He thinks my body is beautiful as it is. What a wonderful thing to be appreciated for what you are. When we finished we lay side by side and giggled as we caught our breaths. He placed himself a little closer and with both arms snuggled me and we lay there as my head was spun. Lost in abandon. I remained there whirling of pheromones, oxytocin, validation and peace of mind. This body of mine has always been good to me.

Take It All

Sipping her coffee at the kitchen table grandma turns to me as I cut a watermelon into perfect wedges on the bar and recites a second hand story about a man in town who cheats like a dirty dog. “I’ll tell you something little sister. Some men ain’t no damn good!” I look up giggling and say “what do you mean?” She blows on her cup and winks as she explains there are two types of men in the world. I put some of the melon on a plate and join her at the table. Evidently, and even though it isn’t right, she goes into the latest tale of this small town Lothario and his secret exploits. She spares no detail and gleefully reveals who he had this red hot affair with. Soon the newness of the story begins to fade and I see the kind Christian lady that she really is. As she catches her breath and remembers herself she chides that it’s not right to enjoy another’s pain. The long suffering wife she feels compassion for, but somewhere in her phrasing I detect disdain. For what woman would stay and take the scraps this man gives her? I tell her I that I sure wouldn’t put up with a cheating husband and feel confident and maybe even a little smug that I could outmaneuver him and not let the thought of him choosing another over me hurt. I say “if he doesn’t think I’m enough then I don’t want him anymore!” But to admit that means I never trusted any man deeply enough to be that vulnerable. At the time I didn’t realize this and I’m sure it goes without saying with the profession I have chosen. She ends with the usual whispering of “now don’t repeat what we talk about at home.” I assure her that I won’t because you don’t want gossip to get back to you and after all it’s just gossip. Next time in church I see his wife and enjoy her graceful and delicate way of playing “I’ll Fly Away”. She’s been the church organist as long as I can remember. I study her cool poker face and repeat to no one that “she’s a giver” while secretly feeling sorry for what people are saying about her family. Marriage is a sacred thing, but it’s not easy being in love long after the romance has faded. Why did she stay with him? Perhaps it’s as simple as she took her commitment to her husband seriously even if he dropped his cross long ago. To stay and raise your children in a loveless marriage is suicide. To leave is murder. It’s not that he’s not doing his part, but that she wonders if with all she gives does he truly care? Is he doing his part when it comes to his wife? I’ve sat in on countless bible classes when I used to be holy. Sometimes a discussion about giving it all to Christ would morph into more of strategical meeting as these women pitted themselves against some tramp who was newly divorced and dressing a little too loudly in comparison to every other woman’s modest and eternally acceptable neutrals. I observed the looks of contempt and fear as it was whispered who she was and where she came from. I remember how I couldn’t wait to lay eyes on her in our bright white sanctuary with its comfortably padded pine pews and stained glass bible story windows. I’d watch carefully for the one person I didn’t know to come through one of the doors at the front of the sanctuary by the altar. Eventually she would prowl in and I would watch as her new Sunday heels would make deep impressions in our dark orange carpet. It was hard to miss this redhead or bleached blonde who had the hens in my Sunday School class mentally frazzled and plotting her excommunication. I was never worried much of being shunned because I spent my twenties in between marriages and no one thought I would take their husband away. I knew these men from my childhood, had been friends with their now grown kids and simply wasn’t interested in them as possible lovers or more. On the other hand, it was titillating in a way I’m sure was inappropriate and I admonished myself for enjoying the flutter of a younger and more desirable woman either knowingly or unknowingly throwing it out there for whatever man will take it. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. A fresh piece of ass wields a lot of power and it can be so much fun for the lucky philander and a small town hungry for the entertainment value of a tawdry and titillating affair. What I learned as a young girl and then as a young wife that as time goes on I am more convinced that being a wife isn’t all that Better Homes & Gardens said it would be. I changed a lot of diapers and cooked a lot of meals. Ran countless errands. Nursed and comforted my husbands when they didn’t feel up to the task. Gave and suffered and bled until my heart cracked and I was sure I was gonna die. But don’t get me wrong. I believe in marriage and motherhood and Cinderella and a perfect love that transcends time, but I’m not so sure it was for me. You see, I get bored easily and the reason why I’m sure I cannot tell you. I never gave much thought to being one until a cousin of mine got pregnant and had to marry at eighteen. I think I was looking for daddy and whatever relationship I stumbled into would have to be with a man that I respected or at least looked up to. He would have to be smarter than me and confident in a worldly way so that I could remain in awe of him as our love waned. I know that’s a tall order. On the other hand, I’m not your average woman and I don’t think I ever was. And what did I do when I stumbled out of the gate into adulthood? At the age of twenty I accepted the first proposal I was given. To me being a wife was all about being subservient. That’s what I had been taught in church and at that point in time I wanted to be a hen rather than the sexy divorcee. From afar I always admired the whores and the home wreckers for their brazen and fully developed sense of selves. She is a woman who would suck any cock that would give her sanctuary. Selectively. Of course. He had to have some sort of means because all men pay for it in one way or another. I just couldn’t imagine living with the guilt and shame which accompanied that conquest. Also, and for the record, when one of my husband’s did cheat I didn’t give up and I took his scraps like the good Lord intended. I do think about the mistresses, whores and sluts I’ve known and if you remember historically there is always another woman to satisfy the unrelenting lust of kings and noblemen and even a deacon like Brother Tom, Dick or Harry from your local First Baptist Church. Giggling to myself, I consider my personal conquests with men. According to my last count I’ve sucked more cocks than the town slut or hot real estate divorcee could possibly dream of. As is with most things people forget the woman you’ve been married to for the last fifteen years was the one that ended the twenty year union that came first. So, why would a woman marry these days? There is love. I think as things change for some women the hassle of a man just isn’t worth the comfort. This goes both ways and many clients have told me how deliriously happy they live now without their ex and her “drama” and “unrealistic expectations” of how much a god damned man he should actually be. Women today are more self reliant and can do most things now without a husband or boyfriend lying on her couch and eating all of her groceries. But there is one thing that is hard for women and men to live without. Human contact and tenderness. Close your eyes and picture a woman and a warm presence making her feel safe and lavishing comfort and attention. Giving and probing with his tongue at the nape of her neck watching her giggle and spasm with abandon as he makes her achingly aware of how good it feels to be desired. Hot thick fingers massage her lower back and fan upward along her spine crawling to those soft and weary shoulders. Now he’s holding her up with those strong fingers. She just have to be as beautiful as he’s making her feel and this adoration is somewhat guaranteed to women as long as they want to play the game. Every woman is a flavor and fortunately most men want to sample all of them. No dildo can match the heat of a man consumed by lust for the woman in front of him. Then imagine as he parts her thighs and pulls down her panties. She wriggles and moans with delight. Soon his face is buried in her garden and he sucks and slurps and fingers her ever so sweetly. As her back arches and her head rolls backward into the mattress he’s ready to mate with her. Giving him a little oral in an attempt to make him as hard as he can be she sucks him as he kneels on the bed bedside her. When he can no longer wait he moves in between her legs and gives her himself while she moans and gasps as he strokes her sticky and feminine goodness. For some reason maybe beyond his understanding he wanted to fuck her tonight and once he’s sated he’ll be better. He married his wife. He paid for a whore. He desires this mistress who may be his undoing. Why shouldn’t he enjoy what they give him? Take it all!

Softly Part III

She realizes the time is now 8:30 in the pm and they were going to meet tonight at 8:00. What’s he up to? She muses on how he smells and what his kisses taste like as she lavishes pets on her cat and looks out of the window to see if his car is parked on the street. She gave herself permission to get wrapped up in their blossoming relationship, but with a cautious heart. The first part of a new love affair is always supernaturally good and like most good things she knows they have a season. So, swallowing her pride she texts him a non accusatory text. “What happened to you this evening? She follows with a “LOL” because there’s no need to jump to conclusions just yet. It’s always better to not think the worst of people until they give you a reason to think differently. Nothing on his end but crickets. A man that follows through is like finding a unicorn in the mist. She thinks about the $1000.00 day she had and how much fun it was hustling like a pro. Effortlessly and methodically she brings man after man in her home and watches them throw hundreds at her for simply giving them some of her time and tender, loving care. She thinks about the sex she has with Paul and how wet the insides of her thighs become while he fucks her long enough and hard enough for her to squirt and sometimes cum. In a moment of truth she acknowledges that she really is tired and the fact that he’s not responding could mean many things. She’s grateful that he’s running late and may not even show. He’s not a client, but right now he reminds her of a prospective client who passes her light screening and a date is made, but he never calls or shows. He hasn’t proven himself to her. Yet. Across town a sleepy Paul awakes and his ex girlfriend is beside him. He watches her momentarily and thinks about how sweet she looks as she’s dreaming. Softly. When he looks at his phone he sees the texts from the woman he stalked and stroked just right until she gave him herself. Putting the phone down he doesn’t answer her because of a combination of guilt and various other reasons to numerous to contemplate right now. He walks to the bathroom and lifts up the toilet seat to pee. Once his bladder is empty he flushes the toilet and moves toward the sink. The cold water he splashes onto his face feels like a punishment he must endure because he knows “he’s a bad boy cause he don’t even miss her” and the ex showing up seems so much easier. Truth is he doesn’t know what he wants and that makes him feel sad. His name is called from the bedroom and he dries his face and heads toward the bed like a man in a trance towards a woman that knows him inside and out. He decides to just let her tell him what to do tonight because he can’t make a decision. She extends her hands to him and he lets her seduce him while she slips his rock hard cock into her familiar and safe hole. It comforts him and that’s all he needs right now. He glides in and out and listens as she gasps in ecstasy. All his cares fly away while outside the moon rises higher and the sky turns into outer space. Softly. Uptown she wakes to the caw of the territorial crow who’s been perched in a tree close to her upstairs window for a several mornings. There are a few more morning noises that make sleep futile, like the garbage truck and the usual yelling and banging of the men who take the trash away. Now a tour bus is rumbling by and dips into the pot hole left by the Sewage & Water Board’s last repair on the perpetual pipe leak under the street. This always makes the house jump. “I guess I’m up.” She says. Marigold just snuggles down deeper into a vortex of sheet and fluff and down. Checking her phone she surmises that Paul has evidently had a change of heart. If he cares he doesn’t realize that his silence to her is a loud school bell ringing in her ears and without missing a beat she pats her heart symbolically for she is always right. If he only knew how hard it is for her to believe in someone and trust. He just hasn’t proven himself to her. Here’s proof. He’s a no show just like the client who cannot drag himself to the date he initiates. With that thought and all of a sudden she feels invigorated and as light as a butterfly who lights on one flower, and then another without rhyme or reason. He doesn’t even want to get to know her and that is hurtful, but it’s best this way. We won’t have to talk about the things we don’t want to with each other and I’ll never have to sit him down and tell him what I do. She thinks quietly as she prepares a cup of tea. Her next three days pass with a blur of faces and sex and money. While she thinks of him she isn’t surprised or unprepared for this slight. She feels empowered by her ability to plow through the sad feelings and go through the five stages of grief in record time. Then on the fourth evening as she lays in bed reading a book it becomes clear that she needs some comfort. No one’s around, but Marigold and most of her clients are snug at home with their families. She stands up, takes off her clothes and reaches into the bedside drawer for her favorite dildo and a vibrator gifted to her by a client who moved away. He was a good fuck, but didn’t come very often because he has a wife with mental illness and her malaise colors every aspect of their marriage. Like a good husband he is determined to see it through. Tragically, he is a giver sexually and has great hands. Sigh… He’s a good place to start whenever she needs to warm up and make love just to herself. Dimming the lights and closing the door now she hears only her own breathing, a car misfiring on the bridge and her old home creaking. Laying back down onto her bed she takes the sexual instruments in each hand. She imagines many things as she slides this substitute dick in and out of her. Softly. The fantasy she chooses is one of an almost epic in it’s entirety. It evolved from a wormhole she went down last Mardi Gras on an acid trip where she, with the help of the drug found herself lying on top of a lichen cluttered stump in a clearing surrounded by a boreal forest. In this drug induced fantasy men are watching and waiting for their turn to come and place their seed inside her for she is a forest nymph who only allows herself to be caught on one night of the year. If they are bold enough and not outdone by the others who feast on her breasts and dripping honey they can mate her in the bloom of coitus and what is her most fertile moment. By doing so, each has the chance of impregnating her. The child that will be born will be a great and fierce leader. His or her legacy would be the stuff of legend. Each man who comes to her this night would possibly be the father to a half human and mystical being as she herself is not quite human. As she dives deeper into the fantasy her fingers began touching and kneading her swollen clit. Getting very wet now she realizes she’s almost ready to cum, but decides to edge back and keep the story going inside of her head. She knows she shouldn’t wait too long because the orgasm she’s waiting for won’t be as explosive if she keeps putting it off. Setting the vibe to medium and a constant pace she raises her legs and spreads them wide so that the vibrator is placed exactly on the clit and with her other hand she moves the dildo in and out of her sticky wetness. Softly. She imagines one man in her coniferous fantasy pushing another one off of her and forcing his cock into her, sucking her breasts and groaning and banging with his big belly. He breathes heavily while willing himself deeper to where lies her eggs and what will become life and perhaps hope. She imagines her view and men all around her stroke their penises and wait in the biome for their moment to have her. She raises her hips and the vibe is undeniably delicious and when she’s almost there and her fantasy man is screaming his metaphorical orgasm into her face she cums. Tears stream from her eyes. She smells the faint aroma of spruce trees, musk and loam. Some of her tears are from the loss of love and some from relief. The forest and the stump and all of the men fade from her mind and when she’s back on earth she realizes that she’s sated. Loving herself is the best thing and being realistic has always served her well. This is the way her life works for her and as long as she’s paying her own way no one can tell her what to do. Sitting up and looking at the clock on her nightstand she realizes she was masturbating for an hour. She successfully departed this earth and is a better person for it. It’s then she looks at her phone and sees that Paul has texted a simple “Hey.” Without thinking about it twice she blocks him.

“And I’m a bad boy, ‘cause I don’t even miss her
I’m a bad boy for breakin’ her heart
Now I’m free
Free fallin’
Yeah, I’m free
Free fallin’”

— Free Fallin by Tom Petty

Don't Be That Guy

Prospective clients have to be screened even though you might not see all of them. Some men enjoy talking to prostitutes during the day for various reasons. Boredom, delusions of grandeur due to a lack of funds and I suppose loneliness are some of the reasons they reach out to me. I have to entertain them one and all. I’m always happy to give someone the benefit of my gut instinct and I have been surprised in the past when what I thought was going to be a no show actually showed. So, I forgive them and stay positive about it because it’s best to not grow jaded and realize that some men are actually new to picking up whores online. Who knows? He might become a repeat customer and client retention is the name of the game. Today should have been a banner day with all of the texts and calls and emails I answered, but only one guy braved the rain, showed up and made me feel pretty. We actually had a great time which we filmed spontaneously for my Only Fans. I’m always in need of content and he was happy to be a part of my kink. God bless him. The other half of my day was in limbo because another gentleman had made a date with me for later. So, I waited and worked on content, played with the cat, answered emails, fielded inquiries and questions from future dates until the hour he was supposed to drop by. Six minutes and then eight minutes and then ten minutes rolled by. Not a word. If you’re a prostitute and are reading this you’ve been there. I sat on the couch and decided I’d been duped. It wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last time either. I’m at peace with it. My bong was beckoning and if you read my blog or we’ve met you know I’m a hopeless stoner from the word “puff” and decided I could not resist. I made a bowl and smoked while the cat sitting quietly in a perfect loaf, inhaled the fumes. Fortunately, the one guy I had today was satisfying on so many levels he soothed my aggravation even though he had left hours ago. Here’s Mr. No Show’s response which came suddenly by text at 6:50 p.m. “Send me address.” I wasn’t exactly surprised, but more insulted if you want to know the truth. I replied courteously. “The appointment was for 6:00 p.m. and I told you when you parked I’d give you the address.” I know that’s what I said. It’s what I say every time I get a date. Day in. Day out.” He texted back feverishly. “Right! I thought per our last phone conversation you were going to send me the address. I apologize for the misunderstanding.” I ended this weak exchange with a simple “namaste” which is better and healthier than to tell him to go fuck himself. I used to say “enjoy your karma” when this would happen, but what can I say? He outplayed me and karma will catch up to him one day. Remember the Beatles? “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make?” Funny. I do try to respond to each request with seriousness because of my unrelenting protestant worth ethic, value system and need for income. However, the man that did show for his Get Happy Massage made up for what the other client couldn’t give me. This man has a body you can bounce a quarter off of. Quiet. Kind. Friendly. We started with him lying face down on the massage table. He told me he was in dire need of some affection as he is the process of a divorce. Apparently he and his spouse haven’t had sex, much less body to body contact for a long time. “The thrill is gone.” Or, so he said. I have been divorced a few times and no matter if it was a good match or not there’s pain when it’s over. So, I wanted him to feel great for an hour. Giving pleasure is what I get off on. Mostly. There’s a vulnerability I see in men that are at the end of their marriage. He undressed quickly and laid face down onto the massage table. I touched him gently at first and decided to begin stroking and kneading his back, shoulders, torso, ass and legs. At the beginning of a massage I am probing for areas that are stiff and tense. I rubbed a little hot coconut oil into my hands making them warm from the friction. I placed them onto his lower back which had the most tension. Digging my fingers in methodically I worked on his vertebrate and muscle tissue for a good while as he told me how much he needed this and he was glad he called me. Oiling my hands again I stroked his ass cheeks in an upward motion because they were also tight. However, he was just tight all over. He had the body of an MMA fighter, but he was obviously a lover and not the latter. With a calloused working hand he clutched my right hip and decided to turn over onto his back and face me. He asked if he could give me a massage and I told him “oh yes.” I love when one of my massage dates turns into foreplay. When it was my turn to lay down onto the table he took my hand and helped me position myself. Nestling face down I was ready to receive his energy. Immediately his hands were on my back and shoulders and although he was squeezing my body a little too forcefully it wasn’t anything I needed to worry about. He was merely hungry to touch a woman and give as well as receive pleasure. I have a propensity to see how far a client will go with me before I chicken out and tell him to rub a little softer or eat my pussy with just your tongue. I was enjoying his virility and I wanted to let this one become organic because he was really juiced up and I was pleasantly surprised I had found a live one. He placed himself in front of my head and I looked up and began stroking his cock with my hands and nipping at the head with my lips. I was getting wet and when he shoved his cock into my mouth I felt a waves of endorphins and oxytocin wash over me like a frothy cocktail tingling in all the right places. I love it when a client wants to give back and maybe even drive a little. I’m an old fashioned girl that way. I don’t mind a man being masculine and making me feel desired. Was he taking advantage of me? Not really. I think we are two people who need some relief from all that there is. All he wanted was to engage with a woman who was into what he had to offer. As I sucked and sucked his gloriously erect extension of his desire he continued rubbing my back and ass. Legs and calves. It was all too much of an energy exchange as he was absolutely ravenous. He fucked my mouth and began banging his hips forcefully. With my mouth I matched him stroke for stroke. I was wondering how much more I could take and not kill his stride. I knew he was about to ignite into screaming and spasms were coming for him and for me as I still was holding on tight. I didn’t want to distract him from cumming. Ultimately his cum pulsed into my mouth which was now numb from all of the strokes and I felt sated. He seemed so much lighter in thought and manner after I blew him to completion. Cleaning up he said he wanted to come back again and I told him my door is always open for him. We embraced and he bounded off my porch onto each step, through the gate and out onto the sidewalk. I closed the door and plopped down onto the couch. I reached for my bong and inhaled deeply thinking of how much I liked him and no matter what was going on in his marriage I remembered something my step father always says about a break up. “It takes two to end a marriage because there’s two people in it.” I don’t know their marriage story and I don’t know him at all, but I liked him. He was a generous lover and treated me very well. I guess I don’t ask for as much as some women do.

Worship this ass.

Softy Part II

She rolls over and places her head on his warm chest. He stays over now at least two days a week. Sometimes three if he’s not out of town or something in his schedule gets cancelled. Or, he cancels because he has an opportunity to be with her. She’s made room for him in her life as he has for her. Since their coffee date one month ago they have become involved. The intimacy and sex is just the icing on the cake. This is a budding relationship with all the trimmings. As he holds her close she feels warm in the cocoon of his legs and his arms. He pulls her towards him and rolls on top showering her with kisses and love nips using his tongue and lips and teeth. “Not too hard!” She tells him while giggling. Their lips touch and she inhales his soft warm breath as his tongue parts her mouth and dives down into the back of her throat. She likes having him completely on top of her. She can’t remember the last time sex felt this good and she wants to savor every moment. To be desired is inspiring and they are in the throes of discovering one another. He lifts up onto his elbow and asks “What do you want for breakfast?” She says “you!” She lifts her legs and hoists herself from out underneath him. She lands astride his torso and hips. Her freckled knees lock him into place under her inner thighs and he shouts and laughs his frustration even though he loves it. Since she’s not wearing panties she slips his cock inside of her because they have time. When he cums she dismounts, scoots backwards between his legs, scoops his balls in her hands and grabs his pulsing mess of a cock. Opening her mouth she puts her lips around it and feels how forceful his orgasm really is hosing the inside of her mouth. So sweet and gooey. Then she loosens her grip as his cock slowly begins to deflate. Watching his cock melt she remembers that she’s always thought the post coitus cock looks like the Hindenburg falling to the ground right before it explodes into ashes. She’s always a little sad when the sex they have is over because while they are engaged she doesn’t have a care in the world. Now it’s back to reality and she needs to think about work. He gets up and tells her “let’s have dinner tonight around 8:00.” He heads to the bathroom to shower. She sits contentedly up against the headboard with her hands folded behind her head. This is going to be a good day. Marigold, her proud feline, jumps on the bed and mews for pets. “Did we scare you away?” She asks her furry counterpart this while scratching the outstretched diamond white neck. Her cat licks a paw and looks up into her owner’s eyes. Marigold simply replies “meow” in a way that lets her know she’s displeased. Paul appears and makes a move over the bed to scratch the top of her fluffy head, but she’s too quick for him and bounds off onto the other side and hides under the dresser. “I don’t think she likes me.” He says heading for the door. She tells him “Oh. She’s just a shy cat. Always has been.” But it secretly causes her to pause and wonder why. Softly. As soon as he leaves she reaches for her phone. Three texts and a missed call are waiting for her. She goes to the bathroom and takes a bath and brushes her teeth. Then she sits in front of her vanity and applies her makeup because it’s almost showtime! Feeling a twinge of guilt which passes over her as a blush beginning at the top of her head to the middle of her chest she sighs audibly. She knows today she will betray him. Imagining a life without clients has started infiltrating her daily thoughts. She tells herself that is good to consider another life. But today she needs to get that cash and that’s just the way it is. For now. Since the time they met she has quit her very part time job at the boutique because it was just a way to supplement a very slow summer in the city. She can make a fortune now that Fall is here and conventions and holiday’s keep her busy as a bee. Her first client knocks at the door as she puts on robe, puts the kitty in the extra bedroom and runs to open it for him. It’s Mr. J and that means she’ll have to redo herself after he’s done with her. He’s a good client, but she always gets messed up during their rendezvous. She’ll have just enough time after him to freshen up and prepare for her next client, Mr. C. However, he won’t mind if she smells a little gamy. She’s always grateful to see her regulars as they have become part of her routine and it’s always reassuring to keep them flowing in and out of her door. Mr. C has been with her since she began seven years ago. In the past it wasn’t unusual for him to come up to four times a month. He hasn’t been the same after a few injuries and the way things go physically for a man in his sixties. She does admire his spirit though. He is always such a tasty fuck with a rock hard thick cock and the stamina to go nearly the entire hour. She knows one day he just won’t call anymore and that will be sad for her. Their liaisons remind her of the relationship between Gus and the town paramour, Jenny, in the timeless series “Lonesome Dove.’ Sometimes you just hit it off with a client and it can be even sweeter with a client that is a lot older than you. In mid city Paul takes a deep breath as he pulls up to his apartment building and she, the one who broke his heart into a million pieces is standing on the steps. Parking the car and getting out he says "Hi Lauren. What’s the surprise?” She takes a few steps down to meet him face to face and says “I was wrong about you. Can we talk?” Stunned and somewhat miffed by her complete about face he just stares into her eyes. “I really can’t believe you just want to walk back into my life like this.” He coolly tells her without hesitation. Lauren steps down to meet him face to face. She speaks. Lauren tells him that she was wrong about him and that she realizes now that he really did have her back when she wasn’t sure she could trust him. She asks him again if they can talk. Softly. Standing transfixed by the blue of her eyes, the absurdity of it all and the smell of her freshly washed hair he gives in. He pulls out his keys and opens the door for her. He follows her inside knowing that he won’t be able to help himself once they’re alone and he knows he’ll betray “she” who’s breath is still on his lips.

“I know you want to do an overnight visit with me, but you know I don’t offer them.” Laughing with her client she thinks of Paul and that while overnight visits don’t agree with her they go swimmingly with him. Why that is she is sure she does not know. She brushes him off and asks “do you have a second one in you?” Always a professional, she wants a client to get off as many times as he’s able. He laughs and says “Nah. That’s why I want the overnight visit. I’m sure I can get at least one more off if I have that kind of time with you.” She smiles at him sheepishly, but he knows it’s futile to ask. As an only child and an introvert she grew up alone in a very small family. Being around people for any length of time is draining so much so she just doesn’t offer overnights any longer. The two times she tried it she almost handed the client back his money because she just can’t snuggle all night long. She’s the type that likes to sort of duck into events and concerts, participate and leave in her car when she’s had enough. Then there’s Marigold who is as independent and self sufficient as she is. They are both on the same wave length and know how to stay out of each other’s way. After a day of entertaining man after man she really needs her down time. Being solitary feeds her and it’s more than worth the loss of a fat night’s work. She isn’t greedy anyway. Never has been. “I have everything I need.” She soothes herself as her client makes way for the door. Softly. She realizes that she doesn’t know what time it is and now gazing at her kitchen clock it reads 7:30 p.m. She hasn’t heard from Paul. How odd. She scratches Marigold’s out stretched neck and thinks he must have gotten tied up, but she knows he’ll call her. She walks to the bathroom and turns on the faucet. She is going to treat herself to a fluffy bubble bath with her new suds. She’s sore from all the man handling and wants to feel rested and squeaky clean for dinner with Paul tonight. Before she steps into the bath she texts him and sends a selfie of herself all natural.

BBC

In my personal experience when you have sex with a black man you are really being fucked. When I say fucking I mean you have his full attention, he is completely in the moment with you and he wants to make you cum. Fucking for them is like the air they breathe. It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to them all of my life. I really didn’t have the opportunity and no one really pursued me. Sure. There were sweet black guys I knew growing up in my quaint little parish, but to date one would cause a type of shunning from your friends and relations the likes of which you would never recover. Thirty four years ago when I graduated from high school I had only known of three girls who had dated a black guy. They became social pariahs in their circle of friends, but have since recovered because after thirty four years no one remembers. I had a boyfriend who told me he would never date a girl we knew because he knows that she’s had sex with “one” and that he found it sickening. We didn’t last long after that statement. He seemed ignorant and not just for that comment. I could tell he wasn’t enlightened by any stretch of the imagination and that he really wouldn’t go very far with a narrow mindset like that. And he hasn’t. I’m sure he put a MAGA sticker on his bumper because he’s that kind of a dumb ass. I went through my twenties and not one black man approached me. I went through my thirties and I noticed marked flirting from them that was awkward because I wasn’t expecting it or maybe I never realized I had been noticed all my life by them until now. I remember my mother told me when I was in Kindergarten there was this little black boy who would come to the passenger side of her car when we pulled up each day. He’d open the door and let me out. The teachers told her that we were always playing together at recess and he had evidently fallen for me. I don’t remember him or any of this story. Maybe we were just friends who were on the same level. So, it wasn’t long after my mother moved us to another town and this budding relationship wasn’t an issue any longer for the teachers and the other parents who noticed. So, I grew up knowing that there was no dating black boys. Bewildered by them mostly, I didn’t know if I was really into them until I discovered Prince. I think this man was the first black man I was attracted to. He made me think about sex in a new way as a budding woman. Sex seemed natural and primal to him. He lured you in with his lyrics while reassuring “It’s okay if you want to fuck. Let me show you how. You don’t have to feel bad because this is what humans do. Let’s celebrate it.” I was lily and white for sure, but I loved the seduction all the same. However, I was born with an edge and a sexual curiosity that challenged me. I was always trying to hide how hungry I was for a pounding. I thought my chastity was worth not humiliating my family, but at what cost? It was a sacrifice and that’s no lie, but I held out until college and no one found out. I was that patient and devoted to my family and their reputation in our tiny rural community. I had a role to play and that was to be the best virgin in all of the parish. When I grew up motherhood and obligations like keeping food on the table and helping my child make it on to college took over my thoughts. I thought about sex and had a good bit of sex alone, but tried to limit the few encounters I had for when he was on a sleepover at a friend’s house. Then, I became an empty nester I decided that I really did want to try some big black cock before I departed this earth. But I had to work up to it. I think I had this idea that if I had sex with a black man I would change in some way. Unsatisfied and disillusioned by what had become regular serial sex with guys I met on OK Cupid or another silly site, I began searching in New Orleans. I only searched for men in this area because I was living in another state that was as milk toast as it could be. Mississippi is about the worst place in the world to try and find amazing sex. The people lack a certain edge or soul to get the job done properly if you ask me. However, I wasn’t seeing black men when I lived there. I guess it’s all that church and guilt and so forth. Maybe Faulkner was right. “In order to understand the world, you must first understand a place, like Mississippi. Well. I spent sixteen years there and I’m not sure if I fully comprehend this wasteland of oppression and hopelessness. I haven’t been able to completely put into words what I find so unappealing about this momma’s boy loving, tornado alley infested cotton picking state! However, it was where I was living and I knew I wanted to live somewhere else. So, I had to start looking for another type of life. I had to think in another way in order to prepare myself to branch out and get the hell out of there. There was a woman I didn’t know hiding inside of me my entire life. New Orleans is the kind of town where a woman can make her mark without fear of much stopping her. As long as you get up every morning and believe you can keep a roof over your head you can. Jilly was born and with that came the task of developing a good reputation in the world of men. The men I’m speaking of are the clients. Some of these men write the reviews and get your name out there. I created a brand. So to speak. So, how do you stay on top and carefully see the men that want to see you without compromising your integrity, your values, much less, your morals? You cannot. You must change or go back to Mississippi. I’m no different from all of the country girls through the ages who came to the big city and strayed away from their values because they were tempted by shiny things and the bright lights in the night. New Orleans is where you can become a local star even in the most secret circles. It’s all good and it’s all accepted. Then comes the day when a hobbyist of some weight comes a calling. His handle on Eccie says it all. I can’t tell you what it is, but the moment I read his email I knew that here was a do or die moment where I would see what I was truly made of. Am I able to see him for the man he is instead of what I was warned about? Would I be okay sharing myself with the one type of man I’d never had? Would I feel the weight of the shame or damnation raining down upon my soul because I will do something utterly and contemptibly taboo? It was time to grow up and take a stand. I trusted myself that I had something in me that could see beyond the surface of a man and I was old enough to handle what was to be after the deed was done. In his email he was courteous and gentle. He even provided me with a recent reference who would vouch for his character. She was a girl from out west with a name like “Bubbly” either before or after her stage name. I can’t remember. I reached out to her and asked her about my gentleman and she sung his praises. Then when I told her that I had never been with a black man before and could she give me a little advice she said “Oh darlin! He’s just like any other man except this one really treats you right and when it’s right with one like him it’s the best kind of sex.” That’s all I needed to know. I felt serene relief and knew that it would be okay. The day came and he showed up early to my first Jilly pad in the Lower Garden District. He texted me when he had arrived and was waiting downstairs for me to bring him up. He was exactly like I expected him to be. He had a cute dad bod with gym clothes on and was smiling sweetly at me as he made his way up the stairs. I offered my hand and he introduced himself as I led him inside. I told him where he could put his clothes and showed him the bathroom in case he wanted to freshen up. He didn’t need to, he said. He smelled great and I don’t just mean because he was freshly showered. He smelled sweet in a way that brought me back to her. She smelled like this and it was such a gift to feel her with me at this very special moment in my life. Margaret was my grandmother’s housekeeper beginning in the late 50’s. She took care of her house and was there for her children after school. When I was born she was still around, but was considered part of the family by then. She was the color of dark chocolate with straight ear length hair and glasses. She was slim and sinewy and never was without her gold lighter and cigarettes nearby. I spent many summer afternoons in her lap as she took her break after a morning of taking care of me and sometimes my cousins to watch her “stories.” She would pat my leg while nestling me onto her lap and flipping up her gold Zippo’s cap, lighting her Menthols and blowing the smoke right in front of my face. I loved that first whiff of lighter fluid mingling with the smell of tobacco. I breathed it in as it burned through my nostrils and her lungs. The intimacy I shared with this older generational black woman was such a gift. Her skin was so soft and she smelled like Dr. Pepper or maybe it was maple syrup or a combination of the two. God! I loved her and she loved me. I thought she was one of the most graceful things I’d ever seen. Even if I couldn’t put it into words I just knew she was good. She lived just as she died. Humbly. Patient and kind. She was a much needed model of a strong woman and her presence in my first ten years of life made a difference because I knew she had my back. Always. Snapping back to reality now my client asks where can he put his things. Nervously I tell him “this is my first time with a black man.” He said that this wasn’t the first time he’d metaphorically deflowered a white woman and that it would be okay. Then he unwrapped himself in front of me and there it was. I looked down at his long and pointy banana shaped penis. He was already rock hard and I wanted to put that banana into my mouth. His skin was soft and supple and he smelled like vanilla. He came forward and kissed me so tenderly, for a moment I felt very young again. Guiding me to the bed he put his hands into my panties and started fingering me as I lay down on the bed before him. He was seducing me and I needed to know how this was going to feel. Kneeling before me on the bed he grasped the back of my head and moved it upwards towards his dripping cock. I can tell he’s ready to burst. I take him all in my mouth and begin milking this cock for everything I can suck. He’s moaning and saying my name. I have a moment of levity and tell myself to just let this happen. Let go. Who knows when you’ll have this kind of sex again? He climbs on top of me and I quickly reach for a condom in a bowl on my nightstand. I grab one of the bigger condoms and strap it on him. He covers me with his torso and I feel am exquisite liberation as he probes my sexy hole with the tip of his banana. Suddenly, he just fell into it. I was surprised. Yes indeed. He fucked me like that for quite some time and then flipped me over for another round, but doggy style which is my favorite. I think he was making the most of me while he had the opportunity. I was getting worn out and smells were filling my room. It was a sweet and earthy combination of he and she. Moving his hips harder now he grabs my ass with both hands and starts backing me up to him as he strokes. I’m matching his strokes now and I begin to squirt all down my legs. This really turns him on because he went into full beast mode and made grunting noises while telling me that he really likes how tight my pussy is. I arch my back deeper because by then I was feeling myself and with a few more strokes he blew inside me. He spasmed on top of me for a little bit and then rolled off and onto his back. I basically slumped over into a puddle of jelly. It was perfect and I felt so very satisfied. As I gathered myself I thought of her again and what she would think if she knew. Would she take the old school approach and say neither one of us have any business with the other? Or, and I hope she might think this instead, she’d love me like she always did for simply being human. I didn’t change after he dressed and hugged me goodbye. Seems I was just late to the party and he was kind enough to show me around. Black men are good lovers. I like their heat. These days I have a few that come on a regular basis. Mr. O is a local guy who likes to see all the girls and follows me on all of my social sites. Mr. A is a local chef who can’t get enough of the mature woman next door experience and says that having sex with me is like fucking his high school librarian. Mr. J is a hard working dad who is always in a hurry, but made time recently for a three way with me and a fellow provider. He loves to tell me while forcing that hot black meat into my throbbing pussy “you like taking this black cock?” I answer “I love your big black cock!!”

I'm Not Available

Sitting in therapy one day I tell my psychologist “to be” what I do for a living. She is not what I wanted when I contacted this group, but the few times I’ve sought help for anxiety and coping skills they always give me the same thing. She is a woman who could be my daughter and who is just figuring out who she is. Once I tell my story I wind up having to quit therapy because she doesn’t have the life skills to see where I’m coming from. I want the older woman or man who might have a drinking problem on the side and has heard and seen it all. They are usually aware of each case that comes through their office doors and assist behind the scenes so that their younger charge can learn her job as she’s still in graduate school and this is for credit. This is infuriating to me in that it always goes like this and have since given up on therapy because of how my psychologist sees me after I’ve spilled my guts. I decided to give you a glimpse into what therapy has been like for me as Jilly. This is how a regular session goes. I’ll call my pseudo psychologist, Megan for this tale.

Jillyclaire: I wanted to talk today about what I do for a living.

Psychologist Megan: Okay. Wonderful! What do you do for a living?

Jillyclaire: I am a sex worker. Actually I think I’m really a sex addict, but instead of just pursuing men for sex I’ve created a business out what I feel are skills that should be paid for. I’ve seen over thirty men this month and I’ve also had a few swing dates with a friend.

Psychologist Megan: (Long pause. Stares at Jilly for what seems like 30 seconds before speaking). Okay. Okay. So, you’re saying that you’re a prostitute?

Jillyclaire: Yes.

Psychologist Megan: Alright. (Gathering herself and remembering she has a job to do.) I want to talk about what you do. i.e. “I really want to discuss this with my boss first because I don’t know what the fuck to say to you now.”

Jillyclaire: Well. I’m sure you don’t hear this sort of thing everyday. i.e. “She’s not prepared. Big surprise. Why do they give me these children every time I go to a therapy group with a sliding scale? I don’t know why I bother.”

Psychologist: Now. Okay. I respect your honesty and how much you’re sharing with me about your life. Thank you. (Megan looks side eyed at a bookshelf full of counseling books and such, but decides that she can’t get up and go get one. Jilly notices this and responds thoughtfully.)

Jillyclaire: I’m an open book. (She pauses for a couple of minutes for that to sink in and to see if Megan squirms. She does.) You see. I’m emotionally mature and want to learn to manage the times when I’m down on myself or don’t feel as secure about my choices. I have anxiety at times because I wonder how much longer can I actually do this job.

Psychologist Megan: Yes. Yes. I can see that you are very mature and I’ve seen clients for months who begrudgingly tell me anything about themselves. Yes. This is good. i.e. “This woman is out of her fucking mind! What the hell can I say to her? I’ve never had to discuss this type of thing and don’t know what to tell her except that I think she should stop and quit being so reckless!!”

Jillyclaire: Have I said too much? Thrown too much at you? (Jilly tilts her head as she looks directly into Megan’s eyes maybe for the thrill of making her uncomfortable or just because she enjoys being mysterious or theatrical. Who really knows?)

Psychologist Megan: No. I’m fine. No. You are being honest. That’s what therapy is all about. Right? (Megan offers a nervous laugh which quickly becomes a guffaw.)

Jillyclaire: (Stares silently at the woman across from her that is 26 years old and expecting her first child.)

Psychologist Megan: You know that there are programs and groups that can help you transition into another career if you aren’t sure and want to try a different path.

Jillyclaire: Yes. I’m aware. I’m here for coping skills for the anxiety I feel at times.

Psychologist Megan: Was this decision to get into this kind of work your idea?

Jillyclaire: Yes. I mean. I had a boyfriend at the time I made the decision and he supported my decision. I hate to say boyfriend because I’m an older woman and that word always makes me feel like a teenager. I prefer to call him a lover or swing partner.

Psychologist Megan: That’s good. Okay. Are you still with this boyfriend? I meant. Lover? i.e. “Is he your pimp? I can’t ask that now. I’ve gained her trust. I can’t put her on the spot and coerce her into telling me she’s being pimped out.” Christ!!!!! Sorry God.”

Jillyclaire: No. We are not together anymore. Just friends.

Psychologist Megan: Does anyone else know what you do? Family or friends? i.e. “My family wouldn’t speak to me if I have taken this path. Whew! Thank you Lord for my many blessings.”

Jillyclaire: I’m pretty wiley and keep this on the down low. I mean. Yes. Occasionally someone will figure it out and confront me or just fade away. But, it isn’t family or life long friends that find out. It’s people I’ve met along the way in either a swinging situation or an acquaintance that’s stumbled upon the truth. One time I was swinging with my friend and this married couple. We didn’t use condoms because that’s the way we prefer to play. I get plenty of condom sex on a regular basis. So, I didn’t feel guilty. Prostitutes are usually some of the safest sex you can find. (Jilly giggles remembering how many condoms she’s gone through in the last seven years). All went well for a couple of months and then they found my Instagram profile and confronted me. I told them the truth and they still wanted to play with me, but now her hubby needed to wear a condom. At that point, I had lost interest and it sort of hurt my feelings because now they didn’t see me anymore. I became something else to them. Something filthy enough to require a condom. The husband and the wife have continued to reach out, but the thrill is gone. C’est la vie! (Deep sigh).

Psychologist Megan: So it’s hard to keep friends. i.e “Jesus Christ! I’m going to pray for this woman. Wait! I need to help her. She’s asking for help. I’m not supposed to tell her not to whore herself out because that’s not my job, but she needs to stop. Oh God! I can’t help her! I can’t even think about the swinging right now. Gross! I’ll just have to digest that later. Maybe I can pass her along to someone else.”

Jillyclaire: Yes. It’s almost impossible. Also, whores are squirrel y creatures. I’ve met some lovely women along the way, but we all have a story. Most do not offer theirs or their trust very easily. Also, we’re in competition with one another. New Orleans is a little big city only when’s there are tourists or conventions in town. We have all slept with the same guys. I’ve given references over and over for the same men. The locals are what keeps us rolling when the city is dead.

Psychologist Megan: I can only imagine. i.e. “NO! I CANNOT FUCKING IMAGINE!” You know. I’d like to talk about how you feel when you’re working. I mean. Turning a trick? i.e. “I’m shocked, but intrigued. Am I a perv?”

Jillyclaire: I feel a rush of relief when I hear his voice over the phone if he’s a good one. The ones who talk too much aren’t serious and or they just want someone to listen to them talk for free. If he sends face pics of himself that’s a dead giveaway I’ll never meet him because he’s not serious. That’s an easy and automatic block. I mean. What kind of guy wants to send a pic of himself to a prostitute? We don’t care what you look like. When I clear a client on the phone and he does show up I’m ready and waiting for it to happen. That’s what I do. It’s like I was born to do it. I don’t feel used unless he’s telling me to suck his balls and banging my head up and down on his shaft. This always pisses me off because 1. He’s putting oily fingers into my freshly washed and styled hair and 2. I was going to suck his balls and and bang my head up and down on his shaft anyway and 3. I know how to do my job. I’m a prostitute for God’s sake! Some guys watch too much porn. When they get a real woman who wants to make them feel good they try and turn it into a Brazzer’s episode. i.e. “Hasn’t she had enough? When’s she going to stop me and tell me she respects my honesty again and then tell me she needs to confer with her older and more experienced alcoholic boss that I should be speaking with in the first god damned place?? Oh hell! I’m just going to lay it on thick now. I don’t care about her feelings anymore. You asked for it!”

Psychologist Megan: Well! (Her face has now turned from the rosey hue of an expectant mother to pasty white with a buckled brow and red blotches from the strain revealing her lack of experience and ineptitude). What’s a Brazzer’s episode?

Jillyclaire: It’s a porn site with the type of women who overact in a film and it’s mainly fantasy and geared towards men seeing women being objectified and loving it. Gang bangs and such. The problem is some guys aren’t able to perform with a real woman when they get the chance. The reality of it is different than being alone at your computer.

Psychologist Megan: Oh. I see. I’m going to step out for minute and go to the restroom. You know? Third trimester and all I do is pee. (Megan giggles nervously as she thrusts her very pregnant body up off her seat and makes a run for the door.)

Jillyclaire: I’ve been there. No problem. Take all the time you need. (Psychologist Megan leaves the office. Jilly wishes she could smoke a fatty, but that isn’t possible right now. So, she begins scanning Megan’s desk with her eyes and sees a lovely wedding photo memorialized in a white china frame. The couple looks happy and she can tell that they are whole as they beam with joy. She looks up and on the wall sees a framed certificate of completion in psychology from Brigham Young University and thinks “I must be killing this Mormon. No wonder she threw herself out of her office.”

Psychologist Megan: I’m back. Okay. Well. I can see we’re getting close to the end of our time today. I want to say that I think what you’ve told me has helped me get to know you better and once again, I thank you.

Jillyclaire: Like I said before, I want to be balanced and learn to manage my anxiety. I want to get better at this.

Psychologist Megan: That’s what it’s all about. Yes. Good! Good progress today! Whew! You know, our group is monitored by our older professionals i.e. “Alcoholics.” and we have meetings to discuss cases and decide what’s best for each patient. Kind of a checks and balances approach. I hope you are agreeable with me discussing your case with my boss. (Megan looks at Jilly with the utmost compassion and seriousness as she addresses her).

Jillyclaire: No. I don’t mind. I’m not surprised. i.e. “This is the last time I try this.”

Psychologist Megan: Oh. I hope I haven’t put you on the spot. i.e. “Shit! Don’t make her feel like a freak! You idiot! She’s trying to get help.”

Jillyclaire: (Takes a deep breath and longs for the moment she goes out to her car, pulls out her weed pouch gifted to her by her swing partner, takes out her pipe and rides dirty all the way home).

Psychologist Megan: Thank you again for your honesty. Next time I might have my boss sit in on our next meeting. Is that okay? I mean. If he decides that will be helpful. We’ll have decide in our weekly meeting.

Jillyclaire: Sure. That’s not a problem. Thank you. (Jilly picks up her purse and heads to the door. Closing it behind her she smiles at Megan and notices a wave of relief washing over her devout and very idealistic young face).

(As Jilly approaches the appointment desk on her way out she cancels her appointment for next week. She has decided to try holistic reiki and maybe take a hot yoga class next week instead of coming back to therapy. The secretary asks if there is a reason she can add to her notes. Jilly tells her that “I’m not available.”

Changing with my body as I glide through my fifties has been one of the most difficult things I’ve gone through. Not so long ago I was as wanton as a milf could be. Growth is inevitable and as I make my way through this life my thoughts have shifted and where once I would look at a man walking down the street and imagine what his cock feels like in my mouth, how his sack smells or how it would feel inside me, I’m studying his expression and his gait as he makes his way purposefully without noticing me noticing him. It’s the little things now that occupy my thoughts about men. I become most aroused by men who are fifty years old and beyond. Being a mature woman who’s had more sexual experiences than one person should in the course of a lifetime is a cruel twist of fate. I find myself waiting to be surprised by a new client who will see me with new eyes and bring me to the edge of ecstasy. It’s not to be. Maybe I’ll never be satisfied. I believe I have seen it or done it all and to look to someone else for sexual gratification is folly. I’ve even tried dating sites, but these guys are looking for “the one” and I cannot be that for them. Not too long ago I received an angry text from a stranger berating me for, and I quote, “you’re a worthless old whore and I that’s all you’ll ever be.” Yes. I plan on doing this type of work until it doesn’t suit me anymore. Isn’t that the point? It doesn’t matter that I had four clients that day, but sometimes I receive hateful emails and such, egging me to engage in their internal fight. Why? I don’t know. Statistics on women and aging say that a woman becomes invisible around the age of 51. In my business a woman can usually do this job or some variation of sex work like male humiliation, massage or role play as long as she wants to. Not to mention the online stuff I can do that while I’m not a fan of it does bring in easy money. I’m still in pretty good shape and have a gift for immediate intimacy with a stranger. I’ve honed this skill in ways that still bring in the money, but with each passing year I am pursuing enlightenment over my waning sex addiction. Being an introvert doesn’t help either. I am a solitary creature and consider myself the Luna Lovegood of the sex providers in town. I’m not exactly like everyone else in that I don’t have a bestie and only do doubles with two women I feel most comfortable with. I am usually lost in my bubble of words and questions when I’m not working, but I care and I’m always there to help another provider with a reference request or a threesome. I’ve felt like this for a few years now and part of it is menopause and part of it is I think I would like to try something else. Regulars call and make appointments like they have for years. I appreciate that they want to come back to see me. And I them. However, as I change and have good days and bad days I will have to let one or two down here or there. I’m sorry about that, but I have to put myself first on days when I’m not feeling it. New clients that come on strong and perhaps a little too abruptly and gush over me with inappropriate texts lauding me as the most beautiful older women they’ve seen are given my standard response of “I’m not available.” I just don’t have the energy for morons like I once did. A member of our sisterhood died last November. She was an older beauty in her sixties who would give me clients she couldn’t see that day or ones that she was basically tired of. I appreciated the nod because she was very well respected in this hobby and I knew that she would send me a decent man. One time a client of hers came from her home Uptown after she cleared it with me. Evidently he was having a hard time getting hard and she threw up her hands in the middle of their session and exclaimed “I’m tired of trying to get you hard! You have to leave now! I can see if another provider can take you today.” He told me it was so abrupt, but he understood and said she had been good to him over the years, but that’s the way she is. I understood her. She and I had the same birthday incidentally and I know as a fellow Scorpio we are very giving and are innately sexual by nature, but if you can’t get it together for a hot and sexy woman who enjoys what she does and wants you to get off in her mouth or in her pussy then you need to move on down the bench. I couldn’t get him hard either. He didn’t come back. So, I write about my tales for therapy now. It’s cathartic and soothes my weary little soul. As luck would have it, I’ve met a few clients who are published and they like my writing and have helped me see it for what it could be. I’m not saying I’m going to hang up my dildos, but I keep looking to myself more than the next client’s call. Does this mean I’m washed up? Maybe. Or, maybe I’m smart and want to challenge myself in new way. I call that progress and I’m proud that I have found another way to reinvent myself with something that gives me joy. Don’t get me wrong. I love what I do and I’ve made a fortune over the years. I just celebrated seven years as Jillyclaire this past week. I’ve gone through so many men that when I think on it too hard it’s almost like it didn’t happen. I could travel to richer cities and cultivate a slew of new clients who maybe I could keep, but I feel like I’m part of this city and I am to be enjoyed in my New Orleans home just like one would make the effort to book a dining experience at Commander’s Palace. You can’t replicate what I am in my own space surrounded by my local art, antiques, the style of my home and the dreamy escape I can offer where I am most comfortable. I am a real New Orleans experience and if you want to depart with me I’ll put on some mood music and share some delicious herb with you. I’m not much a drinker, but if you bring me some French wine, a little higher end and white, I will be happy to share a glass with you. Then I’ll take your hand and lead you to last room in my shotgun house. Inhale and exhale. Be with me and you’ll see the world from my view and see how I view you. I’m glad we’re together and want to have this intimacy. You’re my conquest. My stud. My lover. For you I can be available.

Softly

She looks up and sees him. “Don’t stare.” She admonishes as she lowers her head before he notices her gaze. So softly. Even though her head is lowered she can see the man’s pants legs as they approach her booth and looking down she remembers a job she had selling shoes just like his shiny black wing tips. He inhales and breathes his gentle “Hello.” In an almost trance like response she lifts her head and repeats “hello” as he extends his hand. He asks “do you have this tie in blue?” She looks at his hand and the yellow tie coiled around his thick fingers and knows that they don’t have this in the color he wants, but tells him “let me check” anyway. She says to him “I’ll be one minute” and turns to go to the back of the store where it’s more likely that she’ll walk outside and take a quick herb hit and compose herself for whatever comes next. She’s seen him looking at her before and he is careful and not too intrusive. Grabbing her pouch from behind the boxes of men’s dress shirts and lighting her pipe she remembers how her last boyfriend would argue with her after any get together with friends and say “you’re so boring!” Stepping outside now it occurs to her that she thought for a long time that she was boring mostly because he said so. She actually isn’t as boring as he insisted, but merely at a loss for words on some days when there just isn’t enough words for all of the words going through her head at any given time. She is best on her own, but knows that is not the healthiest way to go through life. She thinks of a party where she was sitting in a circle of strangers and how they were all laughing hysterically while she did an impersonation of her favorite comedian. This moment always reminds her that she has something to say when so inspired. Stuffing her pipe back into her pouch and stashing it back in it’s hidden spot she moves through the curtains and takes her place at the tie counter. “I’m sorry. We don’t have this tie in blue, but I’d be happy to show you some other ties that you may like.” He declines telling her “I really liked this one.” He looks sweetly into her eyes so much so that she lightly gasps, but gently lowers her eyes as she blushes. She smiles and nods her head at him. So softly. He turns his back and makes his way out of her department. Then he turns and comes back towards her and asks hopefully “would you like to meet me for coffee?” Her head and stomach signal a sinking spell although she inhales deeply and acts as if he’s said the most wonderful thing she’s ever heard. “I’d like that.” She manages. He says “would you be free tomorrow after 4:00?” Relieved she has all day to prepare for him as this is her day off, she sweetly answers “Yes. I’ll meet you at P.J.’s around the corner.” His eyes are shining now and feeling so much relief that she handled this well she asks “what’s your name?” “Paul.” He answers and then tells her “ I already know yours.” She’s giggling now more out nervous energy than from his charm. “I’m sure you do.” She responds. He leaves smiling like a man who is right with the world.

Later in the evening when she’s had her bath and is sipping her tea, Marigold, her feline counterpart, mangles a feather that is part of a hair clip recently worn at a wedding, while her human types on her computer stories of connections won and lost. She now glances outside her window and Marigold moves to sit in her lap. “I think I met a nice guy today.” She tells her friend this and leans over to kiss her fluffy grey head. As they both look out on the colony of roofs she sees clouds rolling in and can smell that it will rain soon. Grateful that she can sleep in and go at her own pace when the morning comes she turns off her screen and lamp and makes her way to her bedroom. Marigold trots behind. They settle themselves and when the light is off both are in their favorite sleeping positions. She, in the middle of the bed with a pillow clutched to her left side and kitty curled up on the bottom right. It is now that she relaxes and tells herself it’s okay to put it all away for now. She closes her eyes and is lulled by the sound of a horn from a port train and Marigold’s purring. So softly.

There’s a play of light in her view as she rises the next morning. The tree outside is being blown by the wind and with each increment of the sunrise droplets of rain stud the new leaves and when the light play is more than she can bear, she gets up and makes her way to the bathroom. Once she’s dressed she’ll feed the kitty and have her tea. Across town the man is already awake and on his phone taking care of his business. His business is money and land and finance. If she were sitting here listening in on his conversation she would be completely lost, but intrigued nonetheless. He sips matcha from a coffee cup that says “NOLA: It’s a state of mind” and drifts off from talk of buying and selling and with a glance towards the sunlit window over the sink he thinks of the color of her hair and imagines it spilling on top of his chest as she sits on top of him. Then he imagines her leaning down slipping her tongue into his parched and aching mouth. So softy. “What do you think Paul?” His business partner asks. This snaps him back to reality and with nothing more to add he flatly says “I’ll think this over and get back to you soon.” The phone call ends and he looks in his cabinets for something to eat, but he knows better. He never shops and mostly eats in restaurants.

She lives on the top floor which is just fine with her because she’s always disliked living under someone else. If there’s going to be stomping “I want to be the one doing it.” She tells friends this whenever they make fun of her affectionately named “tree house.” Many windows line the walls and there is always a perfect view for her and Marigold. Not one for going out unless she really sees a live music act she couldn’t miss she spends most evenings home looking out on the city she loves, but likes to enjoy from a safe distance. Once she feeds the cat she pulls out her favorite cookbook and decides she’ll make apricot scones for breakfast. She brews her tea and begins measuring flour into a bowl, cutting cold butter and kneading the dough into triangles. Then she puts them onto a parchment lined baking sheet and puts them into the oven. Her tea is ready and she adds milk and sugar to her cup. The scones won’t be ready for a while and she has time to languish over her tea while sitting in her soft chair by the windows facing south. She tells herself she could sit here forever studying the view of the trees lining the Uptown streets. Because these oaks, so tall and mighty, have always been here. She takes comfort in this and that they provide her with more than visual beauty. They represent a victory. She always wanted to live among the oaks in New Orleans. She takes in their forever green and smiles contentedly. It is always a good idea to be still when you need to be. The rain already came in the night and left a sunny sky which she is intent on enjoying. With her it’s little things that make a day special. She scans the area and looks all around seeing UPS trucks darting back and forth on the streets. It’s then that she remembers that she has a date this evening with a mystery man. Even though she’s met him she doesn’t know anything about him, but he seems to know more about her. She figures he asked someone what her name was, but has chosen to remain cool on how he learned it. Let’s see what he says next. She figures if he has enough class to ask around about her then he must really want to see her. So many points this guy has racked up and he doesn’t even know it. Not to mention he’s dreamy and that dark hair and those probing eyes make her feel like a pat of butter melting in a silky bowl of noodles. So softly. She picks out a cheerful yellow dress for the occasion and has to stop because Marigold is on the vanity batting around the flower clip she was going to wear. “You just must want me not accessorize.” She tosses the clip in the trash and quickly reconsiders what she was going to put on top of her head. “How about a hat?” She says to no one. The new cinnamon polka dot hat she found in a Tuesday Morning is lying on a nearby chair. She brushes her red curly tresses, tops her lipstick with another swipe and grabs her purse. It’s almost time!

He found a way to cut out of a really boring and time consuming meeting about financing in the new millennium. Telling his boss that he was meeting with a business associate wasn’t the best lie he could come up, but he was pressed for time. As he crosses the street towards the block where the coffee shop stands he’s suddenly lighter in both step and heart. He thinks of her and decides to say her name out loud just because. So softly. Walking is always a good way to burn off some nervous energy before a date and he hopes no one from work sees him when he’s supposed to be holed up with some business associate instead of going for coffee and maybe more. If he’s lucky enough to charm her senseless. He hopes. With her though, it’s not exactly about trying to make out with her. He mostly enjoys looking at her just be herself. Her style is more tailored than trendy and she’s more of a classic beauty with a voice that is feminine, articulate and comforting in a way that he didn’t expect. He told himself that he’d be happy to just “sit and talk” with her. Laughing he realizes he really does mean that. Being in her presence is good enough. Dodging a rain puddle he walks up to the shop and sees her quietly looking down at her phone. He sees the yellow dress and how it falls neatly across her legs and he’s entranced at how small her hands are holding her cup. He hasn’t noticed her hands before now. Boldly drinking her in for all to see he takes this stolen moment observing her waiting only on him.

To be continued…

So softly..

The Naughty List

Giving references for clients you have seen to other providers is always a safe and smart business practice. A man that sees whores for sport is called a hobbyist. He might have a second phone which he uses on the sly. This is so that his significant other doesn’t see random numbers on their phone bill. He might have a second job coaching junior high basketball to make the extra money he needs for a date. Or, he might just like to spend his retirement and see all the new girls passing through and write reviews on various sites like Eccie, Private Delights and The Erotic Review. Until recently I saw all sorts of men from the hobbyist to the once a year guy who only does this when he’s really hurting and can’t find a regular woman to give him a fix. Some men prefer seeing women who, like me, don’t require anything more of them than the donation. A mistress is a woman who will sleep with him and let him take her out, accepts his monetary gifts if she needs them, but doesn’t want to call it what it is. She wants more from him and that is why he prefers to see shady ladies. The girlfriend experience is what I offer. I will be in the moment with you and once you are satisfied I will let you shower, give you something to drink and help you to the door. For some reason a good client can turn into a bad client where the man you once knew and considered one of the good ones will basically blow his wad and wind up on everyone’s naughty list. For you see, the women in this trade are networking behind the scenes. Getting the word out is our only defense against potentially aggressive or violent clients who have a tendency to take it out on the easiest targets. We share information when a provider has had an altercation about the donation or lack of one, was stood up, threatened or worse, assaulted. I don’t know every provider in town, but we all know of each other. When a good provider that I follow on social media or have just known because we’ve traded references along the way suffers we hear about it. I make notes, get his phone number and block it on my phone. There are clients who have come to see me for years without any problems. Then one day I give a reference to a provider who he wants to see and she informs me during the date he scared her to death. Why does this happen? Am I better at handling men than she is? Did she start something with him about money or insult his manhood? I have seen this Eccie guy for years who recently became physical with a provider I gave a reference to. According to her he was aggressive and made threats to call the police. She reached back out to me after the date and told me what happened. Now, I’ve known him for a long time and while he is a little hot headed and strange he never went too far with me. He’s one of those hobbyists who have sugar babies and sees providers too. He has shown me countless pictures on his phone of the girls he’s helping financially, but their tryst always ends badly. He’s told me of times he’s gotten angry with his latest squeeze for not being more affectionate or grateful. I think it’s because he knows deep in his heart that she’s way out his league, too young and she doesn’t care a thing about him. Because I was brought up right, I don’t say this out loud. When he asks for my advice, he listens, but never takes it. I simply tell him that he sets himself up for failure and shouldn’t humiliate himself like this. We’re about the same age and maybe he held his temper with me because of respect and he knows I’ll hand his money back to him and show him to door. I’ve done it before and I’ll probably do it again if someone decides to get cute with me. However, he got aggressive with a girl last month and when she told me how it all went down I was surprised, but not really. It’s kind of different world for women now than when I began this life in 2015. I think my genial and accessible nature probably helped me avoid encounters like this more times than I can count. Also, at that time the hobbyist’s were comprised of the last gasp of the Greatest Generation with the Silent Generation coming in second and the Boomers dominating the game as they were still working and making the most money. It was still the “Old Boy’s Club” mentality and I had been bred accepting that it was a man’s world and to have limited expectations. So, being a prostitute seemed a perfect career choice now that I think on it. I’ll just say yes a lot and see where it gets me. The Millennial man is respectful and was fortunate to grow up with the viewpoint that women are equals more than sex objects, but he doesn’t have as much money because he used to be an engineer, but rather bar tend than work 9:00 to 5:00. One day I decided that I no longer needed reviews to keep my doors open and branched out before the Fed’s seized Backpage for human trafficking underage girls. I made a website and started my blog. I started taking pictures of my life and posting them on Instagram. I created a profile with real pictures of me doing fun things you can do in New Orleans, dining with a client and so forth. I wanted to add an extra layer of legitimacy to my hustle and attract men who can make their own minds up about me from my pictures and writings. I wanted to convey that I was safe to see, whole and friendly. But back to my wayward client. Why did this client who was safe to see all of a sudden turn into Mr. Hyde? It’s not always easy to understand. As men age, they can become more desperate in this hobby. I had an older client who I stopped seeing back in 2018 because he became too needy, called me too much and still calls even though he’s blocked. I call that harassment and intimidation and it pisses me off more than anything. Becoming a pest because you’ve lost the finesse to buy yourself a date isn’t our problem. If they are smart, younger girls can pick and choose who they see, but when you’re a 28 year old woman seeing a 78 year old man naked for the first time it just might not resonate. This is where a woman my age can excel in this business. I was already a smart woman with years of life experience when I began. I did the Eccie review tap dance and was judged on my sexual skills, bust size and overall demeanor on The Erotic Review, but I wanted a particular kind of client. The client who went off on this other provider can be best described as sort of an oddball. He talks about how much money he makes and how important his family is. Not to mention another thing about him that I never cared for is he gossips about the providers he’s seen. So, this means he probably said negative things about me and that’s not nice. I gave him some of my time in spite of his inability to see how selfish, inconsiderate and delusional he really is. I’m not a psychotherapist and don’t feel I have credentials to classify him as pathological or narcissistic, but he has some negative characteristics that causes one to pause, especially now that I gave a provider a “he’s safe to see” reference and it didn’t go well. What I remember mostly was how he always stayed longer than he was supposed to and eventually I would have to say in my most gentle voice, “I have to get ready for another client.” He would look slighted and quickly gather his stuff like a wounded teenager while mumbling under his breath, “I know. You’re busy and stuff.” Sigh. I have chosen to see men who need a little stress relief and I like what I do, but try not to push me too far. I don’t have to take your bullshit more than once. Clients who obey my rules and maybe are good tippers or better yet, good lovers, land in what I affectionately call “The Five Star Club.” This is a special honor for gentleman who know a good thing when they see one. Our time together is fun and friendly which makes my job easy. They are the creme de la creme of clients and how to know if you are in my club is that I continue to see you. From the thirty year old virgin to the seasoned seventy year old charmer I always have room in my club for you as long as you treat me well. “Do unto others” and all that jazz is what I was taught. Good manners and breeding are always a turn on for me. Then there are those gents who grunt and complain their way through what should be a fun date and the opportunity to return to a woman who will make time for you. I have bumped a new client for someone I’ve seen before, but I will not offer this courtesy to a man with a bad attitude or one with rough hands.

Don't Sell Yourself Short

He undresses in front of me maybe looking up and making small talk. Maybe he keeps his eyes averted only to look up when I take off my robe. Some men go straight to the shower before a session even if they look and smell clean. I know that I’m friendly and open to them, but some aren’t as trusting. So, I accept some men are shy about their bodies. Just like women. As a fallen flower I have been asked the same question by some of my clients. Usually this question is met with intense eye contact and when he feels most vulnerable he humbly begs “is it big enough?” A good hostess always wants her guest to feel welcome and accepted in a new place. The way I handle this delicate question has now become a question of how I will be respectful with my answer. The man asking can run the gamut from young, old, lean or heavy. He might be an alcoholic or virgin. He’s asking me because he knows I’ve seen them all and he’s hoping that I’ll tell him honestly where he stands. Smiling at him and trying to make him feel comfortable I might place a hand on his or get on my knees in front of Mr. Friendly, examine it and lick it until we are ready for take off. Then I purr, “I think you’re just right.” If I’m feeling particularly generous, which I usually am, I say “it’s all attitude anyway.” This is actually the truth whether he believes me or not. A hard cock whether four inches or twelve can be a party if you know yourself and what you want. I don’t think it’s wrong to be bold about what you want sexually. You can ask me anything, but wouldn’t you rather imagine putting that inside me and the look on my face as you stroke me like the god you are? Until this moment your cock is the cock have been waiting for all of my life. This time I will cum profoundly and your capable member is the only thing on my mind. Feeling dominant? Take it out of me and shove it into my mouth for I am fortunate that you chose me. I want you to cum like you’ve never cum before and as I grind my hips and lift my pelvis upward to meet you thrust for thrust we will disappear into a lessor world of hormones and pheromones. The room is filling with an odor that when discovered cannot be denied. Everyone knows the smell of genitalia, bodily fluids and musk with a hint of humanity. If you fuck me long enough then I think you know if your cock is big enough. Love me! Hate me! Use me! Fuck me and think of how much you hate your wife right now because she doesn’t want your touch. Look at me and imagine how many playmates I’ve been through this week. I want your drama and your sex, but I want you to channel all into my mouth and pussy. Talking about how good you used to fuck in your twenties is a lie because I think men begin fucking better in their prime. This is give and take and you’re here to take what you want. Want me to be your hot redheaded aunt you stroked it to silently while hiding in her bathroom? I’m happy to play this game and if you trust yourself and me by the time you release your gift onto my face we’ll feel like family. I always love a repeat customer and especially when our sex is dynamic and bold. We’re merely two people appreciating the strange ways we smell and kiss and touch each other. This is what I want your visit to be. Imagine my mouth wrapped around your balls for a moment. I’ve been told once or twice that I suck tender balls heavy with cum so sweetly. I know it’s particularly good when a client begins to stroke my hair and whisper my name as I guide him tenderly to face fucking me backwards off the side of the bed. Let me climb on top of you and ride you reverse so that you can watch my juicy hole slide up and down your beautiful bone. Hold me down and force yourself into the back of my mouth. If then you still have any insecurities is wasn’t for my lack of interest or want of trying. I think your cock is magnificent and capable of bringing me and others to ecstasy if you believe in it. You grab my legs and pull me to the side of the bed. With a hand holding each of my calves in the air I moan as you give in, let the moment happen and confidently drive those four inches to a screaming head. How do you feel about yourself now? I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling satisfied with what you just gave me. Years ago I had a profile on a dating site and when I answered the question “are you looking for someone to come home to or someone for tonight?” I wrote in a note on the side of my answer that “I am looking for Mr. Goodbone.” I can’t deny that I’ve lost count of how many men have showed me their penises. Just like a man who keeps a little black book of his sexual conquests I have notes on clients which give me a reference on who they were and what he liked to do. If he was exceptionally confident in his abilities and showed me a good time he gets five stars next to his contact info in my phone. I rarely note the size of a client’s member, but I do make a note if the sex was good. I might want to see him again if he calls me on some lonely night when I’m slow and his sweet and tender thrust is just the thing to redirect me and save me from dying of boredom and loneliness. Your cock is just right by me and don’t you doubt it. Some of the best sex I’ve had was with a man who was over 250 pounds and sporting a chubby four inch cock when erect. He had confidence in his ability to get what he needed sexually and for the woman who was willing to receive him with enthusiasm he didn’t disappoint. I wrote about him in the story Papillon, but I didn’t elaborate on him so far as that we had sex and it was the first sex I’d had in nearly seven years. The thing about our sex was that it was truly a gift for a lonely 36 year old mom who needed a distraction. I had only had about eight sex partners when we met and other than one husband he was the best I’d had. I thought the universe had thrown me a little encouragement in that he was such a sexual dynamo that I thanked my lucky stars. I fucked and sucked that wiggly cock until I made him squeal like a little girl. I am eternally grateful for each of those delectable inches and how masterfully he used them to bring me to euphoria. A cock is an extension of who you are as a man. So they say. Smaller ones are capable of mighty things when so inspired. Look on me as a muse who recognizes if not sews the seeds of brilliance when it comes to the artful way you edge and insistently fuck using the cock you know so well. I have a regular client who has his share of health problems, is older than me and diabetic. However, he shows up, gets hard, releases multiple times and even holds out long enough for me to climax. He’s a real gem in that he takes care of me when we’re together and always comments that I’m the only woman who has been able to suck him off. I believe him when he tells me this because he’s consistent and laser focused on what he needs wants no matter how he may be feeling on any given day. Take my word for it. For those of you who aren’t sure about what you’re packing isn’t desirable just know that all men have greatness in them. You have to decide how bad you want it and always remember to not sell yourself short.

This town is full of swinging dicks and I want to see them all.

Pillow Talk

As I sit on the floor in my parlor I regard a sunbeam full of swirling dust particles. As the shadows from the moving cars outside bring the sunbeam closer to me I try to gather the light as quickly as I can. Hopelessly, my hands grasp nothing. He said he’d be by today between 4:30 and 5:00. He’s been a favorite client of mine since I began this life way back in 2015. Upon receiving his texts I have turned my car around for him and ran home if he needed me. It’s just that he’s so very sweet and earnest. We play a game before he arrives with a cute back and forth flirt. He asks me if I had any other clients that day. I tell him either yes or no. If the answer is yes he asks if I still smell like the client and tells me he doesn’t want me to bathe. I answer yes if I do. He tells me he likes it when I’ve had a busy day. I tell him to hurry and he arrives full of the angst of the day and the anticipation of what our sex will be. When he talks to me I can tell he cares about me. I thinks it’s a sin to let him down and not be available when he gets his chance. He’s the kind of guy that makes me feel good about myself and he’s the most reliable client of all of them. I wonder what kind of mojo we share to keep seeing one another after all of this time. He’s the married type with three kids and a stressful job. When he arrives I give him a hug and he kisses my cheek. There’s the usual small talk about work and life and how the pandemic is making everything harder. Once I slip off my robe and he out of his work clothes I hop up onto the bed and he fingers me and slips a greedy tongue into my mouth. He tells me “you don’t know how much you help me.” I smile sweetly and lay back as he climbs on top and begins to fuck me deeply and perhaps a little too forcefully, but I take it in stride because I’ve always enjoyed the big fat head attached to his thick and meaty cock. I want to suck on it more than he allows, but he’s always in a hurry and wants to go straight for my pussy. After a few minutes of grinding himself as far inside as my womb allows, he cums with a groan and says "I love this pussy.” When he leaves he always makes a point to look at me in my eyes and cautions, “be safe.”

Turning away from the door I ponder how much of what men tell me mid coitus is true. Do they mean what they tell me? Are their wives so deficient that they must find another and another to satisfy them? You know what they say about familiarity? It breeds contempt and contempt isn’t a turn on. Me and my client don’t discuss bills or kids and I’m always wet and waiting, but the wife knows him better than I do and I respect her claim to him regardless of how gentle he treats me or how softly he whispers into my ear. Then again, do we ever really have the man we claim is ours? At some point temptation will rear those dollar store red lips and eager beaver. Most men are helpless to resist especially now that sex at home is stale, waning or perhaps dead. A fresh piece of ass wields a lot of power.

I touch up my makeup and put my robe back on. I make a grocery list and warm a cup in the microwave for tea. It’s then I think about another client who is more than forthcoming about his devotion to me. He’s a sweet man who I think has a few anger issues, but has never showed this side to me. I understand that the men I see are on their best behavior when they drop by for some of my care. Sometimes he slips and tells me about times when he was angry and got in trouble at work or elsewhere. He says that I make him better. I don’t know what to say to that actually. One time as he was pumping me with his cock as I lay on the side of the bed he gasped “I love you” twice as he climaxed. When he spoke this the look on his face seemed genuine and it occurred to me that he said it twice for a reason.

After my tea I get dressed and decide to head uptown to the grocery store. I need a few things and I’m in between clients. As I climb into my car I drive by my first Jilly pad in the Lower Garden. This pad was an initiation for me as a novice prostitute with lots of determination and little experience. This was the days of Backpage when everyone was fucking off of Craigslist and The Country Club was still “clothing optional.” I learned how to hone my skills in this three story Italianate. So many men came into town for Conventions and what this city offers that they can’t find in Mayberry, U.S. A., So, my life was like a conveyor belt of swinging dicks morning, noon and night. Driving away I am reminded of another session that was truly priceless.

Once upon a time when I was a newer prostitute in the city I met a client who made me laugh during our session. He sat up against my headboard and let me suck him for what seemed like forever. The entire time he kept cooing “Oh Jilly! You goo!” If I touched his penis with my hand he’d moan “Oh Jilly! You goo!” If I straddled him and lightly circled his bare cock with the whips of my bush he’d say “Oh Jilly! You goo!” When I offered him a glass of water he repeated “Oh Jilly! You goo!” I had a hard time trying not to laugh and inadvertently biting down on his surprisingly huge cock. He couldn’t have weighed more than 120 pounds. It was especially memorable because he had a thick Chinese accent. All he wanted was a blow job and some tenderness. I think he left completely satisfied. He told me as he left “I’m goin to tell everyone how goo you suck me!” I’ve never heard from him again.

In the grocery now I notice a few store employees wearing masks and I remember a client before the pandemic who had something about him that made me feel uneasy. He really didn’t want much and always asked for oral. As I worked on his cock he would tell me about all of the land he owned and about his camp and so on. The last time I saw him though, he said “I want to own you.” He’s called me over and over asking for a session, but I put him off. This is just something I don’t want to hear from a client. Wanting to own someone is never a good thing in my experience. He also paid me way too much and I don’t want to be beholding to anyone who verbalizes that he wants enslave me. I’ll never be quite sure, but I think he meant it.

Then there was a client years ago who knew how to pour on the charm. He was an older attorney from down south that would always bring flowers. He said he loved my body and just liked watching me walk around jiggling. He always makes me giggle when I think of him. I wanted to please him. It turned out that he was telling the truth because I, with the help of another male member/client of the failed review site Eccie, was able to read a for members only “rest of the story” review he’d written about me and he said the same thing. “I just love her body and could spend all day watching her jiggle around.”

Once, when I was still learning how to whore I had a client who would make most women recoil. He was unattractive physically and that can usually be overlooked with character and a good attitude, but he was basically a repugnant human being and that makes any session harder. Struggling in the jungle that was his pubes I finally located “Mr. Friendly.” He told me that there are no good whores in New Orleans and that they’re all ugly. Then he went on to tell me that the best looking whores were in Phoenix and that everything in town was just trash. The funny thing is he really meant what he said and didn’t consider who he was saying this to. He saw me as something less than him and he was just stating a fact. He didn’t cum and I wasn’t surprised. He’s a miserable and inconsiderate troll who is so insecure he wouldn’t be happy if Beyonce gave him a trip around the world.

Back at home now I put away my groceries, brush my hair and change into a robe because my next client is due any moment. The new cat who recently adopted me rubs her face into my calves and I bend down to pet her and tell her I appreciate her for taking a chance on me. My cat Lula died in April and this one just showed up in the yard, sometime before Thanksgiving, mewing and seemed in distress. I’m not sure what her story is, but she’s happy being kept by me and our codependent relationship is growing and seems healthy. We’re both content with each other. As I pet her she reminds me of fun clients who really want to fuck and with whom I share a mutual respect.

These client’s who have game acknowledge that we have sexual chemistry and that our sex is good. One in particular whom I think is probably the sexiest client I’ve ever had usually tells me “I would marry you.” He’s much younger than me and works very hard and has built his own business. He has a young family and takes good care of them. So, I sincerely doubt he means this and it’s just what one says when overcome with mind blowing orgasm. Periodically in the blur of lust, a client will tell me that I’m the best he’s ever had or that he was never able to cum with a blow job until me. I just smile and secretly think “really?” Or, perhaps, I live such a sexually filled life that I cannot remember what it’s like to go a long time without sex. Also, I’ve never had a blow job. Men often allow themselves to become vulnerable with me almost upon eye contact. I make them feel safe and that’s why they keep coming back. I don’t have to know if what they tell me is true. I just have to love them for who they are for the hour they paid for. As I answer a few emails and texts the doorbell rings. I rush to the door greet my next client. I wonder what secrets he’ll tell me today.

Respect The Pussy

Holding my clenched fists at my side, I plead "just lick it like an ice cream cone,” as my client does his best to pleasure me orally. He is under the impression that if he sucks my labia really hard, nips my lips with his teeth and pushes a very long thumbnail into me I’ll explode in orgasm. I don’t think he was in school the day his more experienced friends were explaining how to give proper cunnilingus to horny young girls. In lieu of screaming, I decide to gently instruct him to use some caution. So, I say, in my most matter of fact tone, “you just write the alphabet with your tongue.” Patience. That’s the nature of this job. I’ve got it in spades.

Clients come and go, but most have a general idea on how to treat a vagina. Then there are those men who, for lack of a better word, are clueless. I am more than happy to oblige you if you are into eating pussy. However, there are times when I pull out a vibrator or a dildo and let him just watch me do myself. I want him to feel included, of course. So, I tell him “get onto your knees and lean over me as I lie here and fuck myself. I’m going to suck you dry and send you walking out of here light as a feather.” This is a good visual for the novice oral-pleaser and most of the time I get hosed either on my face or into my mouth when he’s climaxing. If you are reading this and aren’t quite sure of your pussy eating prowess I have created list of helpful tips that may help guide you towards the pussy eating glory that can be yours.

Eating Pussy 101

Step 1: To start with, give the object of your desire a kiss. You don’t have to slip her any tongue. Warmly kiss her to let her know that you are sensitive to her special needs as a woman and as a human being. Kissing informs your casual paramour, Tinder hookup or bar room hottie that you want this to be a give and take type of exchange and you are willing to take the time and let what happens flow organically. Merely taking her by the shoulders and pushing her down while saying something such as “brace yourself” isn’t foreplay. Take it slow. No one’s going to take this pussy away from you.

Step 2: Lightly cup a breast and massage it gently as you continue to kiss her. Breasts are meant to be treated tenderly and adored for their uniqueness and your luck for being able to stare at a new pair. Sucking them as if you’re sucking a frozen milkshake through a straw is not pleasant for most women. Unless she asks you to bite down on them take the high road. If you feel compelled to compliment her nipples as you gently nip them with your lips. Linger here with her for a while. Make her feel beautiful. It won’t kill you.

Step 3: Place yourself in between her legs and prepare to go straight for the honey pot. Watch your nails and teeth. Sucking here also is not usually recommended because a vagina is delicate. It’s always evolving and can be juicier than usual depending on hormones or whatever stage of life a woman is currently. A clue for you is to look at the skin and the age of the woman you’re with. A younger woman generally can handle a little more abuse to her pussy due to the fact that her skin is more elastic. A middle aged woman’s skin is softer and the elasticity in her skin has changed. Fair haired girls with freckles, like myself, have tender skin everywhere on the body. So, be sweet and remember that most girls are soft. Even there. Also, beforehand shave your chin and make sure there isn’t any rough beard stubble. A scratchy face on a silky vagina is a real mood killer for the lady.

Step 4: Using your tongue begin making light circles around the top of the labia. Please use a diagram of female genitalia for a visual reference as you read this. As you feast it’s a good idea to look up and make eye contact to see if she is content or bored or in pain and adjust your movements for her optimum pleasure. Take instructions if she gives them. She may say “put your finger inside me.” Your goal is to finger pump her while continuing to lick her up and down and back and forth with circles and so forth without scraping her vaginal walls with your fingernails or biting her clit unless, of course, she asks you to.

Step 5: Don’t take it personally if she doesn’t cum. It’s not always easy even if you are performing all of your special moves on her. Many woman need oral and vaginal stimulation simultaneously in order to cum. Sometimes a woman takes a good while and may feel pressured to hurry up, but don’t be in a hurry. Give her the time she needs (within reason) and make her feel desired and sexy.

One more thing. You are in a room with a naked and beautiful woman. Enjoy her! Savor her newness and special sauce. She is giving you this gift even if you are paying for it. Stay awhile and let it flow. If you practice you’ll be a better lover and what you will receive in return will make your sex life so much more satisfying. I attribute good sex to winning a football game. The more you score the more confident you will feel for the next go round.

As I think about the art of giving oral sex I’m reminded of a client who visited me several times in 2019 and early 2020. He had tender blue eyes, great big juicy lips and a shiny bald head. He basically made love to me not only with his lips and fingers and cock, but during foreplay, as he ate me, he would go back and forth between licking my clit and rubbing his perfectly shaved head into my slippery love mound. I can’t tell you what an interesting and erotic sensation this was. He seriously wanted me to cum and spent the entire hour working on me before he allowed me to return the favor. Sometimes it worked and I would orgasm for him. I believe I might have even squirted now that I’m thinking about it. He’s one of those clients that vanished once the pandemic took away all the fun, but hope springs eternal. He contacted me the other day just to see how I am. What a guy!

When I think of the oral “ness” of my job my mind drifts back to another client who usually got it right. We would begin with him between my legs. As he sopped me up like I’m a syrupy buttermilk biscuit he would cum onto the sheets. I’m not sure we have actually had intercourse. His premature ejaculation wasn’t an issue for me and is somewhat endearing as I watch him try so hard. He’s soft and young and I’ve tried my best to help him along. My hope for him is that one day he’ll master the art of edging and learn restraint. In the meantime I hope he’s reading some of the sexual reading material that I’ve recommended.

When I meet a new man I sometimes ask “how’s your love life?” I find asking this is a good ice breaker and helps me get a read on how they’re doing sexually or not. They usually respond with “non existent” or “better now.” Some men tell me that when the wife hit menopause she basically cut them off because she is no longer interested in having sex with the changes that reek havoc on a woman’s physiology. However, some women choose to retire not only from their sexuality, but even showing affection. I think this must be when a woman decides to get old. It’s common and somewhat unfair to their husbands who will suffer not only the lack of sex and intimacy, but perhaps human touch by someone who should be his sanctuary. Over the years I’ve listened as clients said things like “she won’t even let me eat her.” Being married to the same person isn’t like the movies. It takes real commitment and sacrifice. As someone who hasn’t been very successful in marriage I can only imagine what looking at the same penis everyday is like. What I know about sex is that it can only enhance your relationship. I think I’m an exception when it comes to women my age because I consider sex to be a sort of fountain of youth. The benefits derived from endorphins and allowing your juices to flow are proven to promote better sexual and mental health. My goal is to make a client feel like a man and send him back relaxed and recharged after I’ve eaten his balls, sucked his cock and rode him like a dime story pony. You wives just curl up with your crossword puzzles and watch Dr. Phil. He’ll be home in time for dinner.

Pussy is a word which escapes from the lips and floats heavy in the ether waiting for someone to giggle and or become aroused. The sound of the “s” is provocative in that with a simple slip of the “pussy,” a man’s mind is instinctively heightened sexually and thoughts of various conquests when he lapped at the pool of a sweet tasting honey pot. During sex, a woman such as myself will ask “do you feel my pussy milking your cock?” Men seem to grow harder with visual and verbal encouragement and are able to perform when stimulated properly. For six years I’ve had a client who began calling himself Daddy as we grew together sexually and became better lovers. He loves to talk dirty, is patient with me during foreplay and gives me plenty of time to warm up. When eating my pussy I’ve found the more that I squirm and arch my back the more adept he becomes in getting me off. Once I’ve stopped shuddering from the orgasm he gives me with the help of mostly his tongue, gentle fingers and my handy, lavender vibrator, he slides into me. With his eyes fixated on mine he dreamily asks “is this Daddy’s pussy?” In the throes of being lightly assaulted and possibly molested, I simply reply “stick your big cock deeper in me Daddy!” He then asks “how many cocks have you had today, Baby?” I tell him “you’re the first because I wanted Daddy to stretch me out before the others.” He continues stroking me and asks “what do you say when I ask you if you like taking Daddy’s big cock?” I give him the answer he prefers. “I love Daddy’s swollen cock inside me!” He then asks “do you want Daddy to cum on your tits or on your back?” As I moan and writhe under my play Daddy and take in all of the cock he is forcing into my swollen puss, I tell him “just give me your cum Daddy. I don’t care where you put it.”

Sucking My Way To The Top

I didn’t realize when I sucked my first cock that it would lead to anything. It was 1987 and I was nineteen years old. My virginity was a memory as I had squandered it the year before. I spent most of this year in atonement and met my current boyfriend not long after. I was feeling frisky, got on the pill and decided that we should have sex. As I sat in his apartment watching him prepare a box of Hamburger Helper I felt like he was cute enough and although he was really cheap and pretty selfish he was fit, and I assumed, capable. Cocks were still a new thing for me as the 80’s waned. Once I was a young and tender Jilly with a naughty curiosity and just boys as inexperienced as I was to play with. The only thing was he really didn’t seem to have much of a sex drive. He rarely tried to touch me unless it was to hold hands. I would get a light kiss here and there, but I was basically squirming in my pants as I went about my day on campus and rubbing myself into oblivion in my dorm room at night. He seemed serious and sort of driven like some business majors can be. I admired his drive and it was a time when kids like us were being groomed in the way of Capitalism. We all wanted more and college was the starting point. Power and success is what moved him and that he didn’t seem especially horny perplexed me because I wanted it so much. I felt like I was almost unholy or weird because I wanted to go further than sitting on the couch with his arm around me watching the cable he and his friends borrowed from another apartment. I observed him closely as he doused his boxed meal with Crystal Hot Sauce and poured milk into a plastic Mardi Gras cup. While he didn’t seem sexy I hoped that now that we had talked about doing the “deed” he’d loosen up and bang the living hell out of me. We had discussed my getting on the pill and I had taken the first month’s dose. Everything was a go except for a little enthusiasm from him. For me this was a time when my life was just beginning and I wanted to have sex on a regular basis. I felt like I was an adult now and I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone. I was worrying that I had chosen the wrong boy and started a birth control regime for someone who lacked desire when other boys his age were apparently dying for the chance to fuck any girl who threw it at them. I wasn’t the kind of girl who gave it to just anybody. So, I decided that having a boyfriend made it okay. Once the dishes were done and the kitchen was cleaned up I asked him “would you like to have sex tonight?” He closed a cabinet door and turned around to face me. He said, “I have an early class in the morning and I thought we’d just watch some TV. Maybe we can try another night.” I had envisioned a different response. I replied “you don’t want to do it?” Leaning up against the counter now crossing his arms he looked down at the kitchen tile. “I want to do it.” He whispered. I felt like a ravenous teenage boy who was trying to convince his virginal girlfriend to fuck him. He wasn’t a virgin because I had met his old girlfriend several months before and he told me that they had sex a few times. If that was true this means he hasn’t had sex in over a year. He should be literally foaming at the mouth at the thought of seeing me naked! Am I a perv or something? I asked myself this question and several others while following his eyes, which moved from right to left, but never met mine. I told him that I had bought a sexy one piece for the occasion and was going to model it for him. I asked “don’t you want to see it?” He looked up and I could tell he felt ashamed, but the fact that he wasn’t really into it confounded me. So, he said, reluctantly, “you can put on your teddy for me.” Feeling like I had forced him into this I grabbed my purse and for a moment toyed with just walking out of the door. Instead I walked into the bathroom. Once I closed the door I looked in the mirror at myself. I was pretty and soft. My hair was long with auburn highlights and my makeup was perfectly applied and modest. I had, what I thought was a pretty pale skinned body and cute shell like breasts. What was wrong with me? In my heart I knew there were plenty of guys on campus that wanted to see me in this teddy. Breathing in and out I sighed deeply as I removed my top and shorts, panties and bra. I folded them neatly and put them on the back of the toilet. I took out the sheer white body suit with its tiny hot pink bows strategically sewn in the middle of the breasts and on each hip. It was cheap purchase at one of the cheaper stores in the mall. I didn’t have a lot of money, but I wanted to look hot or special for the first time with him. Obviously, I should have just left, but I always try to give people the benefit of the doubt. I thought if he could see me in my sexy outfit he’d be moved. It was an attempt to be sensitive to his sexual trepidation even though he couldn’t care less about making me feel desired. As I took one last look in the mirror I smiled at how grown up I seemed wearing fancy lingerie. In fact, I looked great! I was going to get something out of this evening and for remembering to take the pill every day for 28 days. I stood in the middle of the bedroom and told him I was ready. He came into the room and said “that’s very pretty.” He even seemed a little lighter and somewhat interested. I moved closer to him and took his hand and placed it on one of the little hot pink bows. “Aren’t these cute bows?” I asked. While he giggled and blushed I noticed that he seemed silly and seemed somewhat childlike in that moment. I had finally shared an intimate moment with him and discovered that he wasn’t as experienced as I hoped he’d be. What did I know? He was twenty years old. I probably scared him. I was so lustful that night. I realized I would be the one keeping this ball rolling and decided to make the best of it. I took my boyfriend’s hand and led him to the bed. I began taking his shirt off and kissing him on the lips. He was receptive and began touching my breasts with his hands and making light circles with his fingers. He seemed lightly amused and giggled here and there during our tentative foreplay. I inhaled and exhaled to calm my racing heartbeat. I was beginning to get wet. As we kissed and groped each other I lay down on his bed in front of him. He removed his shorts and underwear. He got on top of me and began to slide his body over my torso. A little strange, but not a bad start. I clutched his ass with my hands and guided his very erect penis over my pussy. We cautiously rubbed our genitals together like that for a little while. The lace provided little barrier between my juices and his weeping member. Then I remembered. “You took the pill. You’re okay.” What a relief! I rolled us over and got on top of him. I was a study in nimbleness at nineteen. I was totally dominating him and I think he liked it. I started playing with his cock and it became harder and harder. I decided to lick it with my tongue like I had seen a slutty girl in a porno do to another actor with great big balls. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I just wanted him to relax. So, I listened to the noises he made and went with his flow. As he became more aroused I then took him in my mouth. He moaned loudly and grabbed my head with his hands. He began grunting lightly as I continued sucking him and slurping him. I liked the reaction I was getting from him. He was really sexy to me now. I blew him for what seemed like a good while. Slowly I came to realize that I enjoyed what I was doing. I was pulling the passion out of my boyfriend whether he wanted me to or not. He was putty in my hands. As much as I enjoyed sucking my boyfriend I wasn’t ready to swallow his cum. At that point in my life bodily fluids were still icky to me. He grasped my hair and thrust his pelvis higher as I guided him gently with my mouth towards an ending I wasn’t quite sure I understood. Cumming was still a little confusing to me. I believe I equated it with getting pregnant and that was negative and something to avoid. I believe he understood this about most girls of our generation because we weren’t just blowing guys left and right. It was something you did begrudgingly for your man if he really deserved it. But, it wasn’t something you wanted to do. However, here I was sucking his nubile cock and loving the way this act made me feel. So, towards the end of what I considered an epic blow job he bursts out with “I want to do you! Let me get on top!” I rolled over and spread my legs. I told him “I want to keep the teddy on and pull the lace to the side so you can go in me like that.” He was about to burst into flames! I parted the lace covering my pussy and he slid past my hand and disappeared deep inside me. He and I were being intimate and at that point in my life sexual intimacy meant love. He raised up onto his arms and said “you look so good when you’re getting fucked.” I felt validated and beautiful for making all of this happen. I believed we might be heading towards a fun new chapter in our short lived relationship. He began pumping me harder and with more force and I kept waiting to orgasm, but I’m not sure I really knew how. My boyfriend was grunting and puffing like a well oiled machine as he gasped loudly and then collapsed on top of me. Little did I know this was probably our finest moment because he wound up dumping me at the end of the spring semester. He thought we should date others during the break and see about reconciling in the fall. He was the insecure type and because he was so unsure of himself he wasn’t sure about me. He did a lot of selfish things like this and more. Luckily I took it in stride and when he did this I took it as an opportunity to bail out of the relationship completely. He wasn’t cutting it for me either. I needed someone who was more at ease with himself. Fortunately, before we parted ways, we had sex several times, always with me initiating, and I was able to practice my blow job skills on him. I realized that I had a talent for pulling cum out of a man with my mouth. I knew that I was good at it now and the next lucky guy would appreciate that I even try. Other girls I knew thought that blowing their boyfriends was disgusting and was just something bad girls did because they were desperate. I wasn’t desperate. I just wanted to fuck like someone well beyond my years. I wanted quality sex and I thought it best that I didn’t mention to any of them that I liked sucking my boyfriend’s cock. I’m sure they would have disowned me and told others. I learned that I had a talent and I’ve used this to my advantage in more ways than I can count. You know what they say? If you love what you do then it isn’t a chore. I never thought it would take me anywhere, but here I am today basically making a living out of fellatio. I’m not sure my nineteen year old self would have been able to appreciate the irony, but mature Jilly thinks it’s a stroke of genius.

You Are My Sunshine

“You are my sunshine my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey, You’ll never know Dear how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Jimmie Davis

(Louisiana Governor 1944-1948; 1960-1964)

I bolted out of the classroom when the final recess bell of the day sounded. I was running towards the field that was directly behind my grammar school. Finally feeling like I had found some sliver of privacy I stopped and looked up. I suppose it had always been there, but I don’t think I realized how beautiful it was until now. I studied its gnarly bark and the spiky pine needles which seemed to emit a sheen that was glittery and icy in a way that was bewildering, but appreciated all the same. Aware of myself again I now noticed the fallen pine cones scattered around my feet. Wanting a better vantage I stepped back and positioned myself for proper viewing of this spectacular tree. I needed a look at it with the blue sky and fluffy white clouds and then I would have some peace. What was the problem again? I was never a great student and would easily drift away during class. I believe that day I was suffocating from the weight of the day and all of my classmates chatter and mess. I just wanted to run! As I looked at the perfect day and this gigantic tree against a perfectly blue sky I realized that I found solace in nature. Smiling for having pulled off a moment to myself I made a mental note for the next time I needed to escape. I sat down on the grass and looked back towards my school. No one was looking at me and I couldn’t believe some kid hadn’t come up to me by now and asked why I was in the field. A teacher was no where to be found. I felt such freedom. Every green thing was so very lush each Spring in my hometown. Growing up in Southeast Louisiana the weather is always on your mind. My small corner of the continent is full of tumultuous highs and lows. In more ways than just the weather. My mother’s side of the family immigrated from the British Isles back in the late 1700’s. Why they settled here is also not clear. Maybe they ran out of everything making the trip and they needed to set up camp and begin their new life in the sub tropics of Louisiana. The heat must have been withering for these coming from the United Kingdom. Their English summer’s reached temperatures of 70 degrees if they were lucky as opposed to our 90’s and beyond dog days. Summer storms like the one we just had on August 29th were only once every fifteen years or so. Each summer we’d watch the tropics with the weatherman and wonder if this year we’d narrowly escape utter doom and annihilation. When I was a kid WWL-TV had a much beloved retired weatherman named Nash Roberts. If you saw him forecasting you knew that they were serious about watching a hurricane and he was the local expert on the subject. A hurricane forecast can be a comfort and an absolute mystery in some ways. In the week before Ida I began noticing people around the Garden District walking out of their homes carrying pets in carriers and suitcases. They were packing cars and obviously evacuating before the storm. I remember thinking they must not be from here and are scared of a repeat of Katrina. But the weatherman said the storm was mainly going through the Port Fourchon and Houma areas. Right? Ida jogging over twenty miles to LaPlace and New Orleans was only a worst case scenario according to my favorite meteorologist. So, I trusted that they felt what we’d receive in Nola would be similar to the category 2 winds of Zeta which arrived on a Sunday after the Saints game back in October. I was prepared. I knew we’d lose power and accepted that it would be really hot and humid for a while. The storm didn’t concern me until sometime after 4:00 pm. When I tell you that the wind was growling outside of my windows I’m not kidding. If I was still high I sobered up quickly as I realized I evidently couldn’t smoke enough weed to calm down watching my neighbor’s tin roof peel away. This storm went on and on as it grew in intensity making me so rattled I ignored my hunger pains even though at 7:00 pm I realized I hadn’t eaten since morning. With shaky hands I carefully made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich which, in the end, proved futile, because I could barely choke it down. It was then I decided that it might have been better if I had evacuated and not put myself through this. Reassuring myself that I won’t ride through the next one, I cranked up my generator and plugged in my oscillating fan. Ida took her sweet ass time leaving the metropolitan New Orleans area, but sometime around 11:00 pm I stopped hearing the wind growl. I lay spread eagle on my sheets feeling thankful the house held and how I was a bad mother fucker for enduring it. I quickly passed out into a deep and delirious sleep. The next morning my homeless friend was outside banging on my door. “You alright?” I answered him with a groggy “yep.” He was offering to clean up my yard because he likes to give back. Sweet guy. I asked him if he’d like some breakfast and he did. I pulled out my little propane camping burner and fried eggs and bacon for us both on my side porch. Once he ate, cleaned up my debris and gave me lowdown of what’s happening in the neighborhood and what will likely happen in the coming days he jumped on his bike and went about his day. He said he rode out the storm in his tent under the bridge and thought Ida was exciting. I can’t imagine. I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to see how it had changed in twenty four hours. I made a bee line for the park to see if our live oaks had survived and to my relief they had all held and only lost some branches. Heading back to the house I stepped over downed cable lines and roof tiles careful not to let a nail go through my shoe. I got back home and considered the choices I had to make. I really didn’t want to sit in the heat for God knows how many weeks until the power came back on. Also, what client would be dropping by for a visit? Everyone was affected by the hurricane and I imagined that my typical regular was busy with his own personal hell. So, I cleaned out my refrigerator and made a decision. I was going to Texas. I figured I could find some work and have electricity somewhere. I don’t care for Houston for many reasons I won’t get into now and decided on Dallas. I picked Dallas because I have never been there. Looking back on that decision I think I would have preferred Houston because while Dallas is big and rich and impressive, it isn’t very soulful. However, you can find everything you could possibly want. I had started packing a bag when the storm was at its worse. Fearful that the roof would blow off I didn’t want to lose things like my passport and precious pictures and memories. So, after I cleaned out my refrigerator I grabbed my bag and hit the road. Thankful I had filled up my car before the storm I made my way out of New Orleans whispering to myself as I crossed into Metairie, “it’s just for a week or so.” Driving into East Texas in the dark is not what I had attended, but traffic had been averted from I-10 because of storm debris and water. So, I had to take the Causeway to I-12 which is always a longer drive. I arrived at the hotel I had thought ahead to pre-book while buying gas and boudin in Krotz Springs, LA. Around midnight I as I pulled into the hotel parking lot I noticed a lot of Louisiana license plates. As I entered the hotel I was greeted cheerfully by the night clerk who wanted to hear about my ordeal. He was a mild mannered fair skinned young man with whom I most likely shared the same culture and heritage. And that’s where it ended. I wasn’t in New Orleans anymore, but at least this place had its lights on. I said “goodnight” to the helpful East Texas night clerk and made my way down a maze of a hall I didn’t think I would ever solve. When I made it to my room I was pleased and satisfied. It was the first time I had felt safe in two days. I gave myself permission to collapse and slept until the sound of weed eaters woke me around 9:00 am. On my second night in Texas I wound up at a honky tonk type of club which doubled as a sex club, but without a band. Just various hip hop songs were played as scantily clad milfs and gilfs danced and pranced with and without the stripper pole.  These people were locals and this was their little oasis of sin.  As I made my way back to the sex rooms I was greeted by a friendly gay man with green hair.  He told me the rules and I turned to find room after room with a bed and a black curtain which could be pulled closed or left open for proper voyeurism.  I turned another corner and a woman was squatting on her knees and sucking off a guy who motioned for me to come over.  I took off my dress and joined them.  She paired off with another man on a nearby bed and they began fucking.  As I took her place sucking the man who had lured me over I realized that he was fairly drunk and a little too forceful for my taste.  I told him that he needed to take it easy, but he basically flipped me onto the bed and almost in unison, she handed him a condom.  He begrudgingly put it on and thrust his cock into my pussy with the force of a man who doesn’t care about anyone but himself.  I wasn’t wet enough at this point and it was uncomfortable.  I pushed against him in an attempt to maneuver myself into a more comfortable position, but he wasn’t having it.  I had obviously found the honky-tonk lothario, which means it was all about him and that’s always a recipe for disaster.  I pushed him off of me and told him that I’d had enough.  He said “most women like it that way.”  I told him to “go fuck yourself” as he laughed still lying on the bed.  And that was my introduction to kink in Dallas.  So much for finding a polite cowboy who is all “shucks” and “mam.”  I was batting zero and I was in the wrong place.  Clients up to this point had proved elusive and weren’t something that I could depend on at this point. t was Labor Day Weekend and I hadn’t had luck with my ads and was starting to think I had made a mistake by coming this far up into white America.  I went back to my hotel, took a bath in an attempt to wash off the failure of this night, soothed myself with some hot tea and hoped things would be better in the morning.  According to the Entergy outage map my neighborhood was still without power and I had nothing else to do.  The next morning was better.  I was invited by an acquaintance to a sex party at a hotel in Fort Worth.  A  bunch of couples in a moderately priced Comfort Suites sounded a whole lot friendlier than the dysfunction I had suffered through the night before.  I spent the day sight-seeing downtown Dallas and I found some fried chicken in the LGBTQ part of town that was nothing less than a religious experience.  Even though I hadn’t found any work I was trying to stay optimistic and was eager for some good company and a little escape from the ordeal that still was Ida.  When I arrived I noticed that there were a few pine trees scattered around the hotel parking lot.  I stayed outside a little while before I went in and took in the smell of the trees.  I missed New Orleans and remembered how I had tried living in Houston, Texas in my thirties.  It wasn’t for me.  I prefer the smell of decay that accompanies the natural world of Louisiana and the mystery of living shrouded among the oaks than the overwhelming stench of car exhaust that is Houston’s signature aroma.  My corner of the world is where I feel most secure.  I straightened my skirt and reapplied my lipstick and walked into the hotel lobby.  On the elevator now I was tempted to take a pic for Instagram or Twitter just to say hello to everyone back home, but my heart wasn’t into it.  I figured the dismay I was feeling would show in my eyes and then I’d bum subscribers and followers out.  I knew they all had a lot to deal with in their own lives since Ida turned us upside down.  When I knocked on the door I was greeted by a lean man with kind eyes.  His wife was being pounded on one of the queen beds by an eager party goer and she wasn’t able to say hello, but we caught up later.  Others came forward and introduced themselves and I felt like I had found the real pervs in Texas.  These people were getting it on like nobody’s business.  I found more sex and acceptance and freedom being passed around like a candy dish than I had seen in a good while.  This was a group of friends who meet and have little soiree’s from time to time.  I was the new girl and that meant that the guys wanted to have a crack at me.  I received a warm Texas greeting over and over by men who knew what they were doing.  No groping or forcing.  It was just mutual and respectful sex between consenting adults.  As the last guy slipped his cock into me I realized that I was focused and in the moment.  I wasn’t thinking about the mess waiting for me back in New Orleans or the fact that I wasn’t working.  I had filled out all of the FEMA applications and did what I could to recoup some of my losses.  So, I was free to enjoy the surfboard position with a friendly man named Don.  After he dismounted I gathered myself and had a little girl talk with some of the ladies.  They were such a sweet bunch of girls and they made me feel better.  They wanted to hear about what Ida was really like and if my home had survived.  It was then that I really took in the fact that sitting through that hurricane for hours and hours was truly awful.  I held back a tear and said my goodbyes and gave hugs to everyone.  I thanked them for inviting me and giving me a diversion on my trip.  I drove back to Dallas under a starry, starry night grateful for many things.  Funny thing is I made money from regulars and people I didn’t even know wanting to help. So, the fact that Jilly struck out business wise didn’t bother me that much.  Also, and much to my surprise, clients from home were eager to see me even though they had their own problems.  For some men the comfort and reliability of their favorite whore is the only thing that will do.  I decided I should get home sooner than later.  I spent a few more days until I heard that power was restored on my block and packed my bags for Louisiana.  It felt good crossing the state line from what is basically another country to the ruddiness of the roads in Louisiana and the old time feel of what can best be described as Kingfish country.  Famed populist governor, Huey Long had vision and his legacy lives on in that portion of Winn Parish.  I once visited the Louisiana Political Museum in his hometown of Winnfield, Louisiana. It is a town literally suspended in time and his shadow looms large in that not much has changed since he was assassinated back in 1935.   Traveling through north Louisiana I marveled at what lovely and wide open views it has.  For a portion of the trip between Shreveport and Alexandria no billboards are allowed.  What a relief!  There are many varieties of trees and pastures full of cows or crops.  Sunsets are spectacular because this area, for more reason than one, has not been developed like most of my beloved Southeast.  We were taught as children in school to hold onto the past and remember our state’s history fondly.  I have always been proud to be a Louisianian and honoring all aspects including the Cajun culture as well.  I still love my home.  I wonder how much longer the areas that were and will be hit by monster hurricanes can hold on or even be habitable.  Will the tourists want to visit us if we keep having these climatic fifteen year storms every year?  We just don’t know. I will keep on wishing for the best, love the uniqueness of living below sea level and being fearless for choosing to stay in my beloved city of dreams come what may.