I explained to her that I have certain fantasies. Admittedly I am not a head-turner. I am neither tall nor do I sport a well-defined physique. I am not Demolition Man who kills conversations as I walk into a room. My strengths are in the art of conversation, humor, occasional wit and depth—none of which matter unless I can get the girl to at least notice me. One of my fantasies, I told her, is to get a photo-shoot model into a room with me, maybe to share some wine and some cheese, who will flirt with me and I with her, and who will eventually end up in bed with me. And she admitted that she does give the cold shoulder to men who approach her. She admitted that she was not the type who allowed conversations with strangers. But she was my type—tall, large eyes like glistening ponds, long and smooth tresses, firm and shapely body—and I paid good money for her to be with me.
She acknowledged that there are certain perks to her clandestine profession. Contrary to the stereo-typical depressed and anguishing escort, she does have fun with her job. It was an acknowledgment shared by many of the other high-end escorts I have experienced. “I am religious,” she disclosed, “but I know how to have fun.” She remained exclusive, intensely guarding her privacy. She knew a lot of people, she remarked, and her greatest fear was that someone she knew would show up as a client.
I asked her if she enjoyed long, continuous intercourse. Contrary to popular belief, some girls don’t like extended plays. “The problem with that,” she replied, “is if it takes too long, the girl goes dry and it becomes painful.” It was a comment shared by almost all escorts I have talked to. She also found it insulting that a man would distract himself in order to last longer. She could tell, she said, if a man’s mind is elsewhere. And it would anger her. The best way to turn a woman on, she advised, is to show that you yourself are turned-on by her. She did have that impish grin on her when she found out how hard I was. I suppose it’s a confidence-booster for the woman. Men are creatures of power, strength, and authority. For a woman to get a man to succumb to her charms must be an aphrodisiac in itself. My problem, I admitted, was that at times I can’t control myself. If the woman is beautiful, I lose it. “But at least you compensate,” she stroked my ego. “At least, bumabawi ka.” She meant that I would do the foreplay, the stroking, the licking, the sucking, the fingering, the cunnilingus until she would beg for me to be inside her. Did she come while I was thrusting? Perhaps.
On our second round, she did say she was coming. Somehow I believed her. One way I could tell is not by the loudness of her moans, but the way her body reacts. She held on to my waist and gently eased me a few inches upwards while clasping her feet on my calves, possibly to increase the friction of my pelvis on her clitoris. Experts say that women don’t scream while they are coming. An orgasm is more like an implosion than an explosion and a woman would have no energy to vocalize it. Nonetheless, it seemed awkward to ask if she did come–if she already said it and one still had to ask, then you are basically saying that she faked it.
To the good and memorable ones, I always text afterward. “I had fun” was my message. “I did too” was her response. She followed it up with a question: “When can I see you again?” Temptresss she is, to the very end. I may succumb again soon.
