Am I Being a Greedy Whore?


He was a very willing and open-minded lover who was quite excited to please me. He sent me naked photos and anticipated our meeting to be, well, satisfactory in he biblical sense. I had gathered the same, I suppose. But, I could never say it. I didn’t want to guarantee anything in html.

It was another one of those online dates. Ugh. I should’ve known not to go; I had gotten a sour taste for those stupid things. So rarely do I respond, now, to any estranged soul with a photograph. But, he didn’t have a photograph in his profile. And he was rather straightforward. I want a lover, he wrote. I would like to meet you.

He was rather square. Cute to somebody, I’m sure. Hell, even cute to me on a forgiving evening. But, being rather entrenched in my line of work, it would have to take a man of certainly quality to make me forget, or make me yearn for someone so exceptional.

Funny thing about lovers: They’re rarely ever the same for me. Each lover carries with him an unique whirlwind that ravages my life, taints my every source of inspiration. They’re rarely someone I pencil into my appointments. They’re not the same as an hour of yoga or a whole day at the baths (although that can be rather pleasing too).

Anyway, I had been rather haunted that evening. Haunted with other opportunities. A client wanted to go on a “kinky psychedelic trip” of sorts. Not psychedelic for drug- or mushroom-related reasons. Merely psychedelic because every new experience was one met with anxiety and anticipation, which is similar to when you experience your first part of a trip, when colors look funny and the definitive lines that defined everything suddenly blurred. A client can lose his masculinity and his perspective on the world in under an hour.

I’m grateful for men like these, and not clients alone. And I’m grateful for finding fetishism as a professional highlight in my life. I can meet their desires head-to-head like a lowly human to a big beast… like in legends and myths. Nothing is more corrupted or evil than a person succumbed to their own twisted desires, but it is also a wonderful release. It is at this time we have permission to surrender our daily routine to, well, pleasure.

So, there I was, trying to connect to this poor fellow who had already “lost the fight” before he had begun to battle in it. He was knee deep in his memories of Brazil and participating in ancient Voodoo rituals. I, on the other hand, wondered which type of dildo I should bring with me to this exciting session. I should bring my black leather bustier so he knows I mean business. I got wet considering the arrangements.

Initially, there was some deep-seated promise that we would go to bed together immediately. A promise in his mind was merely a suggestion in mine, or perhaps just an option. Another option was to just drink and appreciate that we can talk to one another so frankly. That was the option I took. Nothing about him was so sensual that I might have felt stricken, in some small measure, by his touch or his voice or even in the taste of his saliva. Nothing. So, disappointed, he ended up stealing kisses from me as I slipped through the front door of my building.

Hm… nothing seems more exciting to me than being a dominatrix. Nothing so intimate. It makes clients quite unique and other men, civilians, seem far more distinct than normal. They are no longer just shapes or vague descriptions of what I wanted (or might have wanted), but rather there are men who just strike me, and inspire me by touch or by kiss alone. They are the shimmers of light against shadows, so beautiful and so special that I would gladly copulate with them for free.

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