I sat in my car. I'd left more than enough time to get here, and I was a bit early. I had parked a little ways away in a discreet little parking spot, not too conspicuously near the incall. It would be unspeakably rude for me to show up at her door this early. I sometimes got out for a bit of a walk before my appointment to work off a bit of nervous energy, but this time, the cold wind and steady rain made me decide to stay in and wait.
I was always uncomfortable with these quiet moments before a first meeting. Other than the excitement and tension, it was a little too much empty time, alone with my thoughts. I'd met her in the usual way. There was an ad. An email. A little bit of flirting and banter. Finally, a phone call and a date was arranged. She had a sweet voice on the phone, and a light way of flirting that was clearly honed over much of her adult lifetime. Oh, I knew they were soft and light words, as inconsequential and without substance as seeds blown from a summer dandelion, but I let them brush gently into my ear. A few words would stick. Take root. Spread, until they would cover the underpinnings of my mind with lust so that I had to meet her. Not that it ever took much convincing, mind you.
One of my hobby friends used to like to tell me, "this is some business". And he was right. He mentioned that he used to see one of the ladies that I saw recently, a decade ago. I should have been surprised that she had been in this business so long, but I wasn't, really. She was good at her job. That's why I had seen her, and she became that way by practice. No, I was rather more surprised by him. Obviously, he must have been doing this longer than ten years- I suspected much longer. I was afraid to ask just how long. I couldn't help but be a little saddened. That was a long time to be taking comfort solely in paid company, an hour at a time. I had already noticed changes in my outlook on many things in the short time that I had been doing this. I could only imagine what my outlook would be like in five years time. Or ten years time. Or twenty.
On the other hand, I was able to make the stuff of my dreams reality. There was the simple delight of the daytime dreams. The innocent pleasure of light conversation, and the undivided attention of an attractive woman that I knew that I would know intimately. The stuff of dreams. The dark, sweaty dreams in the wee hours of the morning of improbable tangles of hot, slick pale flesh. Powerful stuff indeed, and hard to give up.
There was my alter ego, my secret life. It was a effort to keep up, and to be honest, it was kind of a pain sometimes. But I could smile with my inner secret. I walk among you, and I could be anyone. I stood behind you in the supermarket checkout this morning. You passed by me without a second glance during my evening walk. I might smile and say hello. Or I might give you my version of saying "boo". A nondescript perfect stranger could walk up to you and say, "Hi. I'm Birdboy from PERB. I've just had my brains f*cked out by a gorgeous woman. Be nice to me, or I'll write about you."
No, I would have to stop doing this all this. Someday. Just not today.
It's time. I opened the car door.
I was always uncomfortable with these quiet moments before a first meeting. Other than the excitement and tension, it was a little too much empty time, alone with my thoughts. I'd met her in the usual way. There was an ad. An email. A little bit of flirting and banter. Finally, a phone call and a date was arranged. She had a sweet voice on the phone, and a light way of flirting that was clearly honed over much of her adult lifetime. Oh, I knew they were soft and light words, as inconsequential and without substance as seeds blown from a summer dandelion, but I let them brush gently into my ear. A few words would stick. Take root. Spread, until they would cover the underpinnings of my mind with lust so that I had to meet her. Not that it ever took much convincing, mind you.
One of my hobby friends used to like to tell me, "this is some business". And he was right. He mentioned that he used to see one of the ladies that I saw recently, a decade ago. I should have been surprised that she had been in this business so long, but I wasn't, really. She was good at her job. That's why I had seen her, and she became that way by practice. No, I was rather more surprised by him. Obviously, he must have been doing this longer than ten years- I suspected much longer. I was afraid to ask just how long. I couldn't help but be a little saddened. That was a long time to be taking comfort solely in paid company, an hour at a time. I had already noticed changes in my outlook on many things in the short time that I had been doing this. I could only imagine what my outlook would be like in five years time. Or ten years time. Or twenty.
On the other hand, I was able to make the stuff of my dreams reality. There was the simple delight of the daytime dreams. The innocent pleasure of light conversation, and the undivided attention of an attractive woman that I knew that I would know intimately. The stuff of dreams. The dark, sweaty dreams in the wee hours of the morning of improbable tangles of hot, slick pale flesh. Powerful stuff indeed, and hard to give up.
There was my alter ego, my secret life. It was a effort to keep up, and to be honest, it was kind of a pain sometimes. But I could smile with my inner secret. I walk among you, and I could be anyone. I stood behind you in the supermarket checkout this morning. You passed by me without a second glance during my evening walk. I might smile and say hello. Or I might give you my version of saying "boo". A nondescript perfect stranger could walk up to you and say, "Hi. I'm Birdboy from PERB. I've just had my brains f*cked out by a gorgeous woman. Be nice to me, or I'll write about you."
No, I would have to stop doing this all this. Someday. Just not today.
It's time. I opened the car door.
