Sleepless in Brooklyn
"So what's the average male sexual approach?"
"Usually they attack your pussy with the gusto of a lawn strimmer for around 30 seconds, slobber on your mouth a little, then consider your needs satisfied and so resume their frenzied ramming in the missionary position."
Eton looks vaguely disturbed, his forkful of filet mignon poised en route to mouth. I'm sitting cross legged in his apartment on the Upper East Side after a fruitful Pussies session, streaks of stripper make up still adorning my cheeks, take out restaurant food balanced on my knees.
"What's the average female sexual approach?"
Eton smiles amusedly.
"The girls I've slept with don't seem to enjoy sex and intimacy. They just want to analyze everything and get ridiculously paranoid if you don't come, or if they take too long, or if you look at them in a certain way... it's... weird."
I always had a suspicion that the English Upper classes were repressed. No wonder all those double-barrelled men are fucking each other up the derriere if women are spending most of their time fretting about their Fortnum & Mason delivery, or the fact that the photographer from Harpers Bazaar took their picture at the Society Ball from the wrong angle. Tsk. What can one do apart from seek solace in the arms of... a stripper.
I love sex. I love turning men on. I love people looking at my body and finding it attractive. I love the power my body can have over men. I love the power I have in withholding my body from certain men, and getting paid to do so. I also love that moment when you decide that you're not going to withhold your body any more, and you give it up. Which is why, after three frigid months, when I woke up that morning horny as hell after talking to the peculiar posh boy who offered me ten thousand dollars to help me out, I went straight back to his apartment and kissed him, and then had the best sex I've had in an extremely long time.
What turns me on more than anything is the mind - humor, intelligence, curiosity, personality. Talking to someone for hours about life, love and sex. Wondering if love exists, if sex is always going to be dull six months into the relationship, if life has a purpose other than spawning brats and feel-good moments which evaporate into the brittle air as soon as you recognize them for what they are. What turns me off is over-analysis, paranoia, neuroses, lying, stress, bad breath, body odour, ugly people, lack of drive, stupidity, insecurity. I could go on.
I'm not sure where this is heading. But damn does that posh boy turn me on.
I got paid $700 to watch some rich asshole jerk off yesterday.
"Usually they attack your pussy with the gusto of a lawn strimmer for around 30 seconds, slobber on your mouth a little, then consider your needs satisfied and so resume their frenzied ramming in the missionary position."
Eton looks vaguely disturbed, his forkful of filet mignon poised en route to mouth. I'm sitting cross legged in his apartment on the Upper East Side after a fruitful Pussies session, streaks of stripper make up still adorning my cheeks, take out restaurant food balanced on my knees.
"What's the average female sexual approach?"
Eton smiles amusedly.
"The girls I've slept with don't seem to enjoy sex and intimacy. They just want to analyze everything and get ridiculously paranoid if you don't come, or if they take too long, or if you look at them in a certain way... it's... weird."
I always had a suspicion that the English Upper classes were repressed. No wonder all those double-barrelled men are fucking each other up the derriere if women are spending most of their time fretting about their Fortnum & Mason delivery, or the fact that the photographer from Harpers Bazaar took their picture at the Society Ball from the wrong angle. Tsk. What can one do apart from seek solace in the arms of... a stripper.
I love sex. I love turning men on. I love people looking at my body and finding it attractive. I love the power my body can have over men. I love the power I have in withholding my body from certain men, and getting paid to do so. I also love that moment when you decide that you're not going to withhold your body any more, and you give it up. Which is why, after three frigid months, when I woke up that morning horny as hell after talking to the peculiar posh boy who offered me ten thousand dollars to help me out, I went straight back to his apartment and kissed him, and then had the best sex I've had in an extremely long time.
What turns me on more than anything is the mind - humor, intelligence, curiosity, personality. Talking to someone for hours about life, love and sex. Wondering if love exists, if sex is always going to be dull six months into the relationship, if life has a purpose other than spawning brats and feel-good moments which evaporate into the brittle air as soon as you recognize them for what they are. What turns me off is over-analysis, paranoia, neuroses, lying, stress, bad breath, body odour, ugly people, lack of drive, stupidity, insecurity. I could go on.
I'm not sure where this is heading. But damn does that posh boy turn me on.
I got paid $700 to watch some rich asshole jerk off yesterday.
MIMI IN NY | 10:38 PM |
