"That was the best fuck I've ever had," he said and regretted it as soon as he heard the sound of his voice. Not that he didn't mean it. He did. The words just weren't enough to express how much he meant it.
"Sure," she said. It smacked of cliché.
"No," he insisted, squeezing all the sincerity he could muster into every word. "I really mean it."
"What makes this fuck any different than any other?" she asked, but with a voice that suggested she already knew. The question, up to now, was one that he would have been at a loss to answer. Sex was sex. You give head with more enthusiasm than most girls, or, you fuck like you mean it. But, all in all, there wasn't a lot of discernible difference between one fuck and another.
"You fuck like a whore," he gushed, unable to contain his admiration. She blushed with a high school giggle.
"What exactly does that mean?" It was his turn to blush.
"I know that sounds bad," he struggled.
"Did I say it sounded bad?" she parried, a slight hurt in her voice.
"What I mean..." he said, fumbling with his thoughts. What he meant was that she fucked like a whore, but what that meant was a little more complicated. "I mean, Jesus! You did everything I could've wanted. Shit. You did things I didn't know I wanted and you did it like you loved it. Like an artist. I had no idea...I could never have even imagined anything so good!"
"And that's what it takes to be a good whore?" She laughed at him.
"With a face like yours and a body like..." his eyes traced her form under his sheets, "...well, that! You'd make a fortune."
"I don't think so," she said grimly.
"Are you kidding?" he exclaimed.
"What? You think that people want to pay to get fucked like I fucked you?" she asked with real contention in her voice. "People don't want that. If they're paying, then they want to direct the show. And they aren't going to let you lead them down a path like that."
"I let you," he said.
"Money changes everything, baby."
"Yeah," he said. "People expect satisfaction when they pay."
"No," she corrected. "People expect what they expect when they pay."
"People expect what they expect," he mimicked. "What kind of crap is that?" he asked, hitting her with his pillow.
"That's the kind of crap a whore would have to put up with," she snapped, stealing his pillow and throwing it on the floor.
"Jesus," he exclaimed. "What would you know about it!"
She levelled her eyes at his, holding his gaze for a moment without smile, blink or twitch. A stillness that altered the room through force of will. She was the perfect lover.
"I know," she said. His jaw dropped. "I know, and I can tell you that clients don't want to be fucked the way I fucked you. They don't want to be turned inside out. They don't want a new experience, lifted to a height that they had yet to imagine. They want the same fuck they had the first time, the last time, and every time in between. No surprises, no patience and no exploration. Even those people who play at sexual adventure--no, especially those who play at adventure are really just after the appearance of adventure. Those executives who claim to be S&M addicts when they're out of the office? Bullshit. They say they want to feel pain, experience fear, but then they talk to you about safe words before you've even unpacked the tools of your trade. Safe words. If you're really into the pain, the lack of control, you don't want a safe word. The thrill comes from the danger. The idea that you don't know what I might do to you. These pretenders to the art of fear put leather to skin like they were teasing with a feather duster. There is barely a sting, let alone pain and fear. None of that for me, sweetness. I'll crack that whip across your back until you feel blood, trailing like the sweat of your fear, down your back. I'll bring tears to your eyes and you'll shiver with fear as I bring your shaking, hard cock to my lips. And when I feel that warning quiver of flesh on my tongue and know you can't stop, I'll crack that whip and let you try. Let you try to bite back that moment of absolute vulnerability and when you come--and you will come, I'll leave you in tears. I can play your body like an orchestra. I can make you rise, peak and fall where I want, when I want. I can keep you riding that wave until you think your body can't take another second... And then I'll let you ride just a minute more. Do you think somebody buying a little s&m wants that? No. They want to feel like they've been wind-walking on the edge of the Grand Canyon, but they want to do it from the safety of their living rooms with the canyon safely on their t.v. screens. They appreciate neither the art, nor the artist."
She took in a breath, but he wasn't sure that she ever let it out. He didn't know what to say. He wanted to push her back on the bed, fuck her, marry her, possess her, never let her leave his sight, all at the same time. A paralysis of overwhelming desire and absolute, verbal stupidity.
"Do you still work?" he asked.
"No," she said. "I had a vision for how things should happen with each client and I couldn't compromise that for money."
"So," he said slowly, "what do you do now?"
"I write fiction," she blushed. "John Grisham, Danielle Steele kinda stuff."
Once a whore, always a whore. |