Slippery

I was never big on blowjobs. Just not my thing. Throughout college I had a strict no blowjob policy. I never wanted to have some immature asshole go around bragging that I sucked his dick. 

Fuck that!

However, as I got older, I sucked it up, so to speak.  My no blowjob policy became lax. Although, I always opted for the Happy Ending instead.

David, my boyfriend, it turned out, was a fan of the Happy Ending. Well, at least in the traditional sense of getting a handjob from a “masseuse.” 

A year after David and I started dating, opportunity knocked. 

I had just graduated with my M.A. in psychology, and I needed a thinking break. At the time, I was working in a research lab and all the locked doors, windowless rooms, and constant silence was driving me crazy. I resigned. 

I needed a job. A mindless job.

Apparently, I have a knack for finding the sketchiest of Craigslist ads. First the foot fetish gig then this: Massage Therapy (no experience required. Will train). 

“Oh, I know what that means.”  David said with a nod. 

I was apparently twenty-stupid and in my naivety, I disagreed. 

Now, I don’t know if David devised his plan at that moment, or this was some dirty fantasy lingering in his mind. 

“Let me try it out,” he said, “If you’re right, you can go to the interview.” 

“And if I’m wrong, you get a handjob?”

I honestly didn’t think he had the balls. 

David, I thought, was a pussy. So when he stated that he was going to call the ad, I honestly didn’t believe him. I should have noticed he was serious when he sweetened the pot.

He said that if he was wrong, he would give me a hundred bucks. On the flipped side, if he was right, I would give him a hundred bucks. I reiterated that if he was right, he was getting a FUCKING HANDJOB. The only rule was that there was to be no other sexual contact, especially kissing. I didn’t want to catch anything from some prostitute masquerading as a masseuse. And if he got arrested, don’t call me.

The night came (no pun intend), I went the gym, went home, and waited for the verdict. It was in the early evening when David called. And… Happy Ending achieved. Oh, Fuck!

I tried my best not to get angry. After all, I agreed to this mess. I congratulated him on his handjob and asked him to tell me the details. As he got to the end of his recap, he began to mumble. A sure sign he was hiding something.

“You better not have fucked that whore!” I said violently. 

He assured me that he didn’t. I tried to calm down and coax it out of him.  He insisted that I promise not to get mad before he told me. Jut saying that made me mad, but I promised.

“We kissed.” He said.

I kinda lost it then. I called him the nastiest names I could think of, told him it was over, and hung up. He called me back a few times before I picked it up. We talked and I decided not to break up with him. I just let him know he wasn’t getting anything from me for a long, long time. 

A few months later David was going on a business trip. He asked me if he could visit a “massage parlor.” We had discussed our experiment at length and had become desensitized to the idea. 

I made a deal with him, he could get his Happy Ending, but I had two conditions. First, I was not going to give him a blowjob or handjob as long as he continued visiting whores. Second, if I went out to a night club I would be allowed to kiss someone for every blowjob he got. After a serious discussion, we had a deal.  

We stood on a slippery slope. 

Sordid

 “You know, I’ve always had a rape fantasy.” That’s what David said when I told him about my rape. I KNEW he was way too interested. He kept asking questions and leaning in to hear all the sordid details.

It happened a long time ago. I'm over it. Luckily, I wasn’t a virgin anymore. That would have been traumatic. I wasn’t beaten either. I suppose that would be the bright side, if there was a bright side to rape.

The History of Rape, he was almost proud to bring out his prized porno. I assume he thought that since he had a rape fantasy and that I had been raped, we were cosmically meant to have a deeper, meaningful relationship.

On the surface, David was highly educated, with a double major. He grew up in the Midwest, and was raised as a Conservative Jew. In reality, he was void of common sense. I often wondered how he survived life. He was also, hypocritically, an atheist. When I met him, he lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and worked in the financial field.

At this point, we were experimenting sexually, and had recently become exclusive. We were in the tell me your dark secret phase. “Can we role-play a rape?” He had the nerve to ask me that. I wanted to punch him in the face. Hard.

It may sound incredibly fucked up, but after some thought, I agreed.

The role-playing lasted about three minutes. I screamed as he ripped off my shirt then I did it. I punched him in the face. Hard. Suddenly, he wanted to stop. He said I was fighting too hard. I assured him that real life rape was nothing like his circa 1980, big bushed, oh-no-don’t-put-that-big-cock-inside-a-me, wannabe history of rape VHS.

Idiot.

I don’t know why I stayed with him. Maybe I was too busy with graduate school to invest time in anyone else. Besides, before the confession of his delusional rape fantasy, we got along well enough. David never brought it up again. Who knows, maybe that punch knocked some sense into him.

One can only hope. 

Evil Bitch

I was writing a blog entry just a moment ago. It is about the boyfriends I have disposed of. I don’t mean dissolved with lye in the bathtub disposed of, obviously (although, I have been tempted a few times). I started going off on a tangent about getting hate mail, hate messages, and notes of general unhappiness.

You see, I keep my hate mail. I like to read them from time to time. You know, to gain perspective on how I’ve grown as a person. I noticed they have a reoccurring theme.

Here are some highlights:

“You are an evil bitch.” (Maybe True)

“You are so selfish.” (Sometimes True)

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” (Not True. I Love Animals!)

“If I died, you wouldn’t care.” (Probably True)

Could it be, that I am so awesome, that the absence of me makes them go crazy? Maybe, or maybe I’m just a crazy magnet. Probably a little bit of both.

Foot Note

Believe it or not, I get embarrassed when I write about my sexual experiences. It’s true. I was raised in a strict Spanish, Catholic home, and you didn't talk about sex. Sex was for marriage. Sex was private. Even now when I look back at what I’ve done, I shake my head and think, I can’t believe I did that. It was like some crazy movie, cheesy dialogue and all. Still, to talk about it, I’m embarrassed.

I was always told I was sexy. My sister was always beautiful and cute but me, sexy. I didn’t want to be the sexy one. I would have been happy with beautiful or cute. It was kind of ironic since I was a goth tomboy throughout college. I studied hard and didn’t pay much attention to what I wore, as long as it was black. I suppose being labeled sexy lead me to explore my sexuality despite my trauma from The Awful Kiss. 

When I was in graduate school I went to a foot interview. I answered this completely sketchy CraigsList ad that could have been some psycho-killer that wanted to keep my feet on a shelf in his refrigerator. But it was just some guy that wanted to check my feet out for some fetish work. I already knew I had nice feet. I previously dated a man that asked to see my feet. When I showed them to him, he was so happy he lifted me off the ground in a big hug. 

So I’m at the interview, an amazing loft with big pillows, intricately designed carpets, and a sofa area with flowing curtains like some exotic arabian movie. A chair was set up in the middle of a room, and this young, not-so-bad-looking guy has me sit down, and take my shoes off. So I can’t run away? The guy kneels next to me and holds my feet up to the light. He checks them in different angles, measures them, smells them. He did everything but lick them. Then the talk. What a foot fetish is, how they set up appointments. I knew it was a sexual thing, blah blah… kissing feet, blah, blah… massaging feet, blah blah. I passed the foot test! Yay! So, I leave and head into the subway to my at-the-time boyfriend David’s apartment. 

When I get to the apartment, Ring ring. The foot guy. Apparently, a German business man was in town looking for some foot loving. $250 bucks for 30 minutes. Plus a tip! You must always remember to tip your foot whore! I paused for a second with three thoughts; 1. $250 to get a foot massage, not so bad for 30 mins. 2. Possibly he wanted to keep my feet on a shelf in his refrigerator. I was about to say ok when into my head pops the image of an old, saggy, fat German man jizzing on himself, or even worse, MY FEET! Cringe. Shutter. Um, No Thank You.

That was the end of that. I chickened out. Good times. At least I still have my feet.