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Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Confessions : Part 1

I sit comfortably in my big, over sized chair, tucked away in the corner of my bedroom, and I wait. Grocery list, errands to be run, dinner menu, kids schedules all running through my mind when I get called to duty. I take a quick sip of water and prepare to perform.

"Hi babes, names Simon, 43. Looking for a good time, can you help?"

Nothing at all distinguishes this man from any other, right down to the cheesy pick up line. He has already bored me, but he will never know that.

"Well hello there, Simon, sweetheart! Goodness, you do sound like quite a naughty boy! I like to think that I can help you out, why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself, love?"

I already know whats coming. A dramatized description of his humongous penis, so big he doesn't know if I will be able to take it all. He'll tell me that he looks just like Brad Pitt, when we both know that he looks more like the creepy guy on the bus that stares at you entirely too long before shooting you his "sexy" snaggle-toothed-come-hither grin.

Its not long at all before I am his obedient little whore, telling him how good his cock feels deep inside my pussy. Inevitably, he'll want to flip me over and fuck my ass, hard and strong, before he comes all over my face. I tell him how yummy his cream is, and what an amazing fuck he is.

"Hunni, I love you so much. xx", he says.

I don't know why they always feel compelled to tell me that. Whether its just habit, guilty conscience or perhaps in their own little world, they actually do believe that. I know that some of them do. I become their daily addiction. For whatever reason the world has cheated them out of a lover and a soul mate, and they fill that void with me. Part of me feels flattered, while the other part wishes they would wake up and move on. I never let that part of me show though, because I need them as much as they need me.

I cringe when they tell me how much they have spent on me. I know that they need that money for rent, food, and in some cases their families. Every once in a while, my heart bleeds through and I tell them to take a break, to come back to me when their funds allow. I tell them that I will always be there when they need me, and beg them to be careful with their money. But they never listen. They just come back to me that much more often. Deeper both in love and in debt.

Its hard not to feel close to some of the men. The regulars. They share every aspect of their life with you, their joys and their pains. With every tear I kiss away, it becomes harder to push them out of my thoughts when they leave. I wonder if they are still mourning the loss of their loved one, or the end of their marriage. I find myself genuinely hoping that they get through the pain quickly and with no scars. When they share good news with me, I smile, and I am truly happy for them. This is dangerous territory to be in.

As Simon leaves me, he promises to be back very soon. He tells me how wonderful I am and that he can't wait to spend time with me again very soon. I smile, knowing that he will return. He isn't gone but for a moment before my attentions are already focused on someone else.


At Wednesday, November 21, 2007 11:41:00 AM, Blogger T said...

You're back! Yea!

At Wednesday, November 21, 2007 12:00:00 PM, Blogger Good Wife said...

Oh, it is so nice to feel wanted! =)


At Thursday, November 22, 2007 8:48:00 AM, Blogger othersideofme said...

Sounds like you give them what they want and need.

At Saturday, November 24, 2007 3:18:00 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Where do I sign up??? runr53 here, but stupid Blogger doesn't know it!

At Saturday, November 24, 2007 4:44:00 PM, Blogger Good Wife said...

Hello runr53! So nice to see you, Blogger likes to be a pain in the ass at times, it would seem. lol Thats okay, I remember you! =0)


At Monday, November 26, 2007 1:53:00 AM, Blogger SemperSexualis said...

Welcome back

At Wednesday, November 28, 2007 9:12:00 PM, Anonymous c. said...

glad to see you're back blogging again. It's been too long.


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