Sex Isn't Always Sexy

    I realised (not for the first time) that readers may be disappointed by my blog because it is not more pornographic. Perhaps my title is slightly misleading. So investigated. How exactly is the word “exploit” defined? Well according to dictionary.com it is as follows:

ex·ploit1

noun

a striking or notable deed; feat; spirited or heroic act: the exploits of Alexander the Great.

    I’m comfortable with that definition. Well the first part anyway, I’m not claiming to do anything heroic. 

    It’s not that I have a problem with writing dirty things. I think that’s obvious in November 9th and 11th’s posts, that I can do it. It’s just a lot of the time (most of the time... ok, almost all the time) the sex isn’t that remarkable. I think it would be fair to say that only 50% of men know where my clit is. It’s just not worth mentioning. I find the interactions with clients way more amusing than the actual act of sex. 

   In addition to that, I’m a little bias. I don’t want to tell you about the unpleasentries of my job. Like I say, sometimes my clients are gross. I’ll tell you about my last client though, no holding back. 

    He sounded drunk on the phone. He had a bit of a red neck accent, he sounded like he was older. He didn’t ask a lot of questions. He said he was staying in a hotel on a street that I drive frequently, but I’d never heard of this place. My GPS had though, so off I went. 

    I almost drove right past it, it was so tucked away, and what a dive! A motel of course.  The parking lot was empty, except for an old beater, and a brand new corvette. Drug dealer. I hope it was the drug dealer in room 37. There was a man leaning over the railing on the second level watching me get organised before I got out of my car. 

   “Ugh, please don’t be him,” I said under my breath as I got out of my car. Then as my car door shut, I realised I had forgotten my clients name. It was written down on a piece of paper in the cup holder. I wasn’t going back for it, not while I was being watched like that. He watched me climb the flight of stairs and walk towards him following the numbers, looking for #37. He was standing in front of an open door beside room 36. 

    “Hi, I’m Alison,” I say to him. This is the guy. Yippee. “Did you want to go inside?” 

    He flicks his cigerette into the parking lot, and follows me into the room. I make small chat as I survey the room. This guy wins the prize for most empty beer cans in one room.

    “How long have you been in town for?” I wouldn’t be surprised if he was living in the hotel. 

     As he tried to put his words together, I realised just how drunk he was. Super drunk. He settled himself on the side of the bed and followed my movements with his drunk eyes as I cleared off the unused bed. 

    “Come sit over here,” I instructed him, and helped him move to the other bed and get out of his clothes, as I did the same. We made more small chat about the John Wayne movie that was playing. 

    He lies down on his back, and I get out the lube and start giving him an HJ. My fear is that he can’t get hard. It’s not that I want to fuck him, it’s that I want to get out of there. The sooner he cums, the sooner I can go. I’m able to get him hard enough to get a condom on, and climb aboard. The thing about being on top, is I’m pretty in control of the situation. He tried to lean forward to put that foul smelling mouth on me, and I casually leaned back, as if I’m switching positions. Also it’s a lot easier to fuck a limp dick from above. Just sayin... 

    “Do you do anything else?” He asks.

    “Would you like to switch positions?” GFE is not going to be mentioned here, as it is clearly not an option. 

    He doesn’t respond. He’s so drunk, I don’t think he could do anything but just lie there. Then he just stops responding completely.

    “Did you cum?” I ask him. That is my most hated question. If a guy in my personal life asks me that, it’s an instant fail. I can tell if a dude cums about 90% of the time, but some time they’re sneaky.

    “I think so,” He says. Apparently he is sneaky!

     I reach to hold down the condom and pull off of him. I don’t even really care at this point. We were done. He wasn’t getting that thing hard again.

    He rolls off the bed and into the bathroom. I grab a towel from the kitchenette, wipe off, and get dressed as quickly as I could. 

    He stops cold as he comes out of the bathroom when he sees me putting my blazer on. “You’re leaving?” He asks.

    “Well, I think we’re done here, don’t you?” I say with an affectionate smile, “You look pretty content.” I didn’t give a fuck how he looked. I just wanted to put ideas into his head. 

    I was out the door about 32 seconds later.