Sabrina in Stockings smartass switch sex worker

It’s not supposed to be like this.

It’s not supposed to be this easy. And when it’s hard, when it’s uncomfortable, we’re not supposed to be so rational. The give and take is not perfect. It’s never perfect. But it’s not utterly unfair and there’s this tendency towards seeking a compromise, towards looking out for the other’s comfort without ignoring our own needs.

It’s not supposed to be like that.

I’m not supposed to understand him this well.

I’m not supposed to figure out how to give him what he needs like this, or derive so much joy in doing so. I’m not supposed to be so happy changing who I am and what I want because seeing that smile changes who I am and what I want. I note its causes and its rare surprise appearances, and I want to reproduce its causes. And I myself change as I change what I aim for.

And he smiles.

And it’s not supposed to be like that.

I’m not supposed to wake up knowing he’s just walked into the room. He’s not supposed to know just where and how much to tease me. Or how much I like taking sexual orders when I’m sleepy. Or how much I’m addicted to feeling him come inside me. He’s not supposed to make me ask for it. I’m not supposed to like it. We’re not supposed to keep our clothes on. Or off. Or feel this peaceful and relaxed and turned on. He’s not supposed to… set me off just thinking about my thighs tight around his hips, my legs locked around his ass, knees high and pulling him in. The way he’d tease my clit with the head of his cock. How he breathed into my hair and slid his cock in slow and held my hand with our fingers entwined while he pumped his come into my pussy. Looking into his eyes, just catching our breath, our legs still shaking.

I wasn’t supposed to say that.

We were supposed to just be experimenting. Don’t ask me what the hell happened. It’s not supposed to be like this. I mean, not only do we fuck like porno overachievers, we even make love.

Yep - I said it.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

He’s not supposed to be able to guess what I want or need before it occurs to me to mention it. He’s not supposed to be on the same page I am before I even told him what book we were reading. He’s not supposed to be so stubborn…

(…then again, neither am I.)

He’s not supposed to have earned my admiration and respect to such a degree that I would be willing to give up my life to ensure his survival, knowing it would be a sacrifice well worth making, within a few weeks of knowing him.

I’m not supposed to be like that.

I’m not supposed to be screaming things I don’t mean at the top of my lungs in an SUV while staring at signs of my future and realizing I might be on a steady path to somewhere…

…wherever the hell that is…

that I had no intention of even visiting.

It’s a sense of last-minute panic and impending doom. It’s smiling to yourself and feeling guilty like you sold yourself out but you liked the price. It’s frantically looking for excuses and exits, knowing all along that you’ve already made your decision.

It’s not supposed to be this easy.

This moment of clarity brought to you by Leos, vodka, and amateur strippers.

“You’re dressed like a porn star!”

I was just looking at some erotica tonight… stockings pics, to be exact. Miz Caine posted an update on her erotica site that demanded immediate viewing. We’re talking Mia in at least three different pairs of stockings, plus pantyhose and fishnets.

It’s enough to make a girl whimper and paw at the screen.

Anyway I was poking through her other galleries when I noticed she was wearing my bra. (Not literally. Sorry.) This happens to me from time to time when I’m browsing through porn and fetish photos, moreso with softcore. I’ll be clicking away one-handed, look up, and… “I have that outfit!”

It’s kind of distracting.

It happened to me again tonight (yes, not just again tonight, but again tonight). I was looking at the updates for OnlyTease, and there’s a pretty little blonde in white stockings and a pretty pink sweater.

I have it in green.

I find myself wondering what this says about me. I’m more likely to see someone wearing “my” clothes on a non-nude TGP than around my town or in a fashion magazine. Apparently I have the wardrobe of a softcore model. Several of them.

And on that note, I leave you with this yummy gallery of the temporarily-blonde Belle in stockings and satin. And no, I don’t have that dress.

My version has a subtle floral print.

The best of the sex blogs this week by the bloggers who blog them. Featuring the top 3 posts voted by Sugasmer participants. Want in Sugasm #48? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the linklist within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Lazy Sunday (http://www.chillivanilla.com)
“I flick my thumb across your clit, as if I were lighting a match, which, in many ways I am.”

The Secret (http://confessions112.blogspot.com)
“I came back to the bed and started to lavish kisses on him, savoring the inches of skin on him that I knew were mine and mine alone.”

You’re all I want (http://theholidaylife.blogspot.com)
“Go to the couch. Bend over. For me.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
How to Cure Female Ejaculation (http://sugarbank.com)

Editors’ Choice
Fetish, Fashion and The War On Terror (http://adelehaze.com)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Click through this week for sexy vampires, porn reviews, and coming out to your parents - as a sex blogger.

Mika Tan picture courtesy of Internet is for Porn.

Tonight I feel like I can’t draw a full breath. Both my bedroom windows are open and I can smell the rain outside but I still can’t make my mouth turn up and I still can’t stop myself from twitching. I keep shifting in this big leather executive chair and I just can’t get comfortable.

I know what I need to do; I just can’t do it right now.

I need to pull my boots on, grab my purse and glasses, and just go for a 2am drive in the rain.

I won’t stop til I’m in the next state.

I’ve got to get out of here. At this point I don’t really care where I go; I’ve got a book full of motel coupons in my glovebox, or I could sleep in my back seat using my trenchcoat as a blanket.

I’ll sit in some seedy all-night diner, some local chain I’ve never heard of, someplace where nobody knows me. I’ll sit in my booth and smoke, and write, and look for all the world like some misplaced beatnik putting on a pose.

I’ll pick up girls at rest stops. I’ll buy drugstore condoms. I won’t give my name. I’ll be Annie, maybe, or Jen. I look like a Jen.

I’ll be sure to tip my waitress.

The room will smell strangely like a basement. The light above the bed will be burned out. We’ll need to switch on the lamp.

We’ll kiss with our clothes on. We’ll lie down face to face in bed. We’ll finger each other and still feel very much alone. I won’t know what color her eyes are but I’ll memorize the cracks in the wallpaper.

We’ll wear jeans.

I’m tired of jeans.

I’ll take off my jeans and put on a pair of trashy fishnets and ask her to do the same. I need something a little fabulous, a little bit of motel room glamour.

It’ll cheer me up to see her legs out of those common jeans. Smoothed out and netted. Tarted up and on display for me - for my tired eyes and greedy hands. I’ll kiss her feet.

We’ll give each other something strange.

I’ll come back with stale breath and hopefully no love bites and the phone number of some tired-but-cute young waitress. Entirely too young for me but with much more experience with women. They all have, these days.

She could always lie. I’d never know.

I’ll go back to my boyfriend and my family and my cats. Back to my friends and sitting around at 2am in diners I recognize, not smoking and not writing, just swapping innuendo and dirty jokes and copping feels under the table… no.

It’s not summer anymore.

Back to not leaving my keyboard for days. Back to steady and unchanging, back to predictable and working late, back to fall and all it means, rainy nights and no one home but me. Back to the strangeness of sleeping in my own bed. Back to not having to cross my fingers and hope she was clean.

I wonder if it’s raining in Pennsylvania.

I don’t know what the hell this is. It’s 2am, it’s raining, and my last three diner waitresses have been entirely too smart and leggy.

The best of the sex blogs this week by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts voted by Sugasmer participants. Want in Sugasm #47? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the linklist within a week and you’re all set.

This week two themes topped the list: fiercely sexual femmes (including yours truly; thanks guys!) and women’s bodies in sex work and the adult industry. Good stuff - and there’s something for every taste after the cut.

This Week’s Picks
Body Image & Sex Work (http://lipstickexplosion.com)
“Then, I thought about myself in that playspace, obsessing over how to present my body, while the client, evidently, was enthralled.”

The Fever is Real (http://theholidaylife.blogspot.com)
“This was Dior’s way to lay down the gauntlet for Matthew… ‘I’m ready. I’m hot. I’m panting with desire. I’m gorgeous and sexy - come fuck me.’”

Just What You’re Missing (http://sabrinainstockings.com)
“That’s when I lean forward and kiss along your jawline… slow hungry pressings of soft lips and hot breath with just the barest hint of tongue.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Book Review: ‘Fresh: Girls of Seduction’ by Dave Naz (http://sugarbank.com)

Editors’ Choice
Having Myself All to Myself (http://www.TaraTainton.com)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm (or I’ll bust out my riding crop.)

The stunning Jurgita Valts appears c/o The Sex Box.

…Everyone has a hobby.

Nothin’ like it - a
slowfuck in the afternoon
(panties still soaked through)

Earth arched over sky
Push/pull - breath to sweaty breath…
Reverse cowgirl time!

Pants around his knees
I touch heaven at the root
and grab his ankles tight

I love to show you just what you’re missing.

I straddle you in your chair, throw my bare legs over your thighs and around your hips. The satin slides against the fabric of your pants and I almost slip off - I press my hips down and forward, a quick thrust into your swelling cock, half-innocent and accidental.

My fingers brush the skin at the back of your neck and trace a lazy trail up and down before twisting to rub your scalp right there at the back of your skull. Your head tilts back reflexively; you can’t help yourself.

That’s when I lean forward and kiss along your jawline… slow hungry pressings of soft lips and hot breath with just the barest hint of tongue. Something about wearing satin makes me feel langorous and sensual and I take my time devouring you. One soft suck at your earlobe and I whisper:

“Touch my breasts… squeeze them through the satin. I want to feel your hands on me while I kiss you.”

My little black panties are thin and I’m making sure you feel it, rubbing my slit against the bulge in your pants, pressing your cockhead right into the wettest spot. I grind my hips in a circle, in a dance, and run my hands through my long red hair, and flash you a teasing smile.

“No hands, now. Keep them at your sides.”

I use my right hand to grip the back of the chair and hold myself steady… conveniently pressing my breasts right into your face. My left hand unbuttons the top button of my satin pajama top, then the second, then the third. I let it fall open and my hand slides on down.

The best of the sex blogs this week by the bloggers who blog them. Spotlighting the top 3 posts voted by Sugasmer participants. Want in Sugasm #46? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the linklist within a week and you’re all set.

Check out this week’s full list; there’s a lot of quality sex blogging and we couldn’t fit it all into the top 3.

This Week’s Picks
Foreplaying pool (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)
“‘What say we make this interesting,’ I began while circling the table looking at the available shots, ‘If I win, I get a kiss.’”

All Tied up (part 6): The End (http://dirtyandthirty.blogspot.com)
“To cut a very long story short (well, not quite that short), the evening finished with me cumming all over Thirty’s beautiful body.”

Tableau of sensuality (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
“Use your other hand to explore further South… tickle that sensitive area around my navel… stroke the silkiness a little further below… and then you’ll find that silky soon becomes slick, plump and moist.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Fred Wilson, Venture Capital and Pornography (http://sugarbank.com)

Editors’ Choice
Sexbit - Fundraiser (http://www.seskuality.com)

More Sugasm #45
Join the Sugasm

Sexy cartoon courtesy of Kyoji San via Sugar Joy.

Mia asks:

So, I suppose the question should be asked: Because I take my clothing off for a living, am I worthy of being respected? Am I allowed that much? Or is it right for me to be disrespected because I show myself in provocative photos?

I suppose I’m a little stunned. I take off my clothing for a living, and because of that, I’m not worthy of respect. I knew that I had to pay for my profession with my privacy, but I didn’t know it would also cost me respect.

I mean, I’m not saying that you have to take me seriously 100% of the time. I’m not saying you can’t even view me as sexy - I’m flattered that anyone does. But I do think that I’m entitled to at least a trace amount of respect here. My opinions and views shouldn’t be any less valuable just because I have a website where I take my top off.

-In Theory: The Dissection of the Allowance of Respect and Whether Erotica Models are Deserving of Such, DamnJezebel.com

And I left a comment that turned into a post:

It’s just the old Madonna/Whore thing again. We’re told that anyone who’s publicly sexual or in any other way pushes sexual boundaries not only isn’t worthy of respect, and isn’t even a real person, but doesn’t respect theirself. Usually herself. I guess that comes from the “loose women sleep around due to low self esteem and aren’t picky about who they boink” theory but what that has to do with making smut, I don’t know…

I say, if you can’t respect me naked, you can’t respect me clothed and probably never respected me to begin with. My opinions and character don’t change depending on what I’m wearing and whether or not it shows too much cleavage.

I’m tempted to blow it off and say some people are just paleolithic backwards dicks, the kind of people who are so retro they’re also racist and homophobic… but plenty of guys and girls keep on perpetuating this idea, that a woman’s value is in the (perceived, in this case) scarcity of her crotch, not in her mind or as a whole person.

That’s probably one of the least feminist sentiments I can hear someone express, right up there with “Why are you wearing shoes and what are you doing out of the kitchen?” (And that one’s usually a joke.)

This is some of the especially fun stuff sex workers get to deal with when we date. We have to wonder if we’re still good enough to take home to Mom. We have to lie about what we do - or tell a very slanted version of the truth. We have to deal with not only his or her conflicting feelings about whether or not it’s okay for a girlfriend to do this, but our own conflicting feelings about the same. On top of all that whenever you start having sex with somebody or get into any kind of romantic relationship, your mental and emotional boundaries get nudged, and this can affect your sex work boundaries or even interests. (This was true for me: I started off as a sub, got into fetish stuff when I was single, and now that I’m in a relationship again, I’m craving mostly fetish and domme sessions to balance out the bottoming I do “at home.”)

Dating’s easier because you’re coming in as you are, expecting to a degree to be taken as you are. When things get more serious you start to wonder how what you do is going to affect his work, his life, your sex, whether or not you’ve got a future…

If he has some of those old attitutes regarding respect and publicly sexual women you worry he thinks of you as lesser because of what you do - or because you love to do it. I don’t want to change my job. I love my job, even when it’s slow and I’m having to ponder hawking stuff on eBay. I wouldn’t change it for anything.

Not even a professional sales job with millionaire potential. Not even something respectable that I could brag to somebody’s mom about.

I couldn’t brag to myself about it. I’d know it was a compromise. Not a compromise between two people; a compromise of myself. And that, to me, would show a lack of self-respect.

It’s impractical but I know no way in hell am I going to go in there and work my ass off doing something I hate just for money. If I’m going to work my ass off it’s going to be figuring out how to be comfortable doing what I love. If that means working part time temporarily at something I’m not crazy about, so be it. But I believe in following your passions.

I might not be the girl you take home to Mom because you’re afraid that I might get excited and talk about whatever X-rated business venture I’ve got up my sleeve. I’ll be the girl sitting there in my pretty lacy panties counting the money I earned with my creativity, my perseverance, and my dirty mind knowing that the little girl who used to dream of owning her own business and living with passion and integrity, even if that meant living alone, would be proud of me.

And yeah - anyone worth having me would be proud of me too.

(They’d get bonus points for helping me brainstorm on marketing.)

That’s the kind of self-respect sex workers supposedly don’t have, isn’t it? The kind that means not compromising who you are and your values for every Tom, Dick, and Mary that come around.

Real friends don’t care if you show your tits on the internet.