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.

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.

…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

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.

I want to write about it, but it all blurs together in my mind. I need to write about it - at least in private - to keep each time separate.

I like to remember.

Right now it’s like this:

Tonight I just went back to the first place he gave me an orgasm.

…Kissing in the kitchen - all over the kitchen, up on the counter, bent against the stove. I was bent over against the table and I don’t know if his hand was down the front of my pink capris or over them but I remember thinking they could all hear me from the next room, even though I bit my lip…

…And he just lay on top of me, and kissed and kissed me until I came…

…That was the first time anyone had ever facefucked me. I mean, grabbed my hair and just used my mouth. And I liked it. The next time he stroked my hair and told me how beautiful I looked like that (on my knees, licking the underside of his shaft) and I believed him.

…When I saw the lightning, I looked over, sure it was a camera flash and we were caught with our pants around our ankles, in the woods, with me bent over presenting my ass to him. Oh my God, I twined my fingers in the grass and clutched at the earth and the thunder sounded, and the lightning crackled overhead, and I know the earth didn’t move but we were shaking and sweating and I fell forward and all I could think was I’m not drunk, I’m not drunk, I’m holding onto a blade of grass and I haven’t fallen off the earth. The rain didn’t start until we were clothed and out of the woods…

…He holds me down and spanks with his whole arm. Mmh. And waits for me to safeword, no matter how I squirm.

I told him I liked leather. I like to smell it, touch it - I just love the way it looks. He put on a leather jacket, leather pants, leather boots, a leather belt, and a skintight spandex shirt. All black. I creamed my panties right there and I was so obviously in his thrall… He looked over his shoulder at me and said, “You can call me Master now, if you want.” So I did.

I wore a little red plaid skirt and fuck-me boots up to there. And he did. Up to there. In the backseat. Pray for us sinners now, indeed.

…”Have you ever done it on your computer before?” Clearly cybersex doesn’t count. Neither does masturbating to internet porn. Neither do naked pictures, or recording orgasms… So, no. And damn.

“We’re running out of places to have sex in this town. Soon, it’ll be like, ‘Oh, look, it’s yet another place we’ve done it in _______.’”

…Can’t keep his hands off me long enough for me to install this damn case fan. Curses! Another screw lost. Can’t… fumble for screw… Hands on clit… clit on fire… Oh holy gods what is he DOING?…

…He bound my wrists together above my head with the pantyhose. Brand new pair. Silky, tan, reinforced toe. The nylon tightened around my wrists, and he gagged me with my own lace panties… He took the gag out of my mouth once. “How many times did you come?” “I… I don’t know?” “Wrong answer.” Then his fingers slammed into me and oh. my. GOD. My panties were filling my mouth and the lace scratching on my tongue kept me here holding on for half a second before I was just gone.

…Exhilirating, that’s what this has been. A fucking mental rollercoaster ride, but not in the moody sense. I love it.

This time he let me, or rather I did, well…

He was in the chair and I was tugging at his hair and kissing him slow and I decided to have some fun, so I did, and he got sort of still and passive and receptive and I think this boy could really dig on a little T&D.

Also being bitten and manhandled makes him twitch down low and YUM.

That’s promising.

Goosebumps on his neck when I kissed it, and held his hair back, tugging his head back, running my teeth along his neck, and he liked the vulnerability, he didn’t have to say a word. My tongue licking right where his pulse was, the goosebumps when I ran a nail down the side of his neck slowly, the little moans when I just straddled his thighs, fully clothed the both of us, and didn’t touch anything below his collarbone except his arms and back, but touched everything above his collarbone with fingers and lips and teeth and tongue.

I swear we went into a trance when we kissed. It was very sensual and still and sacramental…

…Bent over doggystyle on his bed and I can’t walk right for a week after, he’s pounding me so hard, and it’s worth every limping step…

And there are so many times he’s just gone to town on me, and I’ve become nothing more than a bundle of oversensitized nerve endings and jumbled rushing feelings, and I’ll just lie there with my arms bound above my head and twitch, and rise up toward his touch, and whimper, and moan, and scream into the gag because it’s all I can do, just respond, as he overwhelms my body with sensations of warm breath and wet lips and strong hands and thick cock…

There you have it, chronological order be damned. The juiciest parts, of course, I’ll keep to myself. I’m not going to regale you with every saucy detail - he likes his privacy and my face is attached to these posts. I’m just going to start keeping a private journal, so that my private life can inspire my public fiction. And vice versa.

I’m hungry. Hungry for passion, for fire, for life and love. And heartbreakingly kinky sex.

Guys always say they want an insatiable woman, one they can’t keep up with. A nympho. Someone as addicted to touching their cocks as they are. A woman who’s wet and ready just about any time, day or night. A vixen who prefers belting out a hoarse “YES!” to just saying no.

Go ahead - admit it.

This chick will invariably get on your nerves. I don’t care how high your sex drive is: She’s going to drive you crazy. You’re going to find yourself saying, “I’m too tired!” and even the dreaded “Could you please just stop grabbing my cock?”

She’ll try to warn you most guys have a hard time keeping up with her. You’ll tell her you have the same problem. After all, you have a pretty high sex drive. Most of your previous lovers haven’t wanted it three, four times a week like you do.

She will wear you out. She will want it, crave it, no - need it - more like three times a day.

There is one trick to handling the near-nymphomaniac: exhausting them with orgasms.

It worked on me; I’m a recent victim.

Yeah, some days when I’m not blogging it’s because I can’t walk straight or stop shaking long enough to type. Damn, life is good.

(Next post: the heartbreakingly kinky sex.)

Lots of us sassy sexual intellectual types (okay, perverted nerdy girls) have a leetle problem. We’re independent. Very independent. To the point of being dependent on independency.

We’ve got a near-phobia of the idea of becoming The Girlfriend - the needy, clingy, stereotypically feminine, weak woman who mistakes sex for love and starts picking out china patterns on the second date. That kind of woman makes too many demands and we’re not all about that.

We’re cool. We don’t need you, your love, your care, your time, your emotional support, your money. You’re not going to make fun of us to your guy friends. We’re the kind of chicks who think porn and pizza make a great date. We’ll spring for the pizza (and probably the porn). We won’t expect dinner and roses before we put out. Hell, we won’t expect anything. At all.

And if we find ourselves wanting something, we’re going to have an awfully hard time asking for it without feeling like horrendous needy, clingy bitches. If we start falling in love it’s even worse. Girls like us weren’t built for traditional love. We were expecting a lifetime of casual dating and dear, treasured… fuckbuddies. We want to cum and go as we please and are happy to extend you the same courtesy. If you don’t want it you’ll only confuse us.

(I am, thusly, very confused right now.)

There are a lot of girls like that out there now who don’t feel right asking to be treated like some kind of chaste princess, because we’re not chaste and we’re not princesses. We’re Just One of the Guys, only with great boobs. We’ll be happy if you remember our birthdays and we’ll notice when you do favors for us. We’ll bend over backwards to make you happy (while giving you head, of course. And girls like us always swallow.). We’ll think it’s thoughtful to send you obscene text messages. We’ll worry you’ll think we’re falling too fast when we plan special stripteases for your birthday.

We go in looking for sex, not love. Maybe friendship. Not love. We want someone who’s interesting in and out of bed. Mostly in bed. And frequently. We need adventure, we need to be an adventure - we’re terrified of being domesticated.

We don’t need too many attachments, we don’t like to get too close - but when we fall, we fall hard, and it confuses the ever living fuck out of us.

On watching Mia’s member site solo tease video, “Private Show”:

That’s what I want to do for a living. I want to do what she just did.

It’s this personal feel, this subtlety and sexiness, that I want to create. My tastes run darker and I’ve got some strong fetish fixations but…

That settles it. No longer will the stocking tease site lurk on the back burner of my Endless Projects list. I want to do it, and damn it, I’m going to. I’m also going to relaunch Full Frontal Politics, possibly as a vodcast instead of a blog, possibly in addition to. I’m also going to have a teasecast (either video or podcast, still debating).

How is this going to happen, you ask, when I’ve gone weeks without a single post here, and when the Sugasm’s been late going up due to all manner of random ills?

Well, two things: Sometimes a long string of random ills impeding your progress can be a sign that you’re progressing in the wrong direction. And sometimes the most seemingly random things can remind you of what you really need to be doing.

Tonight I saw that Angela St. Lawrence (a fellow PSO, a writer I read before getting into this game, and a cool chick to boot) over at ZenFetish had recommended one of my older stories, Smells Like Vanilla, to her readers (thanks!). I hadn’t posted any stories in a while - had been too busy playing catchup, and felt guilty writing for myself - and I’d been feeling the writing itch; one glance down at the OnlyTease pic of the day and I had an idea pouring into a blank WordPress post.

It was good, too. Upskirt, tease and denial, and drawn from some fun I had last fall semester.

My laptop ate it.

This was the last in a long series of stupid, senseless fucked up things getting in the way of my blogging for all the wrong reasons.

It’s not a popularity contest; it’s not about perceived importance or ego food. It’s about whether or not you’re writing something honest, and by honest I don’t mean truthful, at least in the sense of being factually accurate; I mean in the sense of being true to life. That’s what art is about, touching something real. Even if it’s pure escapism it touches on a real desire to be lifted out of this life for a little while and into something wilder/different/better.

(I’d gotten out of chasing my wet dreams to chase a) ego food in the form of a prestige startup blogging gig, b) the unglamorous phone whoring that pays the bills. a) cut into b), creating c) unpleasant letters and phone calls. c) pissed me off. d), miscellaneous crisis crap, caused me to have to fix c) abruptly; both d) and b) then cut into a).

Forgive the algebra; it was never my strong point. Shit got in the way. I’d get my shit together - or some of it - and more would fall apart. All the while I was ignoring the things I really had to be doing, like… oh… all the stuff I’ve had planned since before I started this blog.)

Mia makes some damn good erotica. It’s not throwaway porn. It’s not something you delete as soon as you “finish” with a vague sense of boredom or disgust. You save it for later, maybe just to look at because she’s pretty and it’s pretty porn, maybe for another go-round or three, maybe because it makes you think.

I’m not kidding you. It was so hot I had to show my boyfriend the video, and then (after composing himself) we sat and talked about just why it was so hot. We got abstract, we got technical, we got almost an hour’s worth of analysis out of a four-minute cam video tease.

The thing I loved about the video is a) the music kicks ass, b) she gets the subtleties. Pacing, teasing, putting on a show… She doesn’t just flash the hoo-hah and slap her boobs a couple of times. She gets it. Bonus points for wearing stockings like she means it.

There you have it. Mia is contagiously hot. Now at present I’m not getting any pimping fees for promoting her; her affiliate program hasn’t gone live yet [edit, 12/04/06: it's live; links updated accordingly]. I’m doing this purely because a) she’s awesome b) she remembered my birthday c) I must evangelize for good porn and erotic materials. Also, my man thinks she has captivating eyes.

Straight from the source: “Well, once you get past the whole ‘gorsh she’s got huge jugs’ or ‘how many dicks can she put in her ass?’ you can appreciate the (better things, in my opinion) eyes and expressions, and it really sells it when you can just feel that she is having a good time and enjoying it.”

If you want to see the solo video, the erotica galleries, the sexy audio… you have to join. I’m tipping you off now because Mia’s running a special: 5.95 for your first month. I’m pretty sure that ends this weekend though so if you’re a cheap bastard like me, get in there now for some primo amateur erotica from an infamous sex blogger. Then come back here and thank me.

Okay, as you might have noticed, I’ve fallen off the face of the earth recently.

Life shat on me for a few months in a row, and I kept thinking as each individual incident was knocked out of the way, that it would all be over and things would be back to normal any second now.

Every time this happened some new thing would come along and shit on me.

This continued for a few months. I’d always get a long enough lull to convince myself and others that I wasn’t going to have to pare down, give up on anything, or accept getting shat on by life as the new natural order of things and compensate accordingly. It was an extremely long-running streak of bad luck, probably induced by using up all my good luck in a) my mom not being dead, b) getting regularly laid.

I don’t like to air my dirty laundry in public so I played down, shut up, and tried not to explain much even in private. It would all sound like excuses. On the other hand it (late Sugasms, lack of responding to emails, lack of blog posts which you all know isn’t like me) wasn’t happening for no reason. The reasons were personal, familial, health-related, and financial, topped off with a recent slice of techical difficulties, and they were severe, and they were multiple, but nobody’s dead and I’m not writing this from the library closest to the homeless shelter, so nobody worry.

I like to think it’s over now but after being fooled so many times I can’t be sure. What I can be sure of is that I’ve now got backup on the Sugasm so no matter what stupidity occurrs in my own life you guys aren’t having to deal with it. That was bothering me more than you know. We’re talking guilt-ridden angst and everything.

There are some cool projects of my own I’d like to launch soon. I’ll throw them out one at a time and see how that works.

Comments are disabled on this puppy because it’s a notification and an apology more than anything. I’m sorry for the delays. Thanks for being so patient and understanding; good stuff’s coming down the pipe. And double thanks to those of you who commented and emailed. Seriously - it meant a lot to me. You rock my sexy, stripey socks.

Smut and Sugasm tonight for ya. Probably late tonight, but I’ll do it before dawn. (Ooh.) I’ve got some drafts to roll out for you.

I’ll make it up to you, baby. I promise. I’ll change… I’ll be a better person for you!

Smooches.

Today (June 8th) was my birthday, but you’re getting the present:

• The top search on my blog for the past two weeks has been audio.
• I’ve been wanting to make more audio posts for quite some time now.
• There has been a very good/bad idea floating around in my head for the past couple of months.
• It’s almost time for the return of an old friend.
• My final missing piece has arrived. I now have everything I need.

Watch this space.

How long will I keep you waiting? 3-5 days. On the other hand I might just surprise you tomorrow…