Alienation and seclusion fill the atmosphere of the dilapidated, trashy motel room that I rented for thirty dollars a night – you know, the kind of venue where the most perverted, sketchy, and sleazy type of hustle takes place; where they still provide the old school, bulky box televisions with eight channels to choose from and it’s questionable whether or not the sheets and comforter have been washed or switched out at any point in the last decade – an ambience anywhere from drug dealers lingering in the vicinity, tons of the public intoxicated roaming aimlessly in a delirious state, folks displaced from their homes for whatever reason, a homeless guy sleeping behind the dumpster who, periodically, contorts back to life and rummages through the trash to recover morsels of malodorous scraps to eat, merely for survival – the list goes on in regards to the bewildered slew of characters that seek shelter in such a place; including myself. To a certain extent, I feel like it’s the sort of place I find comfort in; belong in for all the hurt and heartache I’ve caused over the years – like I’m subconsciously punishing myself; it’s chaotic; unpredictable; a collection of the mentally deranged. However, the loneliness of this unplanned solo mission starts to creep in while the liquor now flows steadily throughout my veins – but not too much just yet, I have plans formulating in my head that I can’t be too intoxicated to carry out, I’m suddenly Darth Vader crossing over to the dark side; hand me a red light saber because this sinister party is about to get started.
My mind is increasingly becoming fixated on an issue I should have accepted long ago; yet another addiction to supplement all the others in my fucked up arsenal of squalor; this is acceptance of a sex addiction that has begun to compound all the other problems in my life; it’s a relatively new problem, however, because I was married for about 4 years or so and in a long term relationship before that. The sheer fact that being a cheater or committing adultery not being a part of who I am is astonishing, considering my track record, to say the least; it’s one thing I never took part in and can’t see myself ever doing – I’m the faithful type with my only mistress being, yup, you guessed it – alcohol, which in all reality was probably more debilitating to my marriage than having an actual woman on the side. So now that I’m single and my needs as a man still need validation, I embarked into a world I’ve never traversed before: leading women on with false intentions; preying on vulnerable girls in early recovery (for those in the program, we commonly refer to this as the thirteenth step); I have even resorted to paying prostitutes and started watching excessive amounts of pornography.
Then there is the nefarious nature of Craigslist that comes into play, which undoubtedly functions as the world’s most popular internet flea market; a haven where one person’s garbage becomes somebody else’s treasure; there is virtually nothing that cannot be acquired through its assortment of options, opportunities, and services. In fact, I’ve been able to pull off anything from purchasing toys and furniture for my kids to searching out employment to finding hookers that fulfil all my sexual fantasies and desires – it certifiably exemplifies the nature of the wild, wild west. Staying true to my inner most being, I impulsively scroll through the “casual encounters” section which might as well be called, “here’s where the hookers are”; everybody knows that’s what it’s there for anyway, but for legality sake, I assume “casual encounters” keeps the site from running into any criminal issues or law suits. I finally find the girl I want, click her ad, get a response, and begin the waiting game as I pour one more drink down my throat to relax me a bit.
Anticipation rapidly sets in. I’m fairly certain my heart would be pounding if not for the couple drinks I consumed; instead I feel calm and relaxed, yet becoming increasingly impatient at this point – eagerly waiting to hear a knock at the door. On a side note, when engaged in this type of activity, there’s always a part of me that believes I am about to get caught up in a sting operation being filmed for a TV show featured on a channel like A&E, TruTV or any other number of channels that broadcast trash like that for Americans to eat up and feel better about their own situations. Be that as it may and as maniacal as it seems, the risk of that possibility adds to the thrill and excitement of the whole experience. I’m sick, let’s not forget that minor detail, but I’m frivolously working on it.
After what felt like an eternity, the knock at the door finally echoes throughout the motel room; the moment has arrived, and I couldn’t be more ready. I answer and my excitement instantaneously strengthens because it’s actually the girl from the picture in the ad I inquired about – she looked like the “girl next door”, but clearly something, somewhere went drastically wrong in her life to end up as a call girl, or maybe this was simply her solution to get herself through college and she likes sex – I don’t judge, but the probability that the gal is different from the picture is always another risk when ordering these particular services, albeit very minor in comparison to having my face plastered all over national television for soliciting. Business before pleasure; generally, that’s how it goes down, but actually handing money directly to the girl is a big no no. Financial details are worked out in advance using code words and phrases, such as “So, your grandfather is about to turn 100? Hour by hour he must have hung onto life with great resilience”. This is deciphered as the service for my particular needs are going to cost $100 per hour. The protocol is to leave the money somewhere on desk or night stand and state that a “donation” is over there on the desk for her if she would like it. After “donations” are handled, the fun begins.
The evil temptress is about to go to work; I lay on the bed. She begins to perform a slow and erotic striptease; eyes locked onto mine as she slowly unzips her jeans and starts to slide them down, just far enough so I can gaze at the tiny thong she is wearing underneath. My mind is quickly transforming into that of a wild animal; ready to pounce, but the build-up is proving to be entirely worth the wait so I sit still and enjoy the show being performed just for me. Button by button, her shirt gradually opens, exposing her breasts enclosed inside a bra; slender curves in all the right places; a midriff so toned and flat I could balance a thousand plates on it; before I know it the shirt is on the floor and, simultaneously she kicks off her heals. She’s moving closer to the bed, all the while losing her jeans in the process – I’m convinced I’m absolutely in the presence of and admiring pure perfection of the female form; lust in me intensifies immensely. Now in only a bra and panties, she leans over and in the sexiest voice whispers in my ear, ”now let’s take care of you honey”. Beginning to rub me wear the sun don’t shine, she undoes my belt and gets my jeans off – needless to say, I’m pitching quite the tent in my boxers at this juncture. She grabs my boner over the boxers and asks if I enjoy oral sex. My initial thought was, excuse me? Does not every guy love to receive a blow job? What actually came out of my mouth was a simple, “yes”. Off came my boxers, exposing a full, rock hard erection and before I could think another twisted or perverted thought, she had her lips wrapped around it, treating my penis as if it were the last popsicle left in the world; savoring it; slow and steady; applying the perfect amount of pressure and no infraction of her teeth; acting as though she absolutely loved sucking on it. Pure bliss.
I gently held her hair back so I could have a full view as she satisfied my lustful desires, giving equal attention to both my twig and my berries, which, in most instances, the poor, poor berries get neglected – but not this day. While wrapping up her magnificent blow job (I kind of wanted to give her a high five for such a well done job), she reaches behind her back and undoes her bra-strap, all the while finishing up the blow job. Her breasts are perfect, not too small and not too big; perky and erect. The last thing to disappear from her body was her panties and she subsequently jumped on the bed with me; allowing me to lustfully gaze at her in all her glory. After rolling the condom on, she gets on her back and commands me to enter with a sexy gusto in her voice; I enthusiastically obliged her request; such a wet and warm environment as I penetrate her; she moans and talks dirty to me during the entire session; phenomenal sex with a climax that was one for the record books – this girl was a true professional at what she did. Afterwards, she cleaned herself up, got dressed, and left; I was alone once again; $100 poorer, re-imagining the meaningless and emotionless sex, and pouring myself another (much larger) drink in this dilapidated, trashy motel.