A Surgeon's Hands

He wanted to go out to eat first. I wasn't in the mood. When a man is paying for sex and wants to go on "date" first, it usually means two things: it means that he is looking for a girlfriend experience and, 9 times out of 10, it means he could be a repeat customer. The latter is why I obliged. Girlfriend experience is kind of my thing. That's how I make my money. It's just what it sounds like; $300/hr for a few hours of talking, cuddling and intimate fucking. When a man wants to have sex with a beautiful figure he can go to any whore.

When a man wants to make love to his ideal woman, when he dreams of seducing this stranger and making her his own, well that's where I come in. The trick to pulling off the girlfriend experience is to become his dream girl. If you can become the ideal woman, inside and out, you can get a John that will support you for years. I have an aptitude for catching on to what a man wants me to be. Don't get me wrong, I've had a lot of fun with men that were just in it for the fuck. I make myself available to those men by including in my repertoire a few tricks most girls won't turn. But the real fun is in the Johns that are in it for the experience. The psychological game is the most gratifying for me. For the hours that I am with a GFE client, I am whoever they want me to be. The first meeting is so important. Gathering information without letting on that you are constantly morphing is an amazing trick. It's sleight of hand for the mind.

I'm taking the Blue Line downtown. We decided when we were emailing that he would pick me up at the ------ station. On the El I prepare myself for the task at hand. I pull my memo book out of my bag to check my notes and consider what I know already. He responded to one of the ads that gave my situation a "lonely diamond in the rough" feel. I always like to go for the ones that I don't have to feel like I need to dumb down for. By this point I had learned that putting out ads that reflect different types makes the work easier, and it isn't hard to stand out in the sea of online erotic ads containing assaults on the English language that, in my opinion, should carry a heftier fine than the acts they are describing. When I get a response to an ad that is more specific I can already know so much about my client. This particular ad read something like this:

semi-pro new girl (shows I may have some innocence intact). Red hair, hazel eyes, 34C, 140#. Looking for a little help with bills every now and then(this gets the ones that want to avoid guilt by rationalizing that they're "helping" me while showing a desire for repeat meetings) in return for intimate(shows the openness to GFE, kissing, etc.) company. $300/hr, outcall only.

The picture that I use clearly shows my plethora of facial piercings, so I tend to get the type of clients that are looking for a bad girl. Someone they can tame and ride... like a cowboy. My notes say that tonight's job is a doctor... a plastic surgeon if I have it down correctly.

As my train jolts to a stop I realize my station is next. I have just enough time to reapply my lip gloss by feel, thinking about that shape of my lips carefully, before I am being shoved out the doors by impatient travelers. I get pictures of most of my clients before we meet, but it doesn't matter because I can never put a face with a name. Looking for him is the hardest part. I usually plant myself somewhere visible and wait for them to find me. I like to make a game of trying to spot my suitor in the crowd without seeming to notice anyone. I giggle at a few of my guesses as they walk past before I see him. I can tell he's my man from his body; type, as I remember from the photo and language because he's looking straight at me, leaning forward slightly. He approaches, ever so cautiously, like a child trying to catch Santa Claus on Christmas Eve; he nervously asks if I am Betty. I nod and give a little smile. Best not to talk too much until I get a feel for how he wants my responses. He shows me to the car and opens my door. I smile widely at the gesture and get in. The car smells clean. I survey my new friend as he babbles on with giddy excitement about how great it is to meet me or something of the sort. I can't tell his ethnicity from looking at him, but he has skin that I believe would be described as "toast" covered with "olive". The color makes me think of painting over your colored walls with another color without paining them white first, leaving a muted shade no one can place. He is short and round, like a fat baby. He has dark black hair that covers his arms in an even thin spread. The skin between his hairs is unusually soft looking. The drive to the restaurant is a sea of small talk and trying to make myself look comfortable and vulnerable at the same time. He tells me he's picked out a quiet diner where we can get to know each other.

When we get to the diner, much like any other in the City, we take a quiet corner in the back. He tells me all about his work and life history. Tells me something about parents and siblings and some story about his childhood. He tells me about medical school and not having time for young love. He tells me about his long hours and not having enough time to get to know anyone. He tells me that I seem like a woman with a history, someone worth taking the time (and money) to get to know. He apologizes for talking so much (it was boring and he knows it) and sits back. He's ready to hear my stories, stories more like the ones he wishes he could have experienced. This one's in the bag.

I can see that my shyness is putting him at ease. He wants to feel in control of the relationship. I can tell that he values intelligence. I assume with unseen confidence that his dream is to find the brilliant whore he can reform... he's out to find the street walking genius he can nurture into a radiant trophy wife with a back-story to make his golf buddies cum with envy. With this in mind I tell him what he wants to hear. I tell him how I moved to the city and needed money... how I really want to go to school to be a chef or a baker...I tell him of past sexual experiences that have lead me to be the kind of woman that is comfortable selling her body. I tell him about existentialism and how connected we are. I make sure to look him in the eye cautiously at first. Minimal eye contact and slight blushing give the appearance that I am telling secrets of the soul. He feels that he is the only man to draw such personal details from me. I keep my body slightly tensed so that when he reaches out to caress my hand I can let him feel me relax. I tell him about the homeless friend I am supporting and how much I love my cat, Pi. He's eating it up. I can feel myself getting wet as I watch his reactions to my words. Nothing gets me ready to fuck like weaving a reality. Check please.

He lived in a small condo downtown somewhere. When we walked in the door I asked to use the bathroom as quickly as possible. This was a habit of mine that I never quite figured out. I looked in the mirror and adjusted a few strands of hair. I turned the water on and wet my hands. I put a cool hand on the back of my neck to slow my pulse. I washed my hands and exited to the find my "date" waiting in the kitchen. I took a seat at a barstool near the kitchen island, fully aware that my skirt is more flattering when I'm perched. I lean in slightly, watching him taking me in. His place is much brighter than the diner, and he can fully appreciate my low cut tank top made nearly entirely out of lace. It's a teal blue color that sets off my skin and hair. He offers me a beer and I happily accept. I work better under the influence. He gets me a drink and hovers over the counter. I can tell he wants to hear more about this wild life that I lead, and I am ready to talk.

I tell him of my escapades, making sure to maintain my sweet demeanor. I am the perfect mix of down to earth and out of this world. He seems to be intrigued by drug usage. He asks me about pot and I tell him that I smoke. He asks if it makes sex better... I tell him it makes everything better. He erupts in a capricious smile and tells me he has something for me. He goes into the bedroom closet and produces a Tupperware container. It's filled with pot, coke, pills and things I can't identify. He tells me that he picked these things up for a bachelor party and has some left over. I try to keep my eyes from giving away my shock as I try to figure out if he is just telling me this so that I don't think he keeps this much on hand.

"So, how far would you go?" For a moment I don't know what he means. Staring at the tub of drugs his hand lingers on I quickly understand. I try to look composed. I tell him there isn't much I haven't done and nothing I wouldn't try once. His eyes sparkle with approval. He packs up a glass pipe and hands me a lighter. I thank him sweetly and take a hit. I should be preparing for what lies in the depths of the coffer, but all I can do is wonder if the Tupperware was purchased new or if he had to throw away some old potato salad to store his "leftovers". Fantastic weed. I hand the bowl back to him and he points a flat palm in my direction. He tells me that he's on call. He places a pager on the table as if to prove that he could be called away at any moment. He just wants to watch me get high. I try to sit up straight on my barstool, but I'm beginning to get dizzy. This pot is fucking amazing. I down a little more beer and pretend to lose the inhibitions I never had to begin with. I relax my gaze and tell him that he's spoiling me. He's so happy to hear this he's nearly drooling all over his maid-polished counter tops. I look down at the bowl and I'm happy to see that it is almost cashed. I take a breath, ready to inhale the last of it and get to business when I notice him take the bag of coke out of his treasure chest and cut it into lines.

Rolling up a bill he asks me to tell him the craziest thing I've done. I snort a fat line of cocaine that makes my face nearly instantly numb. I tell him about that summer, in that little southern town, back home, when I screwed that Baptist preacher in the baptism pool. I tell him about how after that day, I would stop by the church some Sunday mornings to sit in the front row. I tell him about how I licked my lips and made sure to sit where Preacher Dulin could see my cleavage glistening in the heat of the small church. I told him how the Holy man would rub himself, ever so slightly, against the podium as he watched me sing in praise of a god I'd never believe in. As he stared at me in silent awe and disbelief I snorted the rest of the cocaine and quickly asked him to show me to the bedroom before he could offer me any more drugs.

His bed was covered in black silk sheets. I try not to stumble as I take off my ridiculous work shoes. Black strappy nightmares with a 5" heal... not something to try to walk in when you are fucked up. I lay down in his bed and he gets in beside me. He tells me that he can't believe how amazing I am. He tells me how he has been looking for a woman like me all his life. He loves my humor and intelligence, and more so, he tells me, he loves how surreal I seem. I kiss him hard to make him stop talking. He rubs my nipples with stubby hands as I climb on top of him, never stopping the dance our tongues are performing between our mouths. I kiss his mouth softly before sitting up to take off my bra and shirt. He moans in expectation at the sight of my bare breasts. I stand above him for a moment and slip my skirt passed my ankles and throw it on the floor at the foot of the bed. I let him admire me for only a moment, I am surprisingly self conscious when I am naked, a trait I know he will find slightly endearing. Lying forward on top of him I kiss his chest as I fumble past the round rubber ball that is his torso searching for his cock, careful to make my motions smooth. What I find is more than disappointing and I let out a sigh that I quickly turn into a moan of anticipation. At this point I'm coked up, high and slightly drunk. I am ready to get fucked. I quickly realize this is going to take some of the best acting of the night. Best to dive in head first. I suckle the head while trying to get a feel for how he likes it. His penis is short and folded over with excess fat. This was the first time I saw fat rolls on a cock. I curve my tongue around it and listen for cues. He prefers licking to hard sucking. He nearly squeals when I cup his balls and press with just the right amount of pressure.

Grabbing me hard by the shoulders he pulls me upward towards his face when I stop for a breath. Before I can react he has flipped me over and is on top of me. His body is much bigger than mine, and for a moment I think I might pass out from the pressure, but he shifts his weight and plunges two fingers into my dripping pussy. His hands move too quickly and his eagerness makes him a sloppy lover. He squeezes a breast with his unoccupied hand and begins to lick and suck my nipples. He pinches them hard and whispers in my ear "can you tell I have surgeon's hands?" I nod and gaze at him, eyes slightly closed, mouth slightly open. He shifts his mass and enters me with his stubby cock, a fact that I know from his facial expression only. I grab a handful of silk sheets and think about being 14 and masturbating with a Champaign cork. I remember learning about Kegel exercises and attempting to "pop the cork". I give him a squeeze and I tell him he feels amazing inside of me. The second my words were comprehended he lunged forward and began pounding faster than I ever would have thought he could move. He asks me if I like his drugs, and I smile the first honest smile of the night.