Exhibitionism and voyeurism to an extreme.
While living my life as a whore, even after I married, with my husband's blessings, I deliberately exposed my nightgown and underwear clad, topless, and naked body to my husband's friends, to our neighbors, and to unsuspecting strangers. Whether exposing myself to men or to interested women, I enjoyed teasing them by flashing them. With flashing an artform that takes practice to make my flashing not look deliberate, I had a way of flashing my underwear clad, topless, and/or naked body while making my flashing appear unintentional or accidental.
Relieved that he's good with me exposing myself, an unexpected surprise, my husband is proud that his wife is an exhibitionistic whore. Instead of stopping my wicked, sexual ways, shockingly, he wanted me to continue my whoredom. As long as I told him about all of the flashing that I do and their reactions to seeing something of me that they shouldn't have seen, he wanted me to continue exposing myself to his friends and to unsuspecting strangers.
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From the time that I turned 18-years-old, no longer jailbait or a virgin, thrilled to be born a woman instead of a man, no ands, ifs, buts, or maybes, unashamed to admit it, I've always been a whore. My favorite sexual things to do, I loved exposing myself as much as I loved sucking, cock, fucking cock, and licking pussies. With it all part of being a whore, I loved exhibitionism as much as I loved having sex with men and with women.
Truth be told, I could have been a prostitute. Instead, being arm candy for wealthy men and successful women worked out for me better than standing on a street corner with other hookers while having sex with random Johns and Jills. Escorting the people that I rubbed elbows with to social functions paid more and was a much safer way of having sex without the fear of arrest. Moreover, instead of looking like a dirty streetwalker, as if I was Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, my generous benefactors bought me the best clothes, shoes, and jewelry to wear.
Nonetheless, whatever I called myself a call girl, an escort, sex worker, or lady of the night, I'm a bi-sexual whore. Whether having sex with men or with women, my favorite thing to do, I love having sex. I love stroking and sucking cock as much as I love fingering and licking pussies. Forgetting all of my problems, my regrets, and my woes, clearing my mind of everything bad, I get lost when giving and receiving sexual orgasms.
It thrilled me like nothing else when making out with a man or with a woman when he or she explored my fully dressed body by feeling me through my clothes. Not taking much more than that, I loved it when they felt my breasts and fingered my erect nipples through my blouse and bra while passionately kissing me. I loved it when they felt and squeezed my ass through my short skirt. It drove me wild when they reached beneath my short skirt and cupped my pussy while fingering me through my panties. When they did that, I was theirs for the taking.
Taking full advantage of being beautiful, sexy, and shapely, unable to separate one from the other, I loved being a woman as much as I loved being a whore. Unashamed and unembarrassed of my sexual passion, my rite of passage, I'm actually proud of being a whore. Being arm candy for the right men and women has opened doors for me that would have otherwise remained closed. As if I'm a celebrity, dressed in my best clothes, with my hair and makeup done to perfection while wearing my high, heel shoes, I loved being made to feel special.
Because I willingly and consensually gave men and/or women what they sexually wanted, with them financially well off, they gave me what I financially wanted. They took me to dinner, to the ballet, to the opera, and bought me drinks. Then, by showing them a good, sexual time later, surprising me with their generosity, they bought me gifts: perfume, clothes, jewelry, and even a car. They gave me money whenever I asked and whenever I needed it. A win/win sexual proposition, as long as I gave them all that they sexually expected, wanted, and deserved, they gave me whatever I financially needed.
Leaving their families behind, they'd rather have sexy fun with me as their travel companion. Lying to their spouses that they were taking business trips, they took me on vacations instead of taking their families. They flew me aboard their private jets and took me out on their luxurious yachts. Feeling more like their lover than I felt like a prostitute or a call girl, they showed me good, fun times as I showed them amazing, sexual times. Assuredly, and without a doubt, they've never been sucked, licked, and fucked until they've been sucked, licked, and fucked by me.
Removing the business pressure from their weighted shoulders, I allowed them to decompress. Even if we remained in bed while talking, they needed that time to be away from the stresses of their business and/or the requirements and obligations of their families. I did that for them. Giving them a lightness to their step, I made them whole again. Doing my job as their sexual confidant, I gave them the time to regenerate their energy by making them feel sexually special.
Not an easy job for me to do, I had to read literature, keep abreast of changes in the stock market, global economies, and current events. I needed to learn more than one foreign language. It was my job not only to sexually entertain them as their escort but also, I needed not to bore them. Plying myself with information as if I was a contestant cramming for Jeopardy, I needed to know about geography, history, science, and math. I needed to impress whoever I was with to maintain their interest in them wanting to keep me around.
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Then, catching me by surprise, even when maintaining my way of staying emotionally detached, something unexpectedly happened to ruin my whoredom. Not wanting love nor looking for love, when I least expected it, love just happened. A man that I met at a bar, I allowed him to buy me a drink. Bored while waiting for someone who was a no-show, we talked the night away. A welcomed change, I enjoyed myself being with a normal person instead working to hold my own when with a rich, enormously intelligent, witty, and career driven man or woman.
With him as handsome, as he was funny, and intelligent, I fell in love with Jim. I impressed him with my big brain and my worldly manner. I never thought of marrying anyone until I met him. A perfect match, because he already had a son from a previous marriage, as much as he didn't want any more children, thinking more of my figure than of motherhood, I didn't want children either. With me so vein, and with my body image important to me, I didn't want to be fat and flabby with a big ass and saggy breasts.
Retired from my lifestyle of sexual debauchery and luxury, I was in love. Not wasting time with formalities, love at first sight, and immediately engaged, giving up my fast lifestyle, I returned to Earth to marry when I was 28-years-old. My fiancé, a machinist instead of a banker, a financial adviser, a business owner, a multi-millionaire, or an aspiring billionaire, bought us a modest, two-bedroom, one bathroom house that he paid cash. Finally, pulled down to reality by my feet as if I had traveled the globe in a hot, air balloon, I'm a happily married woman in suburbia.
Yet, my life was not all roses. Before I married, filled with anxiety and trepidation, nervous about telling Jim about my sordid, sexual past, yet not wanting to start our marriage with lies, I needed to tell him all that he needed to know. Deeply in love with him and believing that love conquered all, I surprised even myself with all the sexual exploits that I remembered and wanted to tell him. If I was a gifted, romance writer, I could have written a book of all the sex that I had in that ten-year period with a multitude of men and women.
Yet, fearing the worst, if I dared tell my future husband every, sexual thing that I've done with so many men and women, he may no longer want me. Disappointed in me, and not able to understand my need for sex from not only men but also from women, he may no longer love me. Instead of him thinking of me as his fiancée, he may think of me as the whore that I am and would no longer want anything to do with me. To be honest, now that I saw myself in a different light, I wouldn't blame him.
My first time having a guilty conscience, as if I had an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other shoulder, I was locked in a personal quandary of should I tell him or should I not tell him of my extensive, sexual past. What would happen if I told him or what would happen if I don't tell him? What are the ramifications of telling him or not telling him?
What should I do? Never embarrassed or ashamed of my sexual past before, suddenly, I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself now. The first time fearing someone judging me for the whore that I am and have always been, I feared that my fiancé would have second thoughts about marrying me. Just as I feared that I'd be making a big mistake by telling him, I feared that I'd be making a huge mistake by not telling him.
'What do I do,' I thought? 'In the light of day instead of the sexual passion that we shared at night, who would want to marry a whore,' I thought? 'If I told him the truth, he may break off the engagement, take back his ring, evict me from his house, and kick me to the curb.'
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Nonetheless, in case I bumped into a past lover on the street when with him, a good chance of that happening with all of the people that I bedded, avoiding such an awkwardly, embarrassing situation, I decided to tell him everything. Beyond my better judgement to confess all of my sexual transgressions, I couldn't keep such a sexually, deplorable secret from him. The right thing to do, he needed to know, and I needed to tell him. With chin up, while hoping to explain my way out of my difficult, personal situation, I told him the truth.
