Robert and I acted as though nothing had happened, though we both knew it had. I felt immensely guilty about what I’d done, but felt overwhelmed by my body. I was uncertain why Robert acted as he did, though I was to find out later. I was the same Jesse, 23, cute, full of life, with a great body, blonde hair and 36C boobs.
Several weeks went by, and inside of me, nothing had changed. I thought constantly of the feelings that Mira and Donna had aroused in me. Robert and I still made love, but I found a woman’s face on him, as he looked down on me, impaling me with his tool. I masturbated countless times, openly admitting to myself then, that I wanted a woman’s body against mine. My fantasies were of faceless women, exposing their breasts to me, and my sucking their hard nipples until they writhed in the ultimate pleasure beside me.
Countless times I licked at women’s dripping cunts, in my imagination, using my own copious discharge to fulfill the fantasy. Finally, I knew that I had to do something. I wanted to fuck a woman, pure and simple. I didn’t want to marry her, or spend my free time with her, or anything else that I could justify as some type of relationship. I wanted to feel my fingers, and tongue, and anything else I could find in a beautiful woman’s mouth, and cunt, and ass. To feel her writhe beneath me as she came, for her to call out my name in ecstasy as I made her orgasm.
It occurred to me that I might be able to use the same outlet that men did when they were looking for anonymous sex. A hooker. I knew that there were a couple of streets where they hung out, as every couple of weeks there’d be something on the news about the ‘johns’ that were in the area, patronizing them. So finding hookers would be easy. What was difficult was working up the nerve.
The ceaseless build up of my sexual desire left me no choice. If I didn’t fuck, I thought that I’d go crazy. So, one fine afternoon, I steeled my resolve, and drove to one of the areas. I could already see the cars of suburban men pulling up to women lounging along the sidewalk. The women would approach the cars, some conversation would ensue, and more often than not, the woman would get in the passenger seat and the car would drive off. I wasn’t sure how one of them would react to seeing a woman pull up, but I guessed that the worst that would happen, was that they’d laugh at me and walk away.
Of course, the best that would happen, was that one of them would enjoy woman to woman sex, and we’d spend a delightful afternoon. Soon enough, the best case picture drowned out the worst case picture, and I decided to go ahead. Of course, with men, I think they view a prostitute as a mouth, or a cunt, so as long as they’re vaguely acceptable, the man is willing (aren’t they always?). With me, and I think most other women, I needed to be attracted to the woman.
I cruised slowly along the street, looking at the women displayed there. None of them looked at me as though I were an alien, so perhaps some of them at least would consider the idea of lesbian sex. Many of the women did not attract me at all, they looked as though they were on drugs, or they just had a ‘mean’ or hard look about them (I know that’s judgmental, but I couldn’t help the way I felt). Finally, though, I noticed a young girl, about 18 or so, wearing a pink baseball cap over her blonde hair, with her ponytail hanging out the back.
She had a cute face, she looked like a college freshman, and her outfit was more like that of a student at a college, although an informal one in a warm part of the country. Slightly ripped denim cutoffs that showed some of her upper thigh, a tee shirt with an intricate design, and sandals, she looked as though she’d just put on her clothes coming off the beach at Spring Break somewhere. She had a nice tan, and I felt my body responding to her already.
She hung back from the others, not actively soliciting, but just kind of ‘there’. I pulled up to the curb near where she stood, and she peered at me from underneath the bill of the cap, as though she either had trouble seeing me, or trouble believing what she saw. She walked over to the driver’s side, and leaned in the window. I started to speak, “Hi, I was wondering if you-”
Cutting me off, she spoke loudly, saying, “Lady, you’re looking for the State Capitol building, and that’s 3 blocks over. You’re in a bad neighborhood, you need to get on one of the tourist line trams that’ll show you all the sights. This is a bad neighborhood, and your safety can’t be guaranteed!” All the while she was saying this, she was rubbing her fingernails across the design on her chest, like someone trying to buff up her nails. I was perplexed by what she said, but when she yelled, “Now get the fuck out!” I decided that I’d better. It hadn’t gone the way I’d expected, and now the rush of adrenaline and fear had me shaking. My eyes filled with tears.
In a haze, I pulled away from the curb, and drove straight home, without looking back once. I made myself some herbal tea, and thought about what had happened. The only thing I could figure, was that prostitutes really didn’t want other women hanging around, even as potential customers. I resigned myself to more frustration, and tried to put the whole idea of sex out of my mind.
The next day, I was surprised to get a phone call from a Patrol Officer Winterby of our local police. She asked if she might come over to talk to me about an incident that had occurred the previous day. I was confused, as I didn’t know of any incident, but I agreed to see her that afternoon. The doorbell rang at 1 o’clock, and when I opened the door, I was very surprised to see the young blonde of the previous day, wearing clothes not much different from that day. I was speechless, so she took the initiative, saying, “May I come in, ma’am? I nodded my head, still unable to speak.
She led me down the hall, looking briefly into rooms until she’d located the living room. I could only follow dumbly behind. She looked at me enquiringly, and asked, “May I sit?” Again, I nodded, just starting to collect my wits. My thoughts were racing. The police wanted to arrest me for soliciting a prostitute. It must have been one of those stings they talk about on the news. I was going to be ruined. What would I do? What could I do?
“Mrs. Hugo, may I call you Jesse?”
I stuttered out , “Yes, Officer.”
“Jesse, here’s my badge and I.D.,” she said, pulling them out of her purse. She added, “And please, call me Trish, for Patricia.“ I looked at them, as if I knew what they were supposed to look like, and handed them back. Right then, she could have handed me a “Secret Agent Barbie” badge and I would have accepted it. “Could I have some coffee, do you think?” she asked.
“Yes, I have instant, or I could make a pot,” I said. This seemed like unusual behavior when the police came to arrest someone.
