65. Whoring Earthlings
Can a man fall in love with a harlot?
Hosea did. Hosea of the Old Testament. But perhaps he did it more out of duty and obedience; to make a prophetic statement.
As you may know, I can’t fuck without love. And the last fuck I had on Earth was with Gee Ni in my thirties. Decades after till death went downhill, drugged on hand and foot jobs.
She castrated me. I was south of mediocre, sexually. Forlorn and lovesick over an earlier sanguine lover. Perhaps I dated Gee Ni out of a reeling rebound that never ever healed thoroughly. Hopeless. My horny desires were pitiable. She grew tired of me. She did not placate. It was my fault. I felt like it was. And the only good I’m for is to let women lord over. Laugh over. Especially when I’m naked, and they’re not. It’s my lot in life, my punishment, my self-imposed emasculation therapy.
After she left, I was like Brit Patt; minus the handsome part. A CFNM aficionado. I could only wank satisfyingly to clothed chicks teasing and humiliating my exposed machismo. It’s an inferiority complex I guess, fantasizing them lounging in clouds of superiority, piloting my genitals; imagining them relishing a group-stroke from their lofty positions frowning down toward my ejaculated ignominy. High in their high chairs, I believed certain ladies found enjoyment in femdom.
So I sought them out. But I was shy. A time, I considered the best option was to become a male stripper. But I had not the balls, nor the bod, and was afraid the species of females met in rose dominated parties were more than my degradation could bear.
Thus I tried masseuses instead, and found out the disappointing truth that they got no enjoyment making me cum in their hands. It was just for the cash. I timidly asked if they could pretend to be intrigued by dick-and-balls; and they said I had to pay more. Which I did. And they were atrocious actors! Two were even rude to my naked manhood. They burped at it in unison, and the poor dog was so cowed it went soft. Then they bellowed in hilarity at its shrinking disposition, and the intimidation caused me to quit and cry. I still paid full for the unattained orgasm, and drove home in tears and desolation.
If ever there was a time I was most prone to the notion of suicide, it was that period. I thought of the friend who tried to kill herself in two unsuccessful attempts, and considered calling her, but decided otherwise. Besides, she’d migrated to the US, and as far as I know, she’s married with two kids (and died a happy old lady - in the arms of her loving children, grandkids and great-grand progeny).
After a sabbatical, I picked up my marbles that had rolled onto the floor and tried once more. This time I was more cautious. I chose girls that were petite and sweet.
I ensured they were physically attractive to a degree, and that they were my type. These were lousy masseuses though; but at least they gave gentle handjobs. Nothing spectacular, just safe; and I have to admit, the ugly girls from earlier gave sensation a lot more. They understood the stimulation of the prostate gland as well as the manual rimming of the anus.
All this time - after ten girls or so - only pitiable I was relegated in the nude. That was my costume, my team jersey, and each time I molested their boobs to try to get them over to my side, I was reprimanded and ordered to keep my hands to myself, which I cordially obeyed. If not, I was to be thrown out into the streets as I was, without any attire, which was a prospect that was chilling to the bone in a deviant intolerant social climate.
Then, to cut the monotony of this stroking story, I met her; an immigrant from Chiang Mai who stopped me not when I inappropriately grabbed at her tits. She was quite cute in my opinion, and she was embarrassed rather than outraged when I pressed upon the immodest act, stating she was shy `cos her pair was small and insufficient. I assumed otherwise, for they appeared sizeable through the top of the blouse when I caught sight of them whilst she was washing my feet. And though it was a padded bra, the mounds of flesh still felt pretty substantial.
When handjob commenced, I requested of her to remove the upper apparel. Why I asked, in all politeness, baffles, for it contradicted my clothed-female naked-male criteria for pusillanimous behaviour. Perhaps I was getting bored of the debasement, and wished now to level the playing field. But honestly, I think I tire of CFNM scenarios due to loneliness. It’s only so far the tease can get you, all pathetically turned-on but never a penny of emotion. I wanted and missed love, and it was impossible to love when you were naked, and she was not, throughout. It was impossible to love without intercourse, without shared nudity, without two bodies entwined exchanging fluids...and even...spirits. It was impossible. Just impossible. I was impossible! Incapable of love any longer. An erectile emotional dysfunction.
She shook her head, behaving all girly and demure, the way a girlfriend would on the advances of the boy on their first night rather than as a professional offering soft sexual services. I persisted, and perhaps said something like, “How much?”
She hesitated, unsure, then raised three fingers. “Thirty. Yu pay me. For massas and hanjub yu pay ow-sai,”
Thirty?! I was excited and sad.
Excited for she was not greedy. The others demanded more. Not that I really knew, for I never offered anyone to flash before the present; but they did ask for a much bigger tip when bargaining over the burden they’d have to bear on their hands. Eyes gleaming over dollar notes, one Chinese chick even chuckled when I asked if she liked tugging my cock; her answer was a definite no, unless cash was splashed round the rocket and orbs like a money moat inundating two flabby, globular goldfishes persistently jumping out of green mossy water at a hard castle of rock.
Maybe it’s just the Thai demeanour, a more polite, less money mongering culture; and the Thai girl is the embodiment of that all-gentle decorous servant. Or perhaps it was just her.
On the other hand, I was sad because it was dirt cheap, and I felt she possessed such a low opinion of her lovely assets. C’mon, girls reading, back me on this – thirty bucks to let a man ogle and grope your tits???
Discounted slut!
Whatever, the deal was struck. She rolled up the smock...and I saw. Damnit! She was right. They are damn small. And they drooped to the sides in a kind of a silly frown.
I just blew thirty.
But regardless, I started to caress and rub her breasts even as she stroked my cock. Enjoyment began its descent from horny heaven, for at least she had hot nipples; and it dawned, this was the first pair I’d laid eyes on outside of a relationship.
Soon I squirted. I dressed; I paid. She introduced herself, and hoped for my return. But I was perturbed. Seeing boobs had a confounding aura over me. On some eerie level, I really wanted to see her again. Not any other, but her. Only her. I was in love...
What???
I fantasized being the knight in shiny armour, rescuing this damsel in distress from a dragon of debauchery. Saving her from demons, other perverse men and their unsheathed, shameless swords; I will free her from harlotry. Now, she is only to live for me, splay for me, go down on me. And in return, I will give her my love and protection. Take her shopping, splurge, become a sugar daddy. Gratified by her parade in designer clothes, and later, Victoria’s Secret lingerie, I will shower her with material possessions, and perhaps, even a supplementary credit card... for she is to be my sweet, sexy baby.
Wonders what naked jugs can do to a man, screw with his brain. They were not even that beautiful to begin with, but now, I’m at home, wanking over marital bliss to the mental conjuration of oblique boobs. I can’t sleep, and I’m daydreaming of visiting her again. This time, behold the triangulated display together with that organ down there. Perhaps even pay for a fuck.
She’ll give me for free, I imagined, but this being only our second meeting, she coughs out a measly figure as a professional courtesy. Like the way she did with her tits. That’s why she’s so cheap; she actually doesn't wish to sell herself. She just wants me to take it instead. For on an intrinsic level, she wants me as well. She’s attracted to me. She knows I can liberate her, bring her life-long fulfilment, security.
Milk me of money.
Like the way women do in general.
All girls are whores!
There’s surely something deeper, something more profound, something more earnest in desire. Something wrong with me. As I said, her peaks were the first witnessed beyond the perimeters of love (disregarding pornography), and sadly, I equated and fused this myopic vision to an all emotional bond. A miserable delusion, a rusty illusion.
Thankfully logic had not completely left. Wisdom’s brood was still hanging around, gunning down stupid cupids. Rationalizing there must be a difference between Gee Ni and this bare breasted hand-prostitute from Northern Thailand, a chasm even wider when compared to my sanguine love; the lost years I’d spent and invested with them, genuine lovers, how can it be usurped by an hour in the arms of fleeting pleasure provided by a masseuse offering extra services?
I can’t love her. That’s the obvious conclusion.
But how do I forget?