Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Jailhouse Rock!

It's a tough job, but somebody has to screw it.

Saturday night was Halloween at the swing club, and it just seemed right that I unveil my latest Tabu persona for the amusement of my prisoners... I mean, friends.

And among the angels, pirates, schoolgirls, nurses and gladiators, a redhead in black definitely caught some eyes.

"Oooh, officer, please handcuff me!" one middle aged tryster pleaded. His wife, a buxom brunette spilling out of her witch dress, shoved him forward for detention.

"Yes, take him in!" she laughed. "He's already been a bad boy!"

So many victims, so little time. My trusty nightstick ended up persuading some nasty little vixens to ride off into the sunset with Sgt. Tabu... while others watched with envy.

It was clearly a case of following my instincts... because you know there's nothing I like better than taking advantage of a willing suspect.

So if you see this officer out on patrol, I have a few word of advice. Spread 'em, put your hands behind your head, and let me pat you down.

If I don't find your concealed weapon, I'll provide one of my own!

Saturday, October 27, 2007

My fantasy? Real clients.

I'm completely a fan of fantasy. I mean, what's better than spinning a sexy scenario in your mind? You can lovingly concoct every last detail, every nuance, the taboos, the timing, and ultimately, the explosive conclusion. For highly enjoyable "alone" time, fantasies really can't be beat.

Then, there are the people who get off on displaying their naughty fantasies to someone else... preferably someone who will appreciate it as a magnificent display of sexual imagination, I suppose. There's no real intention to carry it out-- they simply want a "Oooh, that's so bad!"

Well, guess where I come in.

This week I received another in my ongoing series of "Just Tell Me I'm Naughty" emails from prospective "clients" seeking my approval. They're all worded similarly: tell me what you think, is this too far out, blah blah blah. Unlike emails from real clients with a specific roleplay request, who actually want to book time with me for a sexy session, these are unmistakable both in their tone and their lack of supporting information (such as my booking form.)

Here, edited down from its original, mind-numbing length, is a sample.

I have this crazy fantasy of being humiliated by my wife being with another man... You still really love me, but I no longer satisfy you and you met someone else. This has started to come out by you being verbally abusive to me over time. You begin to tell me about your lover. I see your eyes darting around the bar as if you're looking for someone, but I see you definately are openly flirting.. It kinda of excites me too.. And that time you had me go down on you... Well, I knew you'd been with someone, but it was so exciting... My heart was pounding... I knew what I was tasting. So, once I started... After that, I'd secretly go into your hamper to pull out your dirty panties and I would relish its wetness. You've been suspicious of this for a while and now of course, I'm your "panty boy".... you begin to whisper in my ear..."Panty boy, I know you know that I'm f*cking other guys... You perv, you love it too don't you? You're pretty pathetic, knowing that I'm with others, but geez, smelling my wet panties after... god you're a wimp!" You sit on the bed and lean back, gently rubbing yourself through your jeans. "You know hon, I still care for you, and at that same time I think you're a pathetic wimp. Well, panty boy, it's out now... I"m going to f*ck who I want, when I want and you're going to keep paying the bills." "Look at your little cock panty boy... no wonder you can't do it anymore." You straddle me, here panty boy, use your tongue that's all your good for now.. You cum. etc etc etc

Sigh. What's sad is that this cuckold fantasy is quite common-- and enacting it wouldn't be difficult. But I'll bet you a thousand dollars that the writer will never come through with anything more concrete, like a booking... and if he does, I'll bet you another thousand that he'll cancel before it happens.

I've been down this little road too many times now to take him seriously, poor thing... so I had to write him the following response.

Dear John- I've discovered an interesting fact through my going-on-four-years of escorting. The more elaborate the scenario that someone presents, the less likely they are to actually book a session and show up. Isn't that odd?

Maybe they really just get off on the idea of a professional reading it and considering it, then responding how it turns her on.... or maybe it's all about writing it out for their own titillation.

Either way, I've learned that very few letters like yours end up in appointments. So if you're serious about enacting this roleplay, I'll merely ask you to get in touch with me, through my website booking form, a week prior to your visit. We can get all the details straight then.

Maybe he'll surprise me. That really would be fantastic.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Seven and... Oh!! (My day at the Pats game!)

Well, thanks to my new friend from the west coast, I got to sweat for 4 hours today. Yes, my stamina's pretty good for a old lady in her 40s... but I can only wish it were in service of a prettier cause. The Patriots, in case you were otherwise engaged, simply decimated the hapless Miami Dolphins at Pro Player Stadium. And like the little girl in the Shake and Bake commercial, "I helped."

Since I was only mildly sympathetic to the local boys-- who seemingly came on the field already mentally composing their post-loss locker room soundbites-- I had a grand ole time rooting for Tom Brady and his crew. And what was even sweeter-- my seats were among a gaggle of NE fans in their blue and red jerseys. The portly gent sitting just below me with his pals- all having traveled from Boston for the game-- truly appreciated the way I jumped up and down when the Pats scored again and again. (As a woman, this is when you wish the Jumbotron would catch your boobage making its play for fame.)

The SO- who's only mildly interested in the antics of the NFL- watched bemusedly as I alternately dabbed sweat from my ladylike brow and careened to my feet, screaming "Get him!"

By halftime, it was obvious that even the perky Dolphins cheerleaders were working hard to maintain their spirit. (And by the way-- are hair extensions a prerequisite for being a pro cheerleader? Half of their choreography seemingly consisted of them throwing their manes to and fro. But I digress.)

The highlight of halftime was not the Air Force Band- whose rather stolid performance reinforced my ideas about creativity in the military- but the moment they introduced the pilots who had blasted over the stadium in their F-18s after the National Anthem. The camera zoomed in on the crew in their modest brown jumpsuits-- strong jaws, keen eyes and a gagillion horsepower at their fingertips-- and as they made their "Aw, shucks" waves, I thought, "Aw, yes!" But then, I'm a sucker for a uniform. (Just ask my UPS man!)

Well, a girl can only glow for so long, and by the beginning of the 4th quarter, Miami's fate had been cast. It was time to go.

On the ride home, I counted up the firsts. My first game in Miami. My first Tom Brady jersey. And my first game day courtesy of my left-coast client, and, of course, Tabu.

Let the celebration begin!

Sunday, October 14, 2007

From a universe of words, a single language

Slowly he lifts the hem of her burka. Her slim brown legs part, beckoning his tongue to explore her hidden recesses....

From the floor-to-ceiling window of their high-rise, the Sydney Opera House glistens in the sunset... she turns and catches him staring, mesmerized by her silhouette, her filmy dress barely concealing her thighs....

Giggling in delight, she disappears from view as she pulls the Shetland wool sweater over her head; in the chill Scottish air her nipples harden as he watches....

And in south Florida, a writer smiles secretly at her laptop; today her words have lured a small universe of readers who dream her own dream: a vision of silky skin in shades of clam shell and bronze, salmon-pink and cafe au lait, and breath rising and falling in the deepening hush of release.

Solitude is a luxury. In the hours that I slip not away from the distractions of the world, but so deeply into them that I emerge into a pure conviction of what's universal, I send a version of myself across time lines, datelines, and oceans.

Often silence echoes back. But sometimes, Yes, I hear from the waves. You have spoken the wisdom of my body.

From that distant witness, my afterglow is earned.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Playing the Numbers (A Life in Review)

Getting into the sex industry, like opening a Swiss bank account, is something many people dream of, but few actually experience. Lucrative, glamorous, and illicit... the appeal is understandable. The workings of the real thing-- a little more complicated than you'd think.

I know that when I decided to become Tabu, I was simply a sexy beginner. I'd figured I must be somewhat qualified to give it a try; I'd notched many a bedpost as a swinger and spent a lifetime honing my sexual skills. So at 40, I hoped, I'd be tucking a little extra maturity and business savvy in my g-string.

Well, I got up my nerve, had the SO take some pictures, and placed an ad on Eros. Within a month I found a stream of happy clients paying, playing and coming back for more.

Of course, my innocence couldn't last. One day a smiling customer asked, "Why don't you have any reviews? You should be on TER!"

I looked it up and realized that I had one more cherry to lose.

Like everyone who first logs on The Erotic Review, I made a startling discovery... that the culture of pay-to-play has as many aficionados as Fantasy Football-- and almost as many stats.

Literally thousands of professional escorts were profiled-- and each was scored by their customers on both looks and performance. To bolster the numerical scores, the clients fleshed out their impressions with detailed written "reviews"- some quite elaborate- that lovingly recreated the session they enjoyed.

Or not enjoyed. And there's the rub. Didn't float your client's boat? Whoops- your score reflected their disappointment.

8s, 9s and 10s are the gold standard. Average scores- 6s and 7s- well, you'll still make a living, but you'll be ordering the meatloaf, not the Maserati.

Who'd have thought there'd be a Consumer Reports for hookers?

So far, I've been lucky... with three years and more than 50 reviews under my garterbelt, my business has been enhanced by the credibility that my solid numbers provide. And I have yet to encounter the dreaded false review-- a made-up, sometimes detrimental account of a session, submitted by a player looking to achieve free membership on the site.

But I have been amused by the liberties some reviewers take with the truth... unless they really did take that provider to her 5th screaming O.

In the world of reviews, scores, and endless speculation over the virtues of provider A, B or C, some participants assure me that there's a clear parallel to the "real" world.

"Hey, I get a performance review, too, and my salary depends on how well my boss thinks I'm doing," a client once remarked to me.

"Of course you do," I agreed mildly. "But until your performance review is published on the Internet, with graphic details about the size of your cock, how well you went down on me, if you could f--k for an hour straight, and whether your belly's as flat as the GQ model I saw last week, then I'm not so sure you can really make the comparison."

Well, that ended that particular observation... but I have no delusions that my life on the review boards will end until I decide I'm finished with Tabu.

When I do decide to hang up the stilettos, I'll be a little sad, to be sure. But in honor of my many friends who have graced me with their approval, I can only hope I'll go out with a bang.

That's a 10 worth wishing for.

Thursday, October 4, 2007

How do I glove thee? Let me count the ways!

This week I took a happy cyber-jaunt to one of my most beloved stores: Condom Depot. First, it makes me giggle to make the association with Home Depot, one of my favorite places to flirt with the tool-boys. Second, this web store spells pure condom nirvana to a heavy user like moi. (Let's face it-- I'm a swinger, a pay-to-play girlfriend and I love to glove with the very best!)

So when faced with the hundreds of choices-- tropical fruit flavored? extra-small? ribbed with warming lube? Plain ol' plain ol'..... how does even a condom aficionado throw the dart?

Well, it's a tough job, but it's one I tackle head-on.

After much experimentation- economies of scale taken into consideration- I opt for Durex Extra-Sensitive for everyday, normal-sized boys and toys, Magnums for the XL set, and a few flavored varieties for those times I have to follow it up with my mouth. (Regular condom after-taste? Can you say "yuck?")

So a hundred bucks later, I'm basking in the certainty that my UPS man will be soon be knocking on my door with a box that lets me play out my real-world fantasy... living the life of a carefree sex kitten with all the "tools" she needs.

Freedom never cost so little.

Monday, October 1, 2007

The rewards of wickedness

Ah, the perils of unleashing the wicked Tabu!

This weekend, I gleefully introduced a impudent boy-toy to the sweet torment of serving a Mistress... while his wife looked on in utter delight.

This is what happens when you take the swinger out of the girl and let the devilish dom emerge unfettered....

And wasn't it amusing how his cock kept leading the way to his downfall? Always hard, thrusting in my face, demanding attention.... only a swift correction or two could calm the excited initiate, and then, only for a moment. Soon my breasts were gleaming with creamy drips he couldn't contain.

It took well over an hour of inflicting my will on the boy before he was sufficiently humbled... and then, with his wife's enthusiastic permission, I rewarded his obedience with a permission of my own.

It didn't take long.