(Following is adapted from my book "My Life In The Great Sexual Window")
You should understand that professional whoring isn’t real sex.
There’s something out-of-body, distant, uninvolved, about it. Men pay you good money to make them feel great. It’s a simple business transaction on each side, supply and demand. Very capitalistic. Keeps the economy moving.
And it turns out that whoring is something I’m very good at. Up to now, I’m just a world-class amateur — now I’m becoming a world-class professional.
One of the best things about whoring is that there’s no emotion involved, nothing that tangles the belly and cuts into the heart. Nothing that makes a girl yearn for that commitment, that kiss, sometimes even that one phone call which soars her to seventh heaven and occasionally way beyond. No emotion so, voilà, no meaning.
Like any other whore I’ve ever met, I have two lives. One life earns all this money to flash tits and ass, flirt outrageously, and open legs and mouth for any man who wants to put his cock in them. But whoring isn’t real life. It’s not where I live.
It’s the other life, my student life at journalism school, my personal life, that’s my real life. The life where I win and lose, behave well or badly, am happy or sad. The part of my life where there's meaning.
Like any good-looking woman (particularly big-boobed like me) I have my pick of men and can have sex, meaningful or otherwise, with as many men as I want, any time I want. So I do.
Sometimes, when I’m just paying for an evening out or there’s nothing much else to do, the sex is emotionally empty but usually fun anyway. Other times, when I’m in lust with some horny stud, the lust itself is emotional and therefore an entirely sufficient reason for the sex. Then there’s the occasional times when I think I might be in love, at least a little bit, when sex is entirely meaningful.
The occasional thinking I might be in love part, of course, is where the commitment that doesn’t come, the kiss that isn’t tried and the phone call that’s never made reminds me that being hell-on-wheels in bed sometimes just isn’t enough for a girl.
Back to whoring.
Men confuse power with money. I don’t. Men think because they can rent my body that they have power over me. But power and money aren’t the same.
In fact, when a man’s in my mouth or pussy, I have the power. And then when he cums, by wonderful coincidence, I have both the power and the money.
I had sex with Sue yesterday.
Don’t misunderstand me, we didn’t actually do it (not that there’s anything wrong with that and, anyway, she looks pretty good). I just tuned into Sue McGarvie’s web site, www.sexwithsue.com, to find out how Canada’s self-styled “International Sex Expert Therapist Syndicated radio and television host” is doing.
She’s doing fine. All sorts of good advice on improving the female libido (apparently more than half of us women have a problem here), finding the G Spot (don’t worry about the urge to pee, it will go away), female ejaculation (give me 40 minutes and we’ll train you to have her reach an incredible G spot orgasm), improving your guy’s penis size (be the guy who has women falling at your feet and writing your number on bathroom walls) and handling his premature ejaculation (recondition his head, penis and orgasmic triggers, train his muscle memory).
All quite fascinating. But the part that really interests me is her review of Hedonism ll, the notorious clothing-optional, all-inclusive resort in Negril, Jamaica. You see, I spent last Christmas there (my sixth visit over the years) and have pictures to prove it, most of them taken in the nude beach grotto known as The Fornicatorium where many come and anything goes. I’d love to show you the pics but doubt if my TV employers would be amused. Morals clause, you know!
Anyway, here’s the Sue site where I blogged her:
Interested in going to Hedonism? If you’re looking for a 5-star hotel with a gourmet restaurant where everything works impeccably, things happen on time and as advertised, the staff call you sir or madam and the rooms are better than home, this isn’t the place for you.
In fact Hedonism ll, 3-star at best, is a little battered (except for a huge, incongruously splendid gym), the food mediocre (don’t even think of eating at the appalling pseudo-Japanese restaurant), the nude beach small, the ocean shallows rocky underfoot, marine life over-fished and rooms worse than home if you don’t count sexy mirrored ceilings.
However, it has all the usual Caribbean pleasures (scuba diving, sailing, water skiing, tennis, squash etc.), is reasonably priced, pours free booze (never once seen a real drunk there!) provides superb jerk chicken at the nude beach and, best of all, offers that ultimate, indefinable delight which only comes when the weather is hot, the sea warm, the sand soft and your fellow guests spend almost all their time naked (never once seen an inappropriate erection there!).
There's something about hanging around a beach in the hot sun drinking cold Red Stripe with delightfully friendly naked people that lessens inhibitions, clears the complexion, raises the breasts, tightens the tummy and even (when appropriate) makes the uterus contract.
Sue’s advice (I agree) is “every woman should celebrate her divorce, bachelor party, or experience the liberating safety of Hedonism once in her lifetime.”
If you decide to go, let me know and maybe we’ll meet at the nude bar next to the nude pool near The Fornicatorium one warm and sensual frangipani-scented evening.
(Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)
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