(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.
The salacious erotic/romance sensation that everyone's talking about, I Kissed a Girl: A Virgin Lesbian Anthology, has finally been released. Already, its Ravenous Romance's number one seller and has a rave review and highest rating from You Gotta Read Reviews: "This book is what erotic writing is all about! I highly recommend it for all avid readers of erotica or for those willing to explore a new genre."My Overstuffed Bookshelf has another rave: "WOW! If you don’t have a fan blowing on you before you start to read this, be sure to break it out! This book breaks the wall down on sexual relations and the people who are afraid to admit their sexual fantasies."And Dark Diva Reviews suggests the anthology as appropriately sensual bedtime reading: "The I Kissed a Girl anthology is a collection of twelve short, erotic stories about women’s first same-sex experience. Each story is very erotic and well-written. I would recommend this book to be kept handy, say on your nightstand, for those nights that you need a quick story to get your motor running."(In the interests of shameless self-promotion I confess that "I Kissed a Girl" includes one of my own stories adapted from my erotic memoir, My Life In the Great Sexual Window). Here's the all-star lineup: Freckles by C. Margery Kempe Two’s Company by Louisa Bacio Champagne by Inara LaVey Get Thee to the Nunnery by Samantha Jones Lady’s Maid by K. Ann Karlsson The Tiger’s Tale by Kilt Kilpatrick Passions, Like Storms by Nola Erus When I Taste Like a Waste I Breathe by Farrah J. Phoenix My New Roommate by Jen Bluekissed The End of the World by L.A. Mistral Show Me Yours by Lucy Felthouse Defining Lines by Regina Perry I Kissed a Girl is edited by the lovely and talented Regina Perry who describes it thusly: "You’ve heard Katy Perry’s hit song, now read enticing stories of heterosexual women exploring new boundaries. "College dormitories become breeding grounds of inquisitive minds and libidos with roommates discovering desire for each other as they relate past experiences, undress in each other’s presence, seek refuge from a storm, discover a dildo or share men. "Continuing life’s path, ingenious women find ways to enhance marriage or the workplace. Champagne cellars, riding stables, tanning salons, even historical English bedchambers become hotbeds of lesbian experiments. Converting or not, all embrace the journey of sexual exploration. "Warning: Stories contained within this anthology may elicit arousal, regardless of sexual persuasion." I Kissed a Girl is available through Ravenous Romance (http://ravenousromance.com), Amazon, Fictionwise, Audio.com and All Romance. (Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)
Like every woman ever born, I’m multitudes — many different people all wrapped up in one Samantha. A woman, with all the usual female virtues and vices. I’m nurturing, selfish, generous, caring, emotional, strong, weak, unpredictable, intuitive, vain, modest, exhibitionistic, shy, blatant, independent, sensual and violently non-violent. As an admirer of beauty whatever the gender, I’m bisexual and have loved both women and men although a hard cock is usually more fun than a soft pussy. I'm an excellent Szechwan and Japanese cook when the spirit moves me. I’m a friend. I have eight really good friends (most of whom I fuck), perhaps a dozen semi-good friends (some of whom I fuck) and an address book that’s pushing a couple of thousand entries. I’m a highly paid and respected TV reporter and sometime anchor (usually on weekends). I write most of my own copy, do intelligent, probing interviews with interesting people and genuinely try to serve the people with as much of the truth as I can find. Every so often I speak to conventions and service clubs, try to persuade them that it’s in everybody’s interests — including the most savage of savage capitalists — that the free marketplace of ideas be uncorrupted and served without fear or favour. I consider Obama, Mandela, Gandhi, King, Shakespeare, Browning, Keats, Steinem, Greer, Sibelius and Willie Nelson close to gods. I used to admire Woody Allen. I’m a feminist, a social democrat and a humanist. I abhor abuse of power and believe in equal opportunities for everyone regardless of race, colour, creed, sexual preference and all the other things decent people like me are supposed to be regardless of. I support Amnesty International and Greenpeace and would rather die than join a political party. When called upon, I volunteer to mentor young journalists trying to enter the honourable profession of journalism — particularly people of colour, aboriginal people and women. I may be a recovering whore, but even when I was hooking I had lovers and love affairs that had nothing to do with the profession. Professional sex and personal sex should never be confused. Most women know that instinctively. Other people are members of political parties, religions, service clubs and frequent-flyer groups. Other people play tennis or bridge, collect butterflies, have season tickets to the theatre and backpack around the world. I’m not other people. I’m on an endless search for the ideal sex, the perfect orgasm and the pluperfect ejaculation. Sex is my true vocation and only true hobby. I’m an unashamed, card-carrying elective nymphomaniac and proud member of the Sisterhood of the Golden Collar. There’s no doubt the Golden Collar changes my life. It’s scary but it’s also incredibly emotionally and physically satisfying. The beauty and power of the Golden Collar come from making the decision to have someone else make the decisions. It’s incredibly exciting being so powerful and so confident that you can lend someone else the power to choose for you. To each her own. Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)
The Toronto Globe & Mail recently ran a story headlined “Teen Girls Are Swapping Sex for … Just About Anything” which deplored the fact that lots of teenage girls actually have sex.
Both my female and journalistic instincts tell me there’s something fishy about the story.
My main problem is that it lumps together perfectly normal teenage female behaviour with the way teen drug addicts behave. But they’re entirely different people living in entirely different worlds.
I know. I’ve never been a drug addict (although I’ve known and loved some) and didn’t lose my virginity until I was all of 18. But I experienced almost every other variety of sex, including being paid for it, from my very early teens. And I went a fair bit further in the “paid” column than just being wined and dined for my troubles.
It’s called having sex. It’s what we girls did. It’s what girls have always done when they can. It’s what girls will always do when they can. And since the invention of Penicillin and The Pill, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. In fact, it’s a normal part of female growing up. And since we aren’t blessed with male privilege and male upper-body strength, it’s by far the best way for us females to survive and manipulate a dangerous world to our advantage.
When the hormones hit us and, in fear and trembling, we surrendered in the back seat of the car and no lightning struck us and it actually felt good, we relaxed and decided sex was a really, really good way to attract and even hold the godlike creatures who strutted around our schoolyards with those big, strong shoulders, fast cars and potential marriage licenses.
Since the beginning of time, girls have always been sexual beings exploiting their sexual attraction and its awesome power whenever necessary and possible.
And sometime, just for practice, when UNnecessary and possible.
Forget about blaming parents. If anything, parents today are far more involved in their children’s behaviour than my parents’ generation and their parents’ generation. Back then, our parents told us little more than having sex before marriage was bad (mostly because someone called God said it was) and would lead to all sorts of terrible things including babies, disease and something called “disrespect”.
Meantime, my journalistic instinct tells me the story’s purely anecdotal and directly contradicts a recent Maclean’s article that actually did a scientific survey indicating today’s teens are having less sex than previous generations.
Personally, I don’t think it matters either way.
(Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)
I'm inclined to believe that Barack Obama and Nelson Mandela are the two sexiest men in the world.
As a TV journalist and a woman I’m intrigued by Obama, particularly his incredible assurance and charisma. I haven’t seen anything remotely like it since I shook hands with the great Mandela a few years back and tears welled in my eyes and smudged my mascara.
To me, Obama and Mandela — some 44 years between them — are beautiful brothers from another planet. Each has roots deep in his own country yet each seems bigger, finer, more universal than us lesser, ordinary mortals.
Both Obama and Mandela have visited Canada. And at the dramatic moment when each climbed down those airplane steps, breathed fresh Canadian air and shook important Canadian hands, each somehow seemed to take command of the country and its people.
And me.
The same thing happens when the two men go anywhere in the world. They seize ownership of people, offer something nobler than the petty rationalizations dear to the rest of us, epitomize the Obamian chant “Yes We Can.” And with them, we truly believe we can.
It’s as if these two men have transcended age, race and gender. They’re both notably masculine anima-men (Carl Jung’s term for the female side of all of us) who radiate integrity, trustworthiness and decency. They’re strong, yet gentle. Determined, yet sensitive. Powerful, yet generous. Very sexy when you put it all together.
And if you must know, yes I could.
Either or both.
(Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)
This is very worrisome.
We already know that Americans have a bigger army than us, a bigger economy than us (still?) and a lot more influence around the world (see Britney, Paris, Brangelina etc.) along with a much cooler leader and even cooler wife.
And now we learn from Statistics Canada that American kids are having more fun with sex, drugs and booze than our Canadian kids.
Certainly, a vital part of my growing up involved sex, drugs and booze. And I don't know how anyone can truly grow up and march boldly out into the world as a real person without practice, experience (and some abuse) in these areas.
The only consolation I can find is that recent research indicates that the last part of the human brain to mature is the part that governs cause and effect. Apparently it doesn't click in until a human is around 24 years old.
So, thankfully, there's still time for the next Canadian generation to get its act together and make us proud again.
(Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)
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)
This is my first blog so please be gentle.
I'm the author of the new book a lot of people are talking about, My Life In The Great Sexual Window. It's about that magic window for women (and men) — after the invention of the pill and penicillin and before the AIDS plague — when we women could have sex (mostly) without fear of pregnancy or disease. The book's selling so well that I'm already working on a successor. Which is why I'm here blogging.
I'm looking for ideas, particularly from people who've read My Life In The Great Sexual Window (available through www.lulu.com) and enjoyed it.
For instance, last Christmas I had a lovely time on my sixth visit to Hedonism ll in Negril, Jamaica, notorious for its louche, sybaritic and (delightfully) debauched lifestyle. Chapter 53 (The Honey Trap) is set in Hedonism.
I'm wondering if people think it would be interesting to focus my next book entirely on Hedonism. The place isn't just sun, sand, sex and dope, although those are fascinating enough in themselves. Its also developed whole clans of guests with websites, newsletters and names like Jon's Fluffernutters, Tub Time Slushers, Grin And Bare It and Traveling Bares who seem to centre their lives around visits to Hedonism. Some of the groups also contribute to local charities in the name of Giving Back To Jamaica.
Or do you think I should concentrate a lot more on my life and loves while working as a TV journalist (which I really only touched on in My Life In The Great Sexual Window)?
Hugs.
(Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)
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