Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Is not smooth.
It breathes. And anything that breathes has pores. Out of these holes, fair cilia hair grows. A living weathershield cannot be both tough and smooth. We are not covered by acrylic.
Each woman’s external membrane is developed partly as determined by genetics and partly by the environment they live in. Diets and cosmetics play a superficial role, a liver spot is a wrinkle is a sign of ageing. For the unlucky, injuries character their skin, a mark of an event they can never escape. Those who tattoo choose to remind themselves of a past they never want to forget.
My first and only boyfriend was an art teacher. He was a sensitive man who dazzled me with obscure art critique and piqued my interest in women. He taught finger-painting and ceramic making to children but really wanted to draw nude female figures. His studio was the best room in an old rented house, his paints the best lures. From him, I learnt the lines of a woman’s body but he could not touch what I felt inside.
Innumerable girlfriends later, I would meet a woman with powerful hands and legs. A carpenter and painter by trade, she taught me colours and grain. We made love on half-tiled floors and split trunk benches that she hewed. When she worked, I watched her stretch on scaffolds to create 8 by 10 foot backdrops. I admired her scarred hands when she sawed, drilled and hammered in her garage. She wore the oldest work clothes, not coveralls, and her socks never lasted. Underneath, her breasts, low with age, were lifted by strong pecs. Together, her cleavage was spectacular. I lost track of the scars, cuts, broken nails and other mishaps that battered her skin every week.
My job makes me travel and it’s still early enough for me to enjoy it without question. I’m an escort, but not that kind. High roller clients want some body to accompany them or their families on long trips. Why? I don’t know why. They could be bored, need special attention or perhaps a porter. The money is easy and I get to see the world.
When I worked in textiles, it was fun for a month, then the dust and dyes drove me off. Or at least that’s what I told them. Years later, I would rate hotels by the fabrics they used in their rooms. Damask, suede, Egyptian cotton … grades and variants. The unmistakable air of sensuality, over indulgence or cool comfort is in the material, not the design.
I enjoy travelling. A whole world of women and I was going to see them.
Where was I? Oh yes, skin. The organ that identifies us even before our privates.
In East Asia, I always received preferential treatment, or am cheated, because I am white. To them, I am an alien and should be treated respectfully if only to gain my money or show me off, as if my fairness would make them stand out somehow. Associated skin grouping occurs everywhere.
I had Chinese women with their flawless skin – pale white or golden brown. They were always mildly scented. Half of them were barely haired. Their skins were soft because they rarely saw the sun, if they could help it. Their bellies, always slightly rounded, were baby smooth. It used to affect me if I slept with Caucasians afterward and I felt the rougher texture of our skins that I never noted before.
Naked, the Chinese liked to compare my hands and feet, they were amazed by the difference between our bodies. When we had sex, I was always conscious of their petiteness and gentle shyness, until the tables were turned. They almost always came quietly, with soft sighs and tiny clutching hands. So quiet that if I wasn’t touching them, I wouldn’t know it. The screamers, I had to clamp my hands over their mouths, after all, we were engaged in an illegal act and I didn’t fancy my chances in jail.
In Eastern Europe, I was imprisoned and held hostage by women who took good care of me. After a couple of these, I learnt not to follow anyone home. Didn’t stop them from trying to pick me up or spiking my drinks. The women were gorgeous young, but brittle old. I could smell their heavy body odours that crept out in heat. It was arousing to know that all eyes were on me when I visited an underground lesbian bar. I always got lucky, so did they. In bed, they wanted to know about middle-class life and freedom, I wanted to lose my hand in their thick bushes and stare into their fathomless desperate eyes as I touched them. They all smoked, all the time. They also liked heavy sex sessions.
Once, in a country I will not name, through miscommunication or a sour mood, I forget which, I bought a woman for an hour. After a bad day with a shitty client, I was ready to drink myself under before I had to face them again. Sometimes, I like to drink alone, sometimes company is fine. Pretty girls are always fine company.
I know a bundle of local currency changed hands before I was taken into a room that was hopelessly, tackily shadowed by a low wattage, frosted red bulb. I didn’t care. Clothes off, I made her hurry. The meter was running and I had a point to prove. The bitch was not happy, having to service a woman. I would show her. If it’s money she wanted she could work for it.
I crushed her to the bed and told her that for every orgasm she gave me, I would tip her handsomely. Her eyes widened with greed until I began to move. Rubbing myself on her bony hips and using her stubbly pubes to tickle my clit, I grunted and heaved over her. She wouldn’t look at me, her eyes fixed instead on a spot on the wall. But I licked and sucked her neck and breasts, and used my thigh to pressure her labia-protected clit. Circling my hips to smear my juices, I groaned my orgasm all over her abdomen. Her nipples were hard, her skin pimpled by my cold breath. I moved my hand lower and fucked her slowly – gently thrusting with a practiced thumb on her clit. I could tell she was trying not to show any sign of arousal but her hands gripping my shoulders pulled me close. I made sure my fingers were inside when she came.
Then, she looked at me, less confident and wanting more. I rolled off and fished out a dental dam from my pants. She didn’t understand until I crudely showed her what to do. The bitch wasn’t happy again – until I reminded her about the extra tips.
I hate dams, hate using them in any way during sex. I want to taste and feel what I am eating when I go down on a woman. Now, this hooker had felt me all over her except for that one little patch. She was going to work for my money – those dams need a strong tongue and I had already come once. She got the hang of it but I wished her tongue had jammed into my cunt. I wanted her to taste a woman’s juices streaming into her mouth and down her throat. She’d be a swallower then.
When she lifted her head, her chin was wet with saliva, her lips swollen from kissing the latex. Five minutes to go and she was breathing hard from exertion. I held her eyes as I flicked my wallet open. She lowered hers as she flicked the dam away. Then she showed me oral skills that made my eyes roll back in my head. She sucked and ate me, and I shot my load down her gullet. I was dressed before the knock on the door. My money was sullenly received, so just for that, I squeezed her breast before I left.
Breasts are another subject all together. They are as varied as the women on this planet. One woman, who chased after me when I left a seedy grimy bar, wouldn’t let me touch hers. It wasn’t till later that I felt the hardness in her breasts. Every year since, I make a donation to the Breast Cancer Foundation and click on that damn mammogram website as often as I can.
The smoothest, loveliest skin, I swear, is in a woman’s vagina. Always welcoming, I love being inside my lover when she is excited – the walls constrict and balloon around my fingers. I can explore, through my fingertips, the textures and slickness that lets me slide in. If I reach it, my hands homage the cervix. I scour for the G-spot, not always successfully, and acquaint myself with the bumps and ridges inside the vagina. Each woman’s secret chamber likes to be touched differently, some not at all. Like her clit. I’ve slept with women who close their legs if I try to venture inside. Others throw themselves open, legs up or around the one fucking them.
I love a good hard unapologetic fuck. I want to feel my lover deep inside, knowing me from within the places I cannot reach but I can share, that she is the one who can make me wild, rock the bed, fuck me till my body stiffens and relaxes and stiffens again, who never ceases to play my pleasure. My cunt likes it, oozing cum around her fingers or girlcock. Artificial lube dries sticky on our thighs but it lets us play for hours. Our blood, pumping from the exercise, flushes our skin healthy and warm. The next day, my afterglow attracts men like bees to honey, because a satiated woman is the sexiest creature on earth.
I love sex with labourers too – women who use their hands for a living. Their calloused palms, rough forearms, strong fingers … each section working together to sense the changing responses of my body. They know their strength and they are not afraid to use it. Like the musician with long fingers who could fuck me deep for hours, or the strong-backed firefighter who held up my legs all night and twisted me around because she could.
At home, in transit between clients, I trawled the local bars for gossip and fresh women. Even if there were none, I could take up the invitations from the housewives who slipped a note under my door. I slept with them because they were easy, eager and liked to fuss over me. Pre-packed meals from bored, lonely women I had bonked, filled my fridge. These women always made an effort for me – freshly washed hair, special lingerie … though I admit to being a fan of the apron-and-nothing-else greeting.
I met a raving feminist once in Washington. Her passionate rhetoric and blazing eyes drew me in. Throughout the talk, I listened, praised and lusted. We had a quick bang in the toilets but later that night, she would only fuck me from behind. She kept telling me that her girlfriend would understand.
As a favour, one winter, I accompanied a friend to a BDSM club. It was a relaxed yet tense place, like a compound filled with lions. We watched the performances but kept our eyes half cast to the floor for fear of attracting attention. I admired but couldn’t understand the costumes. Preferences were openly advertised, their honesty assuring yet frightening to me. A woman, who took me home, opened her closet and asked what I liked. That night, she showed me the exquisite whisper and strike of whips. My skin was made to enjoy its full range of senses, from repetitive smacking heat to brushing caresses.
You might be wondering if I ever have normal sex. Of course I do. My last three lovers were totally vanilla, one didn’t even like penetration. I clawed her back and gave her hickeys, for amusement.
In Manchester, I went to a club to find a butch woman for a night and came home with my pussy sore. Another night, I hit on a femme and her girlfriend gave me a slap. Femmes are so delicious.
I did something outlandish in Bangkok. I walked out and paid a tranny hooker to be disgusted at me. He thought that we would have sex - I hadn’t seen such fear even from that female whore in that unnamed city. I made him strip all his trappings, then I showed him my real breasts and my real pussy. He was humiliated. Fuck, I could be a mean drunk.
Tomorrow, I’ll be picking up my new itinerary. Where’s the client headed? Would it be the States where the women are conservative outside and polite in bed, or London, where the women are outrageous everywhere? I wouldn’t mind visiting Germany, it’s been a while since I’ve had a mistress. Or a trip to China for the women who giggle facetiously as they slink their way smoothly into my panties. Summer is always good for the Mediterranean, a hot-blooded tempestuous Latina would be uncontrollable in my arms after many drinks.
Are not smooth, bland or perfect.
They are exciting, unpredictable, gentle, crazy, gorgeous, fuckable, manipulative, gullible, sweet … I run out of adjectives.
I long to feel my skin on theirs, to breathe their scent, to fill them and be filled by them. My mouth waters to taste them and my legs open for them. It is a yearning that is renewed and unquenchable.
Say, have we met? You could write me at firstname.lastname@example.org, who knows, I might be flying in to your neck of the woods soon.
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