This piece about sex with an ex piqued my interest when it turned up in my Twitter timeline the other day. There was a debate about which ex people would pick to fuck again if they could, like a fantasy fucking league without the complications of broken hearts and realising your younger self had dubious tastes.
Most people chose the person they had unfinished business with mainly with a good lubrication of revenge to show them what they were missing now. But because I’m contrary the person I’d choose wasn’t actually an ex and it’s more because I’ve finally made sense of what he introduced me to.
I was 22 and had recently moved to a seaside town in England from Ireland where I knew absolutely no one. I was escorting to pay my way through my degree and getting bored with both my reading list and the number of men who thought that hiring a sex worker would be like a south coast version of Pretty Woman.
Unlike many sex workers, I like the emotional labour that comes with the job. The meeting new people, talking to them, getting to work out what they need, manage their expectations and confound the responses of the people around you who make assumptions about you.
So I found it more challenging when my appointments were more functional rather than personal so my interest was piqued when a client called John came along. In those pre internet days, he was looking for something then that would be immediately accessible through Fetlife or a munch these days.
He wanted a girl to submit to him in the bedroom but behave nicely in public. He was an academic who needed the girlfriend experience type to attend those networking dinners with married professors and their wives while being a total slut who took orders well.
Of course I had absolutely no idea that what he was after was called submission. I just thought it was a good gig that fitted round my studies and cover job working in a shop. But unlike the majority of my sex work, I thought about this one before and after with my mind flitting back to it more than most of my dates that year.
I assumed it was because John was probably the only client I had that I would have dated in another life and that accounted for the strong feeling of calm I had when he would give me very detailed instructions to follow while pretending to be interested in conversations with people who also studied the same obscure bit of history he did.
Then he’d take me back to the same hotel every time and tie me to the bed blindfolded and naked while he took a very long bath. I would lie perfectly, contently still and wait for him to come back out and untie me to walk me into the bathroom and kneel on the floor still blindfolded.
He’d make me wait a bit more, performing his ablutions and moving around in a myriad of ways I couldn’t pre-empt and prepare for. And just when I thought each time he’d changed his mind he’d piss over me, pouring down my hair and face and splashing over the floor, but the blindfold keeping my make up perfect.
Next he’d turn me round, my feet still standing in his piss and bend me over the bath and fuck me before walking me still blindfolded into the shower and pulling it off to wash myself clean. I’d be allowed out when I was told and each time the floor would be spotless again.
He’d pour wine and we’d sit on the bed, me wrapped in a towel and barefaced and we’d chat like two old friends as if nothing had just happened and eventually we’d go to bed and kiss each other on the cheek in the lobby next day to say goodbye until he’d text again to begin the whole pattern once more.
I lost touch with him when I moved to London on impulse and always felt a lingering sense of regret about that in some way. I never understood exactly why until I met my Master. I always thought John’s kink was the watersports and that his actions suggested some shame about it from not letting me see him to cleaning it up.
But ultimately it was work for me so I never thought about the feelings it would provoke in me from my point of view, only his. Then I started to have the same calm content energised feeling when my Master would get me to kneel for him and the penny dropped.
John hadn’t been paying me for my skills at drinking cheap white wine at book launches but my innate submissiveness instead. He wasn’t ashamed of his kink which was domination more than anything else, he just wanted someone who would actually interact rather than stare at the clock and count the cash.
I’d love to tell him I finally worked out my submissiveness. I think he’d probably work out I was an incredibly slow learner himself…