The Guitar Girl
She came highly recommended. Well Reviewed. I was going through a phase where I had a distinct preference for the hot MILF-y type, and she fit the bill. She had been on the short list of gals I had some intention of possibly seeing some day. Well, circumstances intervened and “some day” came sooner than I thought. She offered a discounted rate, and even after paying for a hotel room, it’d still be a good deal. Or so I thought.
So I found myself checking into a hotel off the freeway in the middle of an afternoon.
There’s always the usual pre-show jitters. Will we click? Will I be able to perform? Is this the best lighting for my penis? So I’m naturally a bit apprehensive when she finally knocks on the door. She was not at all what I expected. Now don’t worry, this isn’t going to devolve into the standard “she looked nothing like her picture” rant. She looked just like her pictures. That is to say, her features, her figure, her form were just as advertised. But rather than the sultry, sexy, lingerie-clad temptress I found myself face to face with a patchouli-scented, gypsy-skirted, guitar-toting hippie chick. Lucky for me, I’ve always had a fondness for hippie chicks, whether the ironic/nostalgic type, or like my afternoon visitor the type who had actually been hippies. Oh, and yeah, I understand that she wasn’t going to be wandering the halls of the hotel in a negligee.
But more than her style of dress, I was completely unprepared for the guitar. I had booked an escort, not a floor show. As she made herself comfortable in my room, she informed me that she was an aspiring singer/songwriter and she wanted to serenade me to set the mood. I thought, “why not?” Well, actually I thought “so this is how she plans to kill the 53 minutes out of this hour that we don’t spend fucking.”
She played, she sang. I tried to be a gracious audience, while trying to maintain an erection.
Things didn’t get much better when we moved on to the main event after the musical opening act.
I made my move to go down on her, she balked. Really? No pussy strumming? She said she was sore down there from her last appointment. I had to wonder, if she’s too sore to lick is this somewhere I want to be sticking my dick? But no, she reassured me there wasn’t anything wrong, she was just chafed from a client who was an overzealous licker and under-zealous shaver. (Let me interject here, guys. Has no one ever taught you not to sandpaper a vagina? Am I really the first one to tell you to shave before you head downtown?)
As if the unexpected musical interlude was strange enough, things really took a turn for the weird when we moved on to the fucking portion of the program. Hippie chick wanted to inspect my instrument first. Not, as you might suspect to surreptitiously check for warts or spots or misplaced frets. No, she wanted check out the size and shape. This, she said, would enable her to somehow tantrically determine the optimum position for pleasure.
No, really. She would be able to tell. By the shape of my dick. What position we should fuck in. Her expert conclusion? Cowgirl. Yup, she thought riding my baby carrot would be the best way to have at it.
I know it may surprise all of you who are convinced that I can only fuck up, but I hate cowgirl. Look, I’m no porn star, I’m not physically gifted, and I have no game. But I’ve been fucking for longer than most of y’all have been alive and I know how to get off. I don’t have a vast repertoire, I just go for some of the ol’ in out. But, I figured I had made it past the six string to the g-string, I might as well let her saddle up.
We wrapped it up with her on top, and then it was time to go. No encores for this performance.
Look, here’s the thing. She was a perfectly lovely lady, and we had a perfectly pleasant afternoon. Everything was as advertised, no more, no less. It was a straight up exchange of services for consideration, and no one got hurt, no one got ripped off and no one fell in love. These things aren’t mystical, they aren’t momentous and the aren’t manipulative. I think the worst thing the public-at-large does is to somehow imbue the hooker/john interchange with more hidden meaning than it really has. Or deserves. It’s not all Pimps n’ Ho’s, it’s not Pretty Woman. It’s not abuse or the result of abuse and will not likely lead to abuse.
We seem to have a tendency in this society to look for hidden meaning in the everyday. On that particular day, there was no further, deeper meaning. I fucked a hooker in a hotel room. Then I went to Ikea.