Diary of An Unrepentant Sex Addict

Friday, March 11, 2005

You Never Forget Your First Time

Like it was just last week, I still remember every part of that night in exquisite detail. I remember the girl I was with, her voice, her eyes, her long, curly hair. I remember how nervous I was, not sure if I should make the first move. Not sure how to proceed, or to suggest what I hoped was on both our minds. And of course, I remember how much I was charged.

Yes, I am referring not to the night I lost my virginity, but rather to the very first time I paid for sex.

I like to think I'm cosmopolitan, but it's a facade. I grew up in Oklahoma, with little understanding of the more enriched world, except what I saw on TV. So well into my 20's, my only view of commercial sex was one of two extremes: the high-class, $1000-a-visit call girl, and the desperate, battered and bruised street walker. Somewhere towards the end of my time in Denver, as I was about to move to California, I started becoming aware of the many things in between. One that really intrigued me was the massage parlor. These are places staffed almost exclusively by people of various Asian extractions. These days, they're giving way to apartment-based operations. Having too many girls in one place makes for an easy police target, after all. But in 1997, I decided it was time for me to test the waters. I was in San Jose, I knew hardly anyone at all, and I had surplus income.

The place I chose (which has long since been closed down) was called Rosabella Spa, and was in Cupertino conveniently close to the office I was working in. After several false-starts, I summoned the courage one night and walked in. I really had no idea what to expect. I was offered the choice of a half-hour or full-hour session, and I went for the full. All this really got me was more time spent in the whirlpool bath and so on, it didn't really work out to more time with the girl (a lesson quickly learned). (To be fair, though, spending 15 minutes or so in that whirlpool bath was fucking divine.) Finally, though, I found myself on the table getting the massage I (officially) came there for. Well, more of a hot-towel treatment, but you get the point.

She had pretty good hands. At least, that's how I remember it. But it was the first time, and we (almost) always remember our first time with a tint of romanticism. I was laying there wondering how I would know if it was OK to ask for more than just the caresses I was getting. How do I ask it? She's got to be just as worried about me being a cop as I am about her being a decoy. She was awful cute, too. Dark complexion (maybe a little Philipino influence), thick, full lips. And hair that fell in long, loopy curls halfway down her back. I was pretty sure that if sex was on the menu, I was ready to order.

Finally, after I had rolled over onto my back (at her direction-- you should wait until you're told) and she had teased my little soldier just a tiny bit, it happened: she "broke the ice", as it were. She looked down at me (damn-- she had cute eyes, too!) and pantomimed fucking using one index finger and fingers of the other hand formed into an "O". Not much chance of misinterpreting THAT cue, was there? A price was agreed upon, money exchanged, and a condom magically summoned from the ether. She dropped her nice floral print summer dress to reveal a truly amazing body. Not too skinny, but not quite curvy-enough for a Victoria's Secret catalog.

The event itself, in retrospect, was hardly the best sex I'd ever had (or even had since, with other sex workers). But it was just as magical and exciting as the first time with any partner. We went through usual practices-- oral, her on top, missionary-- and I got to play with her chest some. I didn't even try to go down, since I didn't know the proper etiquette, nor did I attempt to kiss. But it was hot, hot enough for me to have a very pleasant orgasm.

I thanked her, and left. I went back to work for a while, then went home. When I was at home, it finally hit me: I've accepted the fact that it's nearly impossible for me to get laid on my own merits. At least, that was how it felt. And that night, I cried.




  • I find it hard to believe that you can't get laid based on your own merits. These days all a guy's gotta do is show up. Do you have a skin condition? Anyway, I'd probably do you for free. But it would be better for you if you payed me. That way I wouldn't linger and I wouldn't phone and I would be very obediant. Your desposable cash is benefitting the entire economic community. Well spent. Never repent.

    By Blogger spankmewithaspoon, at Sunday, March 13, 2005 5:27:00 AM  

  • I'll remember you next time I visit NYC ;-).

    Keep in mind that at the end of this entry, I'm talking about what I felt at the time. At that moment, I had crossed a line that hadn't yet been crossed. I've gotten over that guilt since then (and had actual, bonafide relationships as well).

    And I love your blog. I'm linking, so I never forget to check it daily.

    By Blogger Dausa, at Sunday, March 13, 2005 11:53:00 PM  

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