The turning of the New Year invites reflection; and the thought occurs that time’s passage has, for me, been punctuated not with the ticking of clocks or turning of calendar pages but, rather, with all the different lovers I’ve known. “Lovers” might be too grand a word, for many of these men I’ve known, when I was escorting, for only an hour or so. And some I’ve come to know now only virtually, via the Internet.
Whatever I call them, they are someone else’s son, brother, father, boyfriend, husband even. It’s said that, no matter how intimate, you can never really, really know someone.
So I may not be privy to the day-to-day life of the man sitting across from you at the dinner table right now, but I know his secrets, things you’ll never know.
Take Bukkake Bob, for instance. That’s what I called him, and not just behind his back. I made him laugh (not just cum).
All he wanted to do was splash his hot, gooey ejaculate all over my face and titties. I didn’t have to do anything — not even suck — just kneel there, with my face uplifted and smiling expectantly. Sometimes I would wag my tongue (this was long before Miley Cyrus’s iconic move) to gesture how much I wanted it, craved it — to feel and taste the splash of his cum.
Once a week, like clockwork, we would meet to perform this ritual, sometimes in my apartment, sometimes in a motel room, sometimes in his huge SUV.
Then one evening, when I had on a lot of makeup (for I was to go on a fancy dinner date with another guy an hour later), I tilted my head ever so slightly just as Bob shot his wad. So most of what he shot ended up on the floor.
“What happened?” His scream sounded truly anguished.
“I didn’t want to totally ruin my makeup, sweetie.” I said matter-of-factly.
“Well, you’ve now ruined everything,” he announced, and I never saw him again.
What more can I say?