tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43122801328283117732024-03-19T05:38:08.806-07:00Only a Working GirlReal, Fictional and VirtualPortia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-70783189144040682562008-01-29T07:53:00.000-08:002010-06-17T17:19:03.369-07:00Chapter 1, Poor Little Rich GirlLast week my Second Life financial advisor told me I could easily retire and live off what I'd saved from escorting. Was he trying to get rid of me? If so, it worked. I'm no longer in SL and have no plans to return. I'm not in San Antonio either, by the way. I keep a mailing address there for tax purposes. I'm in a Spanish speaking country that shall remain nameless. Sorry if this is inhospitable, but I'm really, honest and truly, retired and want no visitors. I bought a nice Italian villa sort of house that's nestled snugly between mountains and ocean, and I'm going to have a good time here being alone, writing, reading, napping, eating, walking on the beach. I might even get fat. They have the best fish tacos at a place on the beach that's within walking distance. And some healthy looking young fishermen around there too, but I won't get into that. Not yet. Forget I said it.<br />
So, this is my only concession to linking up with the past, a blog about it. I'm not sure yet exactly what the tone will be. How light. How serious. Maybe a little of both depending upon my mood that day. I've kept a log, one that dates all the way back to my Red Light Center days, and I may use that as an organizer, or I might just pick and choose from it. We'll see.<br />
Let's start, though, very briefly, with the most recent past. My last days on SL and why, out of the blue, very suddenly, I decided one Sunday morning to close up shop and disappear. In a way, it made no sense. I was doing better than I ever had with two regulars who were giving me more lindens than I knew what to do with. The only problem was that they kept me so busy that even if I'd known how to spend the lindens, I wouldn't have had time. Both were nice guys, or at least they could be when I insisted. And I can't say that they didn't know what they were doing when we were doing business. No complaints there. And actually, I did have enough time to buy the best of a lot of things SL had to offer. A house very similar to the one I live in now, very spacious, in a similar location. Furnished tastefully, I thought. And I had so many clothes I couldn't find all of them, never mind wear them, and lately I'd bought only the most expensive shoes and dresses. Poor little rich girl. That was me. Poor little rich girl who, modesty aside, had to hide from her many admirers if she wanted any time at all to herself. No sympathy? I don't blame you.<br />
No reason for it. I'm perfectly happy now, and if I get bored, I'll just try something else. Meanwhile, I'll spend a little time each day looking through my log for things I might want to share with you, and who knows, now and then I might find a pearl.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-31507701633493878822000-01-28T12:48:00.000-08:002010-06-18T07:40:37.864-07:00Chapter 2 PromiscuityI've decided to start at the very virtual beginning in the Red Light Center. Or would that be virtual very beginning? Anyway, as you might imagine, anyone who would go to such a place is interested in a lot of sex, and from what I hear, most people are pretty easy to satisfy for the first few days. It's all new. It's all exciting. That was certainly true for me. For a while, I hardly ever said no, and I was very busy and had tons of fun. It doesn't take long to realize, however, that even in RLC, even virtually, most guys are, well, pretty predictable and plain vanilla in what they want. Anal, blow job, cum on your tits or face. That's apparently the porno fashion these days, so they tell me, and it's what guys want. And I know, anal may not seem like plain vanilla to some of you girls out there, but trust me, you can get used to, and bored with, almost anything.<br />
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When you start to yawn during intercourse, as I did after three or four days of intense participation, it's time to make a change, and what I did was tell a story, as I'm doing now. Not that most guys really wanted to hear it. A big part of most guys' tedious predictability is that all they want is a wet, warm and snug cylinder in which to jerk off. That's why they often proclaim, at least to whores, right in the middle of things, "I"m using you bitch!!" And most curious of all is that judging from the porno I've seen (I had to do a little research, didn't I? Considering my profession?), seeing a penis in any cylinder, doesn't matter which, in endless close-up (you start thinking it's a loop after a while), is all the poor things want. Meat and mashed potatoes. Meat and mashed potatoes. Meat and . . . .<br />
<br />
Excuse me, but I insist at the very least on a little garlic in my potatoes and some hot sauce (preferably Cholula) on my meat. And maybe a little baby spinach salad with feta to start, but I digress. I told you I might get fat down here. My only hope is those healthy fishermen I mentioned, but I'm still digressing. What I did, during my first week in RLC, was tell my story, that of a poor little rich girl who'd exiled herself to a bordello in a virtual porno site. I had my own little room there and I divided my time between writing long and very sad romances and looking for a big strong man to submit to. Yes. Submit. I'd decided on that as the best way to forestall the boredom. I would offer myself up as a willing slave.<br />
One of the more popular places in RLC at that time was the BDSM version of a room where as many as three couples could have one on one sex while other people watched. I went with the idea that I'd volunteer for a whipping, but as it turned out, before I knew what was happening, I wound up holding the whip and the poor guy was hanging there tied up right in front of me. What's a girl to do? What's expected, I decided, so I did the best I could, smacking him hard on the butt and on even more tender parts, using a vibrator and a strap-on in his nether region (as it's so quaintly put in The Story of O), and all in all having a pretty darn good time, I must admit. I did two guys that way and was looking for a third (too much ain't enough for some girls) when I suddenly had the whip taken from me. Quite rudely, I must say, and for a minute I didn't know where I was or what had happened, and then he hit me for the first time and I nearly fainted. I was hogtied, suspended several feet off the floor by a rope hanging from the ceiling, and standing over me, whip in hand and alarmingly handsome, was the man who was soon to become my first master.<br />
It turned out to be an exciting and delightful evening. I had the time of my virtual life. Tune in next time and I'll tell you about it.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-44137657474491051352000-01-27T13:51:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:12:31.266-07:00Chapter 3 SubmissionIf you want to see how I looked in those old Red Light Center days, go to my pics. Like the bangs?<br />
FD was German. I'll be using initials, by the way, for everyone I virtually knew, and even some of those may be changed. I don't know yet how candid I will be, how many bridges I might want to burn, but I won't name names. Not full names. I've never done this before for public consumption, and it should be interesting to balance my interest in telling the truth with not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings. How bold will I be? Should I let the chips fall where they may or be the soul of discretion? <br />
But back to FD. If you'll recall, when we last saw him, he was standing over me with a whip. Standing over poor little me, blue-eyed and snowy white, dangling from a rope, bound hand and foot in the center of a crowd of horny and vulgar men. I was utterly helpless and exposed at that moment, and he made the most of it. He ignored my pleas for mercy. He began slowly, almost gently, and I felt a connection almost immediately. This man is paying attention, I thought, and wants to please me. He's firm. He's masculine. He knows what he wants, and he's not afraid to take it, but he pays attention. He's playing me. My response means something to him, and he plays to it. I was bound, whipped, and penetrated, but even while still suspended, still under the lash, still violated, I began to feel a certain tenderness towards him.<br />
The moment I had the freedom to stand, I asked him, right in front of everyone, to be my master. I used my best high voice. "Please, please, sir, will you be my master? I so want to be your slave." And you might wonder at this point, if you haven't already, can I really feel tender and be so manipulative at the same time? Yes. Why not? And besides, I wanted to please him. I liked him already, just from how he'd whipped me. We hadn't yet really spoken. We didn't really know each other, despite the connection I felt, and so it was prudent on his part, a good sign, that he said he had to test me first. It also proved to be exciting.<br />
He recruited two of those horny and vulgar guys who'd watched him beat me and took me to a room that would hold four people. There were no threesomes on RLC at the time, so I had to screw the two guys one at a time. That was the test. They fucked me and he watched. No bondage. That privilege was reserved for him. When they were done, after a little man talk in front of me about how hot I was, he told them to leave and took me to yet another room, one just for two. I already suspected his extremes: rough passion, sentimental tenderness. German vulgarity and romanticism. He had the cutest accent, and when he wanted to cuddle and say sweet things to me, I was captivated. Later, when I was in the hotel lobby and thought he'd gone, he came back and told me he wanted a kiss to make my submission to him official. Some guy with wings began to harrass us, and as we kissed I asked FD if he would always protect me, and he said he would.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-13661446168231553502000-01-26T13:39:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:16:08.743-07:00Chapter 4 An AngleI think of that night with FD as the real beginning of my virtual life. It would still be over a week before I became a working girl, but that night convinced me that just wandering around and fucking any Tom, Dick or Harry who might come along wouldn't do. I needed more than that. At the very least I needed what reporters might call an angle, and it was up to me to invent it.<br />
My favorite place in RLC has always been The Bareback Bordello. It's like an enclosed courtyard with dancing in the center and rooms all around. The day after I met FD I went there wearing nothing but panties and high heel sandals. I never had a tattoo. Never a tan. Just pierced nipples. Simple rings that glittered a little like diamonds. I stood in front of one of the bondage rooms and waited to see who might come along, and my story changed depending upon my mood. It also improved with time, as stories will. Ultimately, I was telling anyone who approached me that I was there waiting for my master, and that I could do nothing without his permission.<br />
Meanwhile, FD and I settled into a routine that was much like our first night together. We would seek out excitement with other people, then find a room where we could be alone and where FD could make love to me, which he did exquisitely. I've never known anyone better at combining romance with pushing the limits. On our second date, as we relaxed in a pool just before saying good night, he ventured the opinion that we made a lovely couple. "But you'll get tired of me sooner or later," I told him. "That's how men are." Insecure submissive women are supposed to say that. They always do in movies. And FD, my hero for the moment, knew his lines. "I could never get tired of you," he said. "I'm not like most men."<br />
Our agreement in regard to other people was that anything went when FD wasn't on line, but of course that's not what I told those other people. As everyone knows, when we can't have something, we want it all the more, and during the next few days, from my post in the Bordello, I began to attract a small crowd of guys who decided they wanted me. Some wanted to be my master. One even threatened to kill FD. He was drunk, I assume, but it still thrilled me that I could arouse such strong feelings. Others promised not to tell my master if I'd just submit to them once, and still others just wanted to chat, so they said. It was great fun, and at the same time I was improving my teasing skills, which would help tremendously once I turned professional.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-69705258542214251092000-01-25T13:43:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:28:02.842-07:00Chapter 5 VirtualityAs everyone knows who has been there, time is different in the virtual world. A week can seem like a month or more. A month can seem like a year. People you've known for several months are old friends. I've talked to people, most of them women, who say they are on line nearly 24/7, and I wonder if it's not their way of trying for immortality, or at least staying young. When you enter Second Life, or even RLC, you have to pay attention. Really pay attention. So much so that all of your real life troubles go away, especially the boredom, the humdrum chores and routine that take up so much of your time, even if you're not unhappy, or think you're not.<br />
It shouldn't seem odd, then, to say that after a few days, FD and I were established lovers. Nor is it sad to say we peaked after a few days. It seemed like several weeks. And besides, it might only have been me who peaked. We'd tried, more than once, just about everything we could think of and the system would allow. Our favorite routine was for me to ask the first man I met if I could give him a blow job in front of my master, and I was actually turned down a few times, mostly by guys with or waiting for girlfriends, which made it all that more exciting. The point, after all, was to see how low I would go. How much humiliation could I take? And it thrilled me when one guy said, while we were in the act, FD watching, "You like a big hard cock in your mouth, don't you bitch?" I also liked it when FD confessed to me what he called his "darkest thoughts." He wanted to pee and shit on me. Wasn't I shocked? Maybe a little, but I'd read my de Sade. I reacted submissively. I told him I wanted to please him in whatever way I could, but I wasn't sure I could go that far. Even virtually.<br />
This is starting to sound depressingly familiar, isn't it? The man always wanting more; the woman resisting, then giving in little by little, if she wants to keep her man, or keep him happy. And not just give in. Men aren't satisfied with that. You have to also like it. How many times have I heard that? "You love it, don't you bitch?" Especially when the act in question is the penetration of my nether region. Women love to be fucked in the ass. They just don't like to admit it. So men like to think, and whores like me never disagree. All the way to the bank, we say, "Oh yes, baby, give it to me. Fuck my ass. Give it to me hard."<br />
But what FD wanted more of, more than anything, was not my virtual ass, but reality, and in that way he was like most of the men I've met in the virtual world. Unlike myself and many if not most of the women I've met, he was not content to play house, and although I told him over and over again that reality was out of bounds, he wouldn't let up. Even after I stopped him cold a few times when he asked, "is the real woman wet?", he continued to persist, and little by little I gave in. Why? Because pleasing him pleased me. When he got excited, it excited me. It wasn't really what I wanted, reality, but I'd developed a soft spot for my German master with the cute accent, and I wasn't quite ready to lose him.<br />
My point, which the men you have to explain it to never get, was that I wanted to lose myself, full immersion, in the virtual world, not use it as a dating service. I'd use a dating service if that's what I wanted, and I know how to get fucked, thank you very much, if and when I want that. Reminders of reality, references to "that real woman at the keyboard," are guaranteed mood spoilers, and I began to put up with them without question only after I became a professional, as an unavoidable part of the territory. In my own mind, then and now, I'm just Portia. I live in an unidentified South American country, between the beach and the mountains, in a villa with a red-tiled roof. I spend my days writing and reading and eating fish tacos at the nearby village. Now and then I ogle the fishermen, but so far that's as far as it's gone. Now and then I open a Negra Modelo and pour myself a shot of tequila and sit on my terrace and hum tunes to myself as I watch the clouds go by. And yes, sometimes when I go to bed, I'm a little lonely, but not too much. Not yet.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-27020222813388331752000-01-24T04:47:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:29:10.763-07:00Chapter 6 RestlessOkay, I gave it away with the Negra Modelo. But there's a lot of mountainous coastline in Mexico, so I'm not worried yet about unsolicited visitors. And besides, they'd have to get past Horacio, who is six four, three hundred pounds, and from Sinaloa (If you don't know why that's important, Sinaloa, look it up.). His wife, Luz, makes the best shrimp tacos I've ever had in my life, which they tell me is a Sinaloan specialty. They are very different from the fish tacos they make here in the village.<br />
Where was I? FD's persistence in reminding me of reality, I believe. He wanted me to be married, so I told him I was. Why not? He was never going to meet me anyway, so I might as well make him happy. Little by little, he wanted to know more about the "real" me, and little by little I created one for him. I was a lonely housewife. I was bored with my sex life. I was looking for more excitement. He pressed for details, of course. What city did I live in? What was the room I was in like? What was I wearing? I feigned reluctance but doled out the fiction, slowly but surely, measuring it carefully for his added pleasure.<br />
At the same time I tried to convince him that the virtual woman, Scylaa in RLC, held the key, the only key he was ever likely to possess, to the real one. I believed that, still do, and not only because the real facts were lies. I believed it because the truth, the search for it, needing it, was why Scylaa existed. By telling her own story, which she did almost obsessively to anyone who would listen, she revealed a part of something much larger, a consciousness perhaps, of which she was no more than a tiny but important piece.<br />
I knew a crisis was imminent. Sweet though FD was, and sincerely interested in pleasing me, he would never really be satisfied with Scylaa. I thought, and almost hoped, that he'd dumped me when he suddenly disappeared for a week. Maybe I was a little hurt, but at least I was spared the trouble of figuring out how to dump him, a challenge if I was to stay in character, given how devoted and submissive I was supposed to be. But then I learned the truth. He had put RLC on his computer at work and had nearly lost his job when his boss found out about it. I felt bad for him, but at the same time, this gave me the perfect out. I wrote him and told him that if he lost his job over me, I 'd never forgive myself, and that even though I still loved him and thought he was the best master ever, I was going to look for someone to take his place. I'd already told him that several people were trying to get me to change my allegiance. Now I told him that I'd see if I could get them to bid for me. How much was I worth? Just asking myself the question gave me a little thrill.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-58159250567959207872000-01-23T04:53:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:29:43.399-07:00Chapter 7 SmittenI tried to explain myself to FD by using the term "alter ego," which he got turned around. He thought the real woman was the alter ego, and I only half-heartedly tried to correct him. What if I could convince myself that he was right? Or what if I couldn't stop myself from believing it? That would make me crazy, of course, and although I never approached that level of delusion, something else happened that disturbed me. Something that might not be that different. The real life woman began to lose interest in her real life. I think of it as attenuation, a thinning out of experience, as if someone had added too much water to the soup. I became Scylaa almost all the time, whether I was actually in RLC or not, and I begrudged the times when I couldn't be.<br />
Around that time my virtual social life peaked. There were people I saw every day, all of whom wanted me in one way or another. Most wanted to be my master, and I found it extremely gratifying and titillating to play them off against each other. All but one were men, and in the end, to my great surprise, I chose the one woman who wanted me, and in retrospect, it seems certain that I also chose the one person who played the game as well or better than I did. My first reference to NG in my notes reads, "NG I know is horny for me. We talked a lot yesterday and she asked me for advice about her slave." A later reference reads, "Turned one trick and talked to NG. She's hot for me. Was she doing someone else while talking?" Was that last a hint of trouble to come? I'm afraid so. Much trouble and much joy.<br />
I often think I should have just played the field, meanwhile doing tricks as they came along. I first wore my working girl badge at the beginning of my third week in RLC, and I loved everything about it. Standing half-naked in the Bordello with my badge on; bantering and negotiating with potential clients; trying hard to please but in a strictly professional way, keeping my distance emotionally; getting a kick out of being used, or rather the pleasure men took in using me; watching the rays pile up, even though there was nothing really to spend them on, until I learned how to convert them to cash, which was also a thrill, since it made me just a little more like a real whore. This is where I left off last time, isn't it? Contemplating my worth. First as a slave, now as a whore. I can tell you this without qualification: I knew from the very first trick that being bought for sex gave me the thrill of my life. I'd never felt better, never more alive and horny, than when I received those first rays and said, "Follow me." I could feel his eyes on my ass as I led my client to a room.<br />
Basic whoring is so easy and simple. It's acting. It's creating an illusion, in this case a virtual illusion, and the more you believe in and enjoy the illusion, as I did, the better you are at what you do. But if you are going to be really good and make lots of money, as I did eventually, it takes practice, the acquisition of skills, and imagination. At that level, you acquire regulars, and the relationships are inevitably as complicated as if they were lovers or friends. Virtual lovers. Virtual friends. Virtual clients. In my third week in RLC, I had plenty of all three, but less than a week later I found myself really interested in only one virtual person. I was smitten, a feeling that came on suddenly and out of nowhere.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-24358836112724501382000-01-22T04:59:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:30:16.027-07:00Chapter 8 My girlMen are so alike. I know that's not true, but it has some merit I think as a gross generalization, especially in a sexually charged atmosphere like RLC and much of Second Life. They want to fuck, and they want to fuck now. Some restrain themselves and go through the motions of what they think women want. Some even understand and share the concepts of context and quality. An exceptional few like to draw things out, tease and be teased. But no matter what their style, or how smart or civilized they are, women are first and foremost objects they want to possess. Need to possess. Men have a sense of urgency not usually found in women. There's no tomorrow, and if they don't get between your legs today, their life will have been wasted.<br />
That's why I'm not going to focus on any of the men in my life, aside from FD, before I found NG. Or she found me. She looked a little ridiculous, to be honest. Her superheroine costume made me think of a 50's vintage beauty contest, as if she were going for Miss USA (she'd probably say Miss UK, same colors). The striped bottom bunched up like diapers, and the long blond hair was easily the most popular on RLC, hardly setting her apart. Style challenged, then, since she never had to change her costume. And somehow, though I never figured out why exactly, a little awkward and masculine. That was the first impression, just from looking at her and a brief conversation.<br />
Call me mentally challenged, but it took a while for me to realize that there might be a reason for her showing up every day, hanging around, and throwing out compliments about my appearance. In fact, I think she had to tell me she had a crush on me before it sank in. Meanwhile, I'd let it be known that I was shopping for a new master and I now had four guys after me. The plan was to continue as before: whore and slave. And I thought for a while I'd found a guy who would be a marked improvement over FD. He was on every day. He was not just smart but intellectual and literary. And he liked to be the boss. M. I thought for a while he'd be the perfect master. He was good at head games, and every bit my match.<br />
Inadvertently, NG broke us up. I'd been resisting M for quite a while. Telling him he had to pay, or that he had to first buy me from FD. Finally, though, using some flimsy excuse, I'd lost at a game we played or something, I gave in, and it was very good. I was more convinced than ever that I wanted M to be my master, but the very next day, he suggested that we invite NG to join us for a threesome. It hurt my feelings. I thought he'd want to be alone with me. It made me lose some respect for him, and I never got it back.<br />
No more than a day or two later NG was my mistress. She'd persisted, and I was soon very thankful for that. It took no more than being alone with her a couple of times to realize that she was something special. Very special. As I've said, she didn't look special. We had nothing extraordinary in common. She wasn't literary or intellectual. She wasn't thrillingly bad or nasty. She wasn't really much of a superheroine, not around me at least, or even, as it turned out, a very good mistress. She was just a girl from the UK, my girl for a while (as I was hers) and very very special.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-45118851864825467812000-01-21T05:04:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:32:02.340-07:00Chapter 9 TrustThe official starting date of our relationship was October 10, 2007. By the 16th she had hurt me three times and I'd broken up with her twice. The first time she recruited a new "slave" without giving me any warning. The second time she failed to notice when I came on-line. And the third time, after she was booted, she failed to write me any sort of explanation. She had no particularly good excuse for any of those incidents, but she sounded very repentant, and I relented. That set the pattern for the next four and a half months. I've lost track of how many times it happened, but we broke up for good on February 24, 2008.<br />
It was not a good idea to become more than friends with her, but it couldn't be helped. By the time I realized, or admitted to myself, that she didn't have the same idea of love that I did, and therefore the same rules, it was too late. I didn't want it to end. I wanted it to go on forever, and I even convinced myself for a while that getting hurt now and then was worth it. After all, didn't I want to be submissive? If I were really a good slave, wouldn't I take whatever she gave me and like it? Unfortunately, those weren't the terms. What we had quickly developed into something more serious, and equal, and my demands followed suit.<br />
Sometimes, though, when I take it that seriously, I wonder if I haven't lost my mind. Think of the limits of the virtual world: no touch, sound, smell. On the other hand, think of the miracle of words. I know as well as anyone how common it is to get sexually aroused with just words. I did it for a living. Forget the visual aids. Guys would tell me that after they got to know me, they would get an erection at "Hi." Which doesn't make me special. It's the easiest thing in the world. What's hard is real intimacy. And rare. I never felt more myself than when I was with NG. I was never more comfortable, never more sure that whatever I said would be appreciated and understood. She made me feel cute and clever. I tried to make her feel beautiful and elegant. At our best, I think we knew each other as well as two people can.<br />
But our best wasn't enough. I didn't trust her. I often wonder if touch, sound and smell would have made the difference. Would all my concerns, all my jealousy, petty and otherwise, and my rules, silly and otherwise, have faded away if I could have embraced her really and not just virtually? Not that it matters. In fact, it is breaking the rules to even ask the question. I think our mutual commitment to fantasy was a big part of our attraction. It was Scylaa and NG all the way. No "alter egos" need apply. We were who we virtually were, and that was that.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-82031399176434592092000-01-20T05:13:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:32:47.786-07:00Chapter 10 JealousyMy grievances are petty and ironic. NG was very popular and had tons of friends, including a handful of girls who were completely devoted to her. She was not particularly adept at whipping or even fucking hard, the traditional mistress attributes, but she was excellent at cultivating a following, an entourage. I suppose that in the beginning I thought I'd simply join the crowd, but a couple of things conspired against it. She insisted that I was something special, her number 1 girl, but there was no evidence of that in her profile, her blog, or among her friends. I didn't get along with her friends. I thought their wit was a bit stale and insipid, and they ignored mine. Maybe they thought it offensive. Maybe they didn't get it. I'm not sure. In any case, they often didn't seem to quite know who I was or what I was doing there. "Do you know NG well?" "Have you known her for long?" That hurt.<br />
We eventually solved the problem in the most obvious way. When we saw each other, it was always just the two of us. At my instigation, of course. Not only could I not bear her friends, I saw no point in seeing her with mine around. I wanted her all to myself. I wanted to be the center of her attention, which suggests, doesn't it, that my petty grievances were one of the ways I had of playing my part. She was the superheroine, the rock star, the social animal. I was the cute little loner, the whore who paid the bills, who lived only for the times she could see her lover. I would constantly complain, feel abused, and stay faithful. And isn't that what I wanted? Isn't that why I looked for a mistress in the first place?<br />
One day after an especially good time alone, in one of the cabins with a mountain view from the deck, as we were taking a leisurely swim and chatting, a girl I didn't know jumped in the pool, swam underwater between us and started eating NG's pussy. I could have killed her, and I'm not exaggerating. If it had been virtually possible, I'd have grabbed the bitch by the hair, yanked her out of the pool and beat the living shit out of her. It turned out that she was the girlfriend of one of NG's best friends. NG accommodated both of us. She agreed with me when I told her privately that I thought it rude. She went along with the girl's inane levity. I said nothing to the girl, gave her the cold shoulder, which I'm sure she didn't notice, but I think in retrospect I should have put how I felt right out on the table. Let everyone know. If I had, I might have let it go and forgotten about it. As it was, I think of it as a turning point. I had to wonder: did our time together mean so little to her that this grotesque interruption meant nothing? I had to ask myself: where was I?Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-29153649545602433032000-01-19T17:17:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:33:34.023-07:00Chapter 11 The Old GringoI met a man the other day, an old gringo I'd seen around the village ever since I arrived. It's taken me this long to get up the nerve to speak to him. As far as I knew, he'd never noticed me, although you'd think my hair would make me stand out a little. I was timid because he struck me as someone who's been here a while. An old hand, and sometimes those types don't like pushy young gringas invading their turf. By definition, all gringas in Mexico are pushy and loud.<br />
Around eleven most days I go to the only cafe on the plaza and order either an agua melon or agua sandia. Cantaloupe or watermelon water, sweetened and delicious. That's it though. You'd be proud of me. While people around me stuff themselves with eggs, beans, tortillas and tamales, I just sit there and sip my melon water. Even Horacio, who always comes with me to the village, has a few tacos, even though he complains that they aren't as good as the ones in Sinaloa. The only other person at the cafe who never eats much is the gringo. He drinks Nescafe and nibbles a little at a basket of pan dulce while he reads either the Sunday New York Times, which he gets on Tuesdays, or a novel. The first novel I saw him reading was Timbuktu, Paul Auster. The second one was Fuentes, El Gringo Viejo, which was too much. I couldn't shut my mouth. "So," I said, "the old gringo reads The Old Gringo." Not my most clever moment, I know, but I wanted to say something before I changed my mind, and what else would one say?<br />
I'd already done my homework, by the way. Horacio comes in handy for all sorts of things. He found out that the old gringo wasn't, after all, such an old hand. He'd only been there a few weeks before I arrived, his Spanish was minimal, and he was living in a little house owned by a gringa painter who hadn't been seen for a couple of years. He told Mercedes, the woman who takes care of the gringa's house, that he was writing a novel and would be here for several months, maybe a year. Another old gringo writing a novel, I thought. They practically grow on trees down here. And then there's young gringas writing memoirs, although most of us stay at home to do that. I wasn't at all sure I wanted to meet him. On the one hand, I was starting to get a little stir crazy, with only Horacio and his wife and kids to talk to, wonderful though they are, but this guy might turn out to be a terrible bore.<br />
Or he might not. Still good looking, I thought, a chiseled sort of face, and nice eyes. Good taste in novels. And most important of all, not the least bit interested in me, apparently. That I found very curious, so how could I not approach him?Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-30964653784233496562000-01-18T17:20:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:34:33.000-07:00Chapter 12 Second LifeYou may be wondering, where is Second Life in all this? Where is escorting? What's all this about a lesbian love affair on yet another virtual site and an old gringo in Mexico who drinks Nescafe and reads the New York Times? Sorry. Sue me for false billing if you must, but in my defense, I would suggest that a story is only as good as its digressions. Look at The Odyssey and The Iliad if you don't believe me.<br />
Besides, it's good form in this case. Second Life is now sandwiched between the past and the present, which is just where it belongs. I confess, though, that I can't quite decide how to tell the story. Chronological is so 19th Century, don't you think? And God knows what the 21st will bring, so maybe I should just settle for the 20th and bring things up as they occur to me, trusting my subconcious to provide the pattern. And my moods, which may amount to the same thing. If it seems interesting today, go with it. I'll have plenty of time to revise, not to mention check my spelling, in the afterlife. What's that? There may not be one? So much the better.<br />
So, the first thing that occurs to me about Second Life is shopping for shoes. It may be what I miss the most. Sometimes I think I could have done nothing else and been perfectly happy. That's probably not true, but it's nice to think so. Trying on the samples was so easy, and since you could take them with you, you could try them with different outfits before you bought. I haven't added it up, but I'm sure I spent thousands of lindens on shoes, and now and then I would put on a new pair and go to a place with a lot of campers, just so I could feel sorry for and superior to all the poor girls who were making only a few lindens an hour. I made 2000 lindens an hour, and when I quit Second Life I was bringing in around 40,000 lindens a month. The cream rises to the top, don't you think? I started with nothing. I never bought a premium membership. I never spent a penny of my own money.<br />
Hurray for me! Now for the Rosebud moment, you're thinking. Was she really happy? If so, why did she quit? Unlike Charles Foster Kane I didn't die, not exactly, but I suppose, as I was picking up all my stuff the day I quit, putting my house and its furniture into my inventory, telling my landlords I was leaving (yes, I had more than one place), I suppose I could have regretted leaving behind one precious thing, something that stood for happiness and lost innocence, and that contrasted bitterly with the second life I led, what I did to earn all those lindens. But I was no Charles Foster Kane. It would be a stretch to say I built an empire, and I was not unscrupulous in my business dealings. Quite the contrary, I sincerely believe. The one similarity, not unimportant, is in love. Welles' film character, poor thing, was so caught up in himself that he never learned how to love anyone. I plead guilty to that.<br />
Sandals. Flat heels, leather, simple straps, plain as plain can be, in brown and black and white with silver or gold buckles. Free from Free Dove. My favorite footwear. I wore them as often as I could. I miss them terribly.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-49774465714606907872000-01-17T17:31:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:35:52.644-07:00Chapter 13 RidiculousThe trouble with writing a memoir when you're young is that most of the people you write about are still alive. If they'd only die, you catch yourself thinking, I could say whatever I want. I really don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but on the other hand, what's the point of doing this if you can't be honest? Maybe there's a middle ground, a line you can walk, or a place you can reach that is both discreet and candid. I don't know, but it might help if I could be just as hard on myself as I am on other people. If I could get past the inane--"my main fault is that I'm such a perfectionist"--and tell you something really bad. I claimed to be scrupulous in my business dealings, but I said nothing about my personal relationships, and I'm afraid that in that regard I was less than admirable. I broke some hearts. I squeezed all the money I could out of guys who otherwise bored me to tears. I quickly lost interest in anyone who couldn't help me. I had no friends. I liked being left alone to shop or decorate. I enjoyed the company of others only when I was the admired center of attention.<br />
So what? To paraphrase Rousseau, being bad is much easier to admit to than being ridiculous. He said that, as I recall, in the context of telling us how much he enjoyed getting slapped on the fanny by a woman. In other words, to really be honest and fair, to treat myself as I propose to treat others, I should admit my embarrassments and humiliations, my longings and experiences that are painful to me and that damage rather than feed my ego. And maybe I should do that first. Tear myself down. Forget all this strong woman shit. Leave behind all the times I lied and cheated to get what I wanted. Focus instead on what really hurt, what really made me feel worthless and dumb and ugly, on times I wish I could forget. That says a lot already, doesn't it? Despite what I said about not wanting to hurt people's feelings, my conscience never bothered me. Maybe I don't have one. What bothers me is losing.<br />
I was going to write about Second Life Amsterdam today, before I got sidetracked. That and other haunts of whores I know about. I never got any business there, but Amsterdam is the place to start. At any time of day or night scores of women are there looking for clients. Some just stand around. Others announce to everyone the particulars of what they offer. It's a big open plaza, and all of us stand facing the spot where clients appear when they leap to the site. We maneuver a bit for a better position. The women always outnumber the men by at least ten to one. From a distance it looks as if a crowd has gathered around some spectacle. A performer, maybe, or a dead body.<br />
That wasn't humiliating to me. I rather enjoyed it, truth be told, and would have spent more time there if it didn't have such a bad lag. I'll continue tomorrow with SL whore sites, unless of course I'm more in the mood for one of my digressions. Or unless I can think of just the right way to punch a hole in my ego.Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-9761714807156705692000-01-16T06:24:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:36:43.392-07:00Chapter 14 Whoring in SL AmsterdamI started talking about whore sites in SL yesterday. By the way, if anyone is offended by my use of the word whore instead of escort, too bad. I use escort in the title of the blog so as not to scare off anyone prematurely. A nod to civility, sort of like not using a toothpick on the first date. In general, though, and among friends (all my readers are friends, aren't you?), escort is a euphemism I can do without. Maybe I was a high class whore, or maybe not, but I took money for sex like all the rest.<br />
<div>Like a lot of SL sites, once you stray from the center of the action in Amsterdam, there is no action. I found a nice little cafe, a bar, a cheap hotel, even a church, and several shops featuring cocks and pussies galore, spiked heels and garter belts, etc. But no one was interested. If it hadn't been for the lag, which followed you everywhere in Amsterdam, it would have been fun exploring all the deserted little nooks and crannies. The church, though, was a little disappointing. Uninspiring goth as I recall. Wouldn't a Mary Magdalene theme have been more appropriate? Which reminds me, if you haven't read Jose Saramago's <i>The Gospel According to Jesus Christ</i>, I highly recommend it. Jesus and Mary M have a pretty hot love affair. Innocent virgin teenager and experienced whore with a heart of gold.</div><div>As I've said, I didn't have much luck in Amsterdam, but it was interesting to observe the different styles women adopt to sell their bodies. The more aggressive ones vied for position at the center and were clearly trying to look as outrageous as possible. Many looked like drag queens. Amazonian in stature, bronzed, half-naked, fish net stockings, tattoos everywhere, hairdos that were engineering marvels, some with weapons strapped to their thighs. Others had staked out a niche: schoolgirls, nurses, blonde twins, femme fatales, chubby earth mother hippies. And there was a convenient bench for female "diddling," if one were so inclined. I never was. It was entertaining enough to listen to the hustles: I have dirty pictures; IM me for special discounts; I do web cam and voice.</div><div>I usually stood on the periphery, as did a few others. I wasn't the only loner there, but I was usually the most modestly dressed. Heels, jeans, and a t-shirt. Platinum blonde but nothing fancy. What that got me was some conversation from guys interested in the clearly literary bent of my profile, or the cold classy bitch image I was leaning towards at the time, but no lindens. Most guys in Amsterdam want voice or web cam, and I would never do either. One time I let a guy talk to me, or thought I was going to, but it was so creepy I shut him down as soon as he said "Hello, can you hear me?" A stranger in your house? A horny stranger? No thanks.</div><div>My only concession, and it proved to be a critical one, was pictures. I didn't like doing it, not so much from modesty as from being a purist, but I was getting nowhere without them. Well, not exactly nowhere. I'd met two or three guys who were extremely good to me, and thanks to them I was no longer a poor girl. I had some nice clothes and expensive jewelry. The trouble was I was too dependent on them. I practically had to beg for everything I received, and I wanted to be independent. I was ambitious. I wanted my own place and many many lindens in my account. Pictures of course would mix real life with the fantasy, which seemed to me almost a mortal sin, but what's a poor girl to do? Really. And who can live without compromise? I'm not that much of a loner. </div><div></div><div></div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-88915605742372695742000-01-15T06:34:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:37:47.093-07:00Chapter 15 Favorite Places<div>My favorite place to be alone on SL was a tiny island where you could ride giraffes in tall yellow grass. There was also a swing in a gazebo, a dancing pavillion, and benches with romantic poses. Believe it or not, I was proposed to on one of those benches. Nothing ever came of it, but a girl doesn't forget something like that. Even a whore remembers a proposal.</div><div>I think we've established that I'm bad. I drove NG crazy with my demands and petty jealousy. My bi-weekly hissy fits. And I thought of men as prey. I was only interested in their adoration and their lindens. But what about the ridiculous? What made me feel truly humiliated? Not in the sex game sense. Seriously humiliated. Did I ever feel shame the way Rousseau did when he admitted to liking the paddle? And what would it take? I'd turned degradation and humiliation into a profession, so what was left? Tell me what's left after this: Oh yes, baby, hurt me. I love it. I'm a bitch. I'm a slut. I'm a whore. Give it to me hard. Make me squeal. Make me scream. Ram that big cock up my ass. I want it, baby. I always want it.</div><div>Maybe, like Rousseau, I should admit to what I really liked, besides riding giraffes in high grass and shopping for shoes. I liked having two guys at once. There, I've said it. And yes, it's embarrassing, because talking about what you really like is the same as confessing a weakness. And you'll have to admit, this is a little different from saying you can't leave chocolate alone. Or in my case, fish tacos. Remember the games FD and I played? I would go out and find someone to suck and/or fuck in front of him. My idea, of course, but he and a few others down the road picked up the ball and ran with it. And when that happened, when they took over, when they no longer seemed to care if I was liking it or not, is when I got my best orgasms, whether I was getting paid for it or not.</div><div>But that's not the real confession. The real confession is that I wanted to adore, not be adored, and I failed at my one chance. NG. I wanted someone I couldn't control, and the two guys business was just play acting at that. I couldn't control NG. I adored her, but I couldn't handle it, so I walked away. That's my real weakness, the real fault in my character. I can't bear loving someone I can't control. I'd rather give it all up, go lie in wait, and lick my lips at the tender morsels, poor things, that come my way. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-25903045857866072442000-01-14T06:39:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:39:27.253-07:00Chapter 16 Normal Life<div>I've just read over all of my posts from the beginning, and I suggest, if you're a newcomer or you've missed any, that you do the same. This is a narrative. For today to make complete sense, or have the most impact, you need to know about yesterday and the day before.</div><div>It turns out that the old gringo is married. Thirty years to the same woman. "Longer than I've been alive," I told him. His skin crinkles up around his eyes when he smiles. "I used to narrow my eyes on purpose," he said, "to try to look more like Roy Rogers." He showed no surprise when I knew who that was. Nor when I told him I liked Auster and Fuentes. I guess he figures a dumb gringa wouldn't be here in the first place. We talked for a while about putting yourself as a character in your own novel, or at least a character with your name. He said he normally hated postmodern techniques, but he didn't mind the way Auster used that one. I told him he sounded awfully old-fashioned, and he laughed.</div><div>He knows nothing about me, but I know he's curious. He's old-fashioned in that way too. It would be impolite, he thinks, to ask too many questions. I like that. We spent nearly a whole hour this morning not talking about ourselves. Horacio learned that he was married and for how long from the woman who runs the cafe. He wears a gold band. No other jewelry. Not even a watch. And I've never seen him wear anything but blue jeans and a black or blue polo shirt. We did talk about food. Enough so that when the time is right I can invite him to dinner. With Horacio and his family around that should be safe enough.</div><div>Having someone to talk to made me think of the Latte, my favorite coffee shop in Second Life. It was the first popular place I found in Second Life that wasn't either a sex site or a dance club, and I got attached to it quickly. I could sit outside for an hour or so and tidy up my inventory, and if someone came along who wanted to talk, that was fine. If not, that was fine too. I didn't really look for business, but some came along anyway. Guys would look at my profile and start asking questions, and before I knew it I'd sold a few pictures, and then, what's a girl to do, one thing might lead to another. I never pushed in those places. In fact, I sometimes acted like I was off duty, or busy, but that never deters a real prospect. More often than not it spurs them on. Playing hard to get, I found, works just as well for a whore as anyone else.</div><div>But on the whole the Latte was part of my effort to normalize my second life. I liked the old setting, which is no longer there. It was like a quaint New England village, complete with a book store, an art gallery, a comfortable little bar, and a quiet street with old houses. No one went to any of those places, of course, but me, and they changed it, I'm guessing, to put up townhouses for rent, which actually looked pretty nice, but it wasn't the same and I was disappointed. That's a sad fact of Second Life as I experienced it. If there's no sex or conversation, no matter how beautiful you make a place, with only rare exceptions, no one is going to show up. There may be a whole other side I didn't see. If so, I'd be interested in hearing about it. I know that you could find almost anything you searched for, but more often than not, no one else was there. Which wasn't all bad, of course.</div><div>I sort of took the day off today. Too much me and doom and gloom. I was ready for a break. I don't know what I'll be in the mood for tomorrow. Maybe I'll start my rags to riches story. How I went from clueless newbie to seasoned prostitute in just a few short months. We'll see.</div><div></div><div></div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-52750436342708820492000-01-13T06:44:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:40:38.055-07:00Chapter 17 Courtesan Dreams<div>After three or four days of almost complete immersion in Second Life, I had a plan. I wanted to be a kept woman, a mistress, arm candy. The blonde, aloof and not dumb type. Gwyneth Paltrow. Grace Kelly. All I had to do was get a man with loads of money to go nuts over me. That shouldn't be too hard, should it?</div><div>Poor BT. He had the misfortune of being the first man I met on SL. He gave me transferable skins, bodies, and clothes from his real life girl friend's inventory. I took them, screwed him once, then dumped him the next day. No, of course it wasn't really as cold as that. I was going to keep him around, but he got in the way when another guy with more potential came along. GD, a Greek with "payment info on file," the important thing to note on a man's profile when you're a mercenary like me. It means he has money. Of course it's still up to you to get it out of him, but at least you know the well isn't dry. I tried to humor BT, even if he had "no payment info on file" and looked like a Disney hero. I couldn't see myself as the Little Mermaid, but he'd been nice to me, and besides, I was still very new and clueless, and someone with more experience could be useful. But he got his feelings hurt, and the Greek was a handful, so I let it go.</div><div>GD called me his "porn star." He had a thong fetish and made me wear a body with a big butt. The cheaper I looked, the more like a street whore, the better he liked it. Micro cut offs. Halter tops with half my tits hanging out. I did whatever he wanted and managed to squeeze some nice clothes, jewelry, and even a few lindens out of him. The routine was about the same as it had been with FD back on the RLC site. Sometimes it would be just him. Other times we'd pick up another guy and they'd both do me. It was great fun, and I learned a lot, but in the end I'm afraid I broke his heart too. He wanted me to love him just for himself, and not his money, and that was out of the question.</div><div>I have to admit, though, he was one of the more interesting guys I met on SL. The day I met him he was wearing a King Tut outfit. He looked like the lid of a mummy coffin. That was interesting. Pole dancing for King Tut. Then he took me to his apartment and turned himself into a Smurf, which apparently amused him, since he let out this weird laugh, half cackle and half guffaw. I wasn't exactly swept off my feet, but he'd tipped me 50 lindens, a lot to me at the time, so I decided to be charmed. He was a man of many moods and faces. As I soon learned, he could also be an old man, or a tall lean biker attired from head to toe in black leather. And he could be charming, even gallant, or rude and angry, even abusive. The last part was my fault. Mostly. I lead him on. I told him I loved him, that I'd do anything in the world for him, that I was his willing slave and whore. All lies. As soon as I knew the well was dry, I left him. </div><div></div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-90175557261684967882000-01-12T06:49:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:41:29.302-07:00Chapter 18 Breaking Free<div>It wasn't just the money. Maybe not even mostly the money. I was tired of playing the role of "porn star," and that's all GD really wanted. As long as I looked and did as I was told, he was happy. Why not stick it out? I had a couple of perks: free run of his apartment and someone to indulge my mmf fetish with. Plus, I liked him, both when he was friendly and when he was rude to me, and he wasn't all that demanding. An hour a day maybe and less than ten minutes of actual sex, however long it took him to jerk off, and I soon discovered that I didn't even have to make a lot of noise to make him happy. I just waited until he called, then worked on my inventory while he had his way with me, now and then throwing in an ecstatic exclamation.</div><div>It may seem strange, then, even contradictory, to say that what GD really wanted was love, but I think it's true. It hurt him terribly when he realized I wasn't crazy about him. He got so mad at one point that out of the blue one day he IM'ed me that he came from the best country in the world and I came from the worst. It was hard not to laugh. He was like a kid throwing a fit. He might as well have thrown himself on the floor kicking and screaming. Screaming bloody murder, as my grandmother used to say, not that I ever did that. She was referring to someone else. I knew how to get my way without resorting to such primitive tactics, and in matters of love, I always knew better than to count on anyone. It's not that most people deliberately lie. They just get carried away with the moment, and then regret it later.</div><div>That's why in Victorian novels morality and modesty are so intertwined. It's why being careless is being bad. Why being emotional is dangerous. Why being a flirt is downright mean. And nothing has changed, really, except the level at which those things become serious. There's always a line to cross, no matter the century you live in. GD wanted me to say I was his "wife." He wanted me to say "I love you." I hesitated. I hedged. I flip-flopped. I knew I wasn't blameless. I'd never said either of those things, but I'd let myself get carried away a few times, both genuinely and for effect. I'd been careless. I'd been emotional. I'd led him on. A good girl, a good person, would have just said "no," but I couldn't help wondering, God forgive me, how many pairs of shoes a "yes" was worth.</div><div>When he refused to give me any more gifts or lindens, I told him I was going to start working as an escort, and at first that turned him on. "He's fucking my wife!" he would exclaim, clearly pleased about it, when I told him I was busy with a client. But GD was starting to bore me, and I soon became "busy with a client" nearly every time he wanted me, which didn't please him so much. Tough shit. I finally told him to stop bothering me, which led to the country bashing scene I mentioned above. I dropped him from my friends list, but he kept hounding me for a while, demanding that I give back every linden he'd spent on me. "Those are my pearls!! My dresses!! I want them back you dirty slut whore!!" It got pretty nasty. I gave nothing back. When he got mean, I told him I'd earned every linden he gave me. In fact, I thought he still owed me. He asked for it, I told myself at the time, but looking back I'm relieved now that he didn't have a stroke.</div><div>For a while I'd actually changed bodies and hair and clothes just to see him and please him. Now I could settle into my slim "perfect model" body, simple hair styles and understated clothes. No more "porn star" for Portia. I was even going to try to not look like a whore. Just your cute girl next door, all yours for a price. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-78831817504944556602000-01-11T06:55:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:42:17.656-07:00Chapter 19 Home and Away<div>When I was furnishing my house, I decided I needed a bidet. Every whore should have one, don't you think? It's part of whore lore. Spiked heels, hearts of gold and bidets. And you'd think, considering the escort population in SL, that you'd have a wide selection to choose from, but that's not the case. I found only one and there wasn't much to it. I can't remember now specifically what it lacked, but what purpose would a virtual bidet serve if you couldn't look good using it?</div><div>My house didn't have a bathroom, but the bedroom was pretty big, and I thought a bathtub and a bidet would look just fine next to my brass bed. I bought a nice old-fashioned tub with legs and settled for a toilet with the tank up on the wall. Both plain white. And although neither had elaborate poses, I could relax and soap myself in the tub and I thought I looked pretty cute on the toilet. It even flushed.</div><div>The brass bed had no sex poses. My plan was to keep clients away from my house. For quite a while I'd rented a skybox with a sex bed, sex shower and sex table. I didn't need to bring anyone home. The skybox would be my office; my house would be my getaway. I'd dabble in decorating. I'd have coffee or cocktails with friends on my terrace. I'd try out different outfits in my bedroom. Eventually, once I got everything up to speed, I might have parties, and maybe even turn my wine cellar into a fancy sex room, reserved for friends.</div><div>A few weeks before I quit SL I acquired a personal assistant. A sweet girl named Jes. She served me coffee in bed every morning, drew my bath, and carried a notepad for keeping track of the chores I gave her. She was good at dealing with tradesmen and teaching me virtual skills. When I left, I gave her a tidy little sum of lindens to show my appreciation for all that she'd done for me. It's not often that you find someone who is loyal, dependable, not too demanding, and at the same time, smart as a whip. I haven't heard from her since I left. Maybe my abrupt departure hurt her feelings. I don't know, but I can't think of my house without thinking of Jes. In a very short time she became a fixture there, and I miss her a lot.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-84291949852842287842000-01-10T06:58:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:43:23.923-07:00Chapter 20 Perversity<div>Let's pause for a moment to see where we are. Promiscuity. Submission. Romance. Prostitution. That about cover it? You might have forgotten about NG, but I haven't. I was surprised, though, when I looked back, at how many blogs ago I last mentioned her. I said I couldn't control her. I said that was why I ended it, and I've never said anything truer. I can think of half a dozen times right off the top of my head when she acted in ways that she should have known I wouldn't like, but even if I told you all of them, in excrutiating detail, you still wouldn't know which side to take. It's just one of those things. Is she a free spirit? Am I a stodgy control freak? Is she an irresponsible bitch? Am I a mistreated little angel?</div><div>In any case, whatever you think about that, it's time to admit that there was more to it. Let me tell you about Rex. I think it's safe to use his name. He's not the type to read blogs, and it suits him so well. Rex and his half brother Dog. They were quite a pair. Rex wanted me to have his virtual SL baby, a boy of course, a chip off the old block, an apple of his eye that wouldn't fall far from the tree. He wanted me to cheat on him with Dog while I was pregnant. He talked about how our son, when he got older, would watch his old man screw and beat up on his mother. He dressed like an old fashioned pimp. Dog was hip-hop. I met Rex at Olivia's. He came on strong and very smooth. All we did that first time was dance, slow dance, for about an hour. I held out because I hoped to get some lindens out of him, but we both knew he'd made some progress with me. He knew how to be charming one minute, crude the next. He was wearing a black tank top and a heavy gold chain. I had on a yellow sun dress and those sandals I loved so much, and I was bitchy and sweet by turns. We made a good couple.</div><div>I could come up with all sorts of excuses, but the fact is he seduced me. The next day the minute he came on he wanted to see me, and the minute I got there, even before I had time to figure out where I was, he had me up against a wall, kissing me. I still had lindens on my mind. In fact, I never gave up on the idea of a long con on Rex. I came up with all sorts of schemes, but there's no sense in denying that I fell for him. Fell hard in lust for a while. His catch phrase, while he was "pounding" me, was "Who's the man?" and it was great fun to hold out for as long as I could before meekly saying, "You are Rex. You're the man." And then of course he'd just "pound" harder, visually and verbally. And when he ran down to the 7-11 for cigarettes, Dog started "pounding" me, and he wanted to know who "the man" was. "Oh Dog, I'm sorry, but Rex is the man." And then a few action-packed minutes later: "Oh Dog, maybe you <i>are</i> the man."</div><div>The point of all this is that Rex was truly perverse, and I liked it. Short of role playing that involved a child (I don't count one in the womb or teenage sons), I'd have probably done anything he asked. He brought out not just the submissive in me, but the self-destructive. At least toying with it. I think he got me closer to understanding how the fictional O felt than anyone I ever met in the virtual world, and I began to see more clearly than ever that the appeal of virtual reality to me is in the extreme. Whatever else it was, my relationship with NG was not that. It was wholesome. Something you could write home about, at least to reasonably enlightened parents. NG might be careless, but she was good. Always light; never dark. Often sweet and serious, and just as often naughty, but in a good-humored, healthy sort of way. By contrast, Rex was the devil himself. </div><div></div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-31071621242894730722000-01-09T13:49:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:44:12.578-07:00Chapter 21 The Devil Himself<div>The devil himself. Catchy phrase, isn't it? Rex and Dog wore me out so much I had to take the day off. </div><div>I tried the best I could to whip them both into shape, but they just wouldn't listen. I tried to dress Rex. I even bought presents for him. Little things, but I thought they'd show him how I'd fallen for him. I even spent a whole day looking at gangsta clothes and offered to pick out his wardrobe. I also tried to convince him that it would be much better if I cheated on him with someone other than Dog. Strangers are always more exciting. They can be so dangerously unpredictable. But when push came to shove, Rex was like most men. He got off on perverse scenes, he even had more than one in mind and a certain talent for detail, but in the end he was too lazy to set them up properly. "Let's just get to the fucking, bitch. Who's the man?"</div><div>I had high expectations: that first day of dancing for an hour with no payoff, and then the very next day demanding to see me immediately. I really thought I might have found someone I could trust to lead me to the edge. Someone who would take control and show me things even I hadn't thought of. That's what I wanted more than anything. To be taken to the edge, or even further, and at first I wasn't disappointed. I've told you what all he came up with. I actually went to a baby center and read all the literature. I looked at maternity clothes. I daydreamed about begging him for money, and even giving him my whore money. I imagined having a little house with a nursery and meekly waiting for him to come home and boss me around, tell me what friends of his to fuck, and so on. I imagined going to gangsta bars and having him show me off. The sweet little blonde who'd kneel down in public and kiss his feet if he asked her to. Just the thought of him, at least for a few days, whether I was on SL or not, made me horny.</div><div>But I soon realized that we'd come to the end of his repertoire. A one trick pony. A good trick, worth seeing, but there was no second act, and all of my ideas were too complicated and time consuming for him. He was never going to get me a house. He wasn't going to give me money for clothes. He couldn't be bothered with shopping for a kid. "Shut up and get on your knees, bitch. Who's the man?" So I started thinking again about the long con. He did seem to have a crush on me. He wanted to see me every time he came on, and I thought maybe I could make him jealous. I decided to tell him that I'd found a sugar daddy. I could still see him, but not as often. Not when my sugar daddy wanted me, and I'd make sure that he wanted me when Rex did.</div><div>The idea was to get him to outbid the sugar daddy, and I thought it would work better if I had a guy who'd go along with it, pretend that he gave me a few thousand a week. So that took time, and even when I found someone, he had to be on at the same time as Rex. I decided I'd be at Olivia's. I'd tell Rex to come there, he and I would be dancing, just like that first day, and then the sugar daddy would show up. As I envisioned it, the scene would be exquisite. I almost didn't care if he bought it. </div><div></div><div></div><div><br />
</div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-42453243941570117832000-01-08T13:55:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:45:03.262-07:00Chapter 22 Topic A<div>I could never get the two men on at the same time. Men are so unreliable. What I did was tell Rex that I couldn't see him because I was with my sugar daddy. I was pretty sure that wouldn't work, and it didn't. He hounded me for a while. He told me I was hot for him, couldn't resist him, and so on, but somehow I managed. It actually hurt me a little that he let me go. Wasn't I irresistible? Actually, I was as long as I couldn't get enough of him. That's what the whole relationship was based on, how much I was attracted to him and flattered his ego, which should have told me from the beginning that the con wouldn't work. Not so soon at any rate. If I'd taken the time, had the patience, to play it out and take the risk that I'd grow on him and not become a pest, it might have worked. But I didn't want to put that much time into something that was starting to bore me. The fact that he wanted to do the same thing every day and had no conversation, aside from "Who's the man?", would have been okay if he'd had some lindens. But he didn't, not for me, so I was ready to move on.</div><div>We're at the point now where I should start talking about some of my regular clients, all of whom were almost like boyfriends. They wanted to see me everyday. They got their feelings hurt if I was busy. They were sweet and would do almost anything I wanted to do, even if it tried their patience. You know, like go dancing. It was fun to dress up and look for new places. Or go shopping with them, since all could have profited from a little fashion makeover. But I guess that's not what you pay a whore for, even if you are a little sweet on her. You pay her for the main event, or as Joel McCrae calls it in <i>The Palm Beach Story</i>, Topic A. The one exception to that was a guy I'd originally met on RLC. From the very beginning, he not only gave me more money than I asked for, he wanted to take me out on real dates. He was the first client to give me roses. There's a battle game on RLC, or used to be. You fly around between buildings and shoot at each other. That was the first thing we did on our first date, and since we were both pretty bad at it, it was kind of a flop, but he so wanted to show me a good time, and was so sweet about it, that I think I got a little crush on him.</div><div>It quickly became apparent that he wanted me to fall in love with him, and after NG, that was good for my ego. I didn't discourage him. I expressed all sorts of gooey affection, much of it genuine, and I raked in the money. Pretty soon, I never mentioned money, it seemed indelicate, but it kept coming all the same. And he'd actually apologize if I told him I was busy, as if he'd been rude to even ask. Once or twice he even sent me money just for taking the time to say hello and let him kiss me. Can you see where this is going? The guy had really fallen for me. He kept telling me how sweet and good I was, and I kept taking his money. I never was a bitch to him. I never felt contempt. Never made fun of him. Now and then I fantasize about being like that, about really torturing a guy and making him suffer, but I don't have it in me. I kept taking the money, but I also started to feel guilty. I knew I'd never feel about him the way he felt about me. It would never happen, and I knew that sooner or later I'd have to make that clear to him.</div><div>I did it when I moved to Second Life. I set up conditions for telling him my identity, one of which was to never expect me to fall in love with him. </div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-22177188639301949402000-01-07T14:04:00.000-08:002010-06-29T06:08:32.220-07:00Chapter 23 The Old Gringo Returns<div>I made pozole for the old gringo yesterday. Okay, Luz and I made pozole for him. It's incredibly complicated. First you have to soak the corn in lime, then take the skin off with your hands! Talk about labor intensive. It's so pretty though when it "flowers," and the texture of the hominy is superb. Meanwhile, you have to prepare the meat: a little pork tenderloin, half a pig's head and a few neck bones. Then you grind the serrano chiles for the salsa, and finally you chop onions, slice radishes and avocado, shred lettuce, and make lime wedges. All of that is for the garnish, which you put on to your taste after you're served. We were hard at it all morning. Dinnertime (comida) was set for half past two, and I barely had time to shower and change before our guest arrived.</div><div>It was worth it. Actually, it was fun working alongside Luz. She's never quite figured out who I am, beyond "rich gringa," but I think most of the reserve and suspicion she had in the beginning is gone. I won't say we've bonded, but she sure told me some things, especially about Horacio, that surprised me. I tried to reciprocate, and did to some extent, but of course I could never tell her what I did for a living. I mostly just told her about growing up. My family.</div><div>I think the old gringo enjoyed himself, even though the youngest girl, the smart one, gave him too hard a time about his Spanish. It is atrocious, but she could have been nicer. He took it in stride, though, and after a couple of tequilas began to tease her back, which she actually seemed to like. She's only eleven, and I think she really didn't get why he couldn't understand her at times. She'd never met anyone before who didn't know Spanish very well. I like her. She's a curious girl and she got the cutest sardonic grin on her face when the old gringo started joking with her.</div><div>The pretty one, she's just turned 17, just stared at him in wonder as if he'd come from outer space. She did the same with me at first, and still follows me around as often as her mother will let her. The boy is a pill. He's 13 and full of himself and likes to tell not very funny jokes. He can be a trial but he's not really mean. I'm sure Horacio was exactly the same at that age. He still likes to tell jokes, and some of them go too far, especially after he's had a few. Luz puts up with it, even though at times she puts her head down and blushes. I let her run the table once we started eating, my excuse being that I had to entertain my guest, but the truth is I've always been a little slack about going back and forth to the kitchen, preferring instead to stay at the table and talk with the men. My mother was the same. We both got into trouble with my grandmother over that.</div><div>Horacio kept refilling our shot glasses with tequila, and by the end of the meal he and the old gringo were singing each other songs. Horacio would give us a few bars of a narcocorrido, blood and revenge in the streets, and my guest would try to match it with some old country and western tune about whiskey and women. I knew Luz wouldn't be drinking, plus the kids were around, so I took it slow. The old gringo's Spanish didn't get any better when he was drunk, but there was more of it, and he told some pretty good stories about his experiences in Mexico, the theme usually being the culture clash, and all were designed to make Mexicans look good, which pleased everyone.</div><div>He needed a hand getting home, and I thought about doing it, but I decided Luz would think it improper. Horacio's son was pressed into service. I've asked a friend in the states to find me a copy of a book of short stories by the old gringo and send it along. It's the only fiction he's published, he told me the other day, and that was twenty years ago. We didn't get a chance to talk much at all yesterday, but the day I asked him over for comida we had a long talk and I found out he'd spent most of his life doing shit day jobs and writing whenever he could find the chance, usually the early mornings before work. This trip to Mexico was thanks to an unexpected windfall. Somebody died or something. I didn't ask him why his wife didn't come too, and he didn't volunteer. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-36438741846528522292000-01-06T14:09:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:49:38.112-07:00Chapter 24 Topic B (Shopping)<div>I was going to look up my favorite SL stores and tell you about them, but I hit a snag. I have a terrible memory for the names of stores, and the transactions in my account only go back a month. Also, I don't have the right program for downloading before that. Double darn. So, let me see what I have in my handwritten notes. I made quite a few notes about furniture stores right after I bought my house.</div><div>In searching for furniture stores the best luck I had was to look either for "fine" or "antique." That seemed to bring the classier places up first. The only really huge and full of everything place I liked had a Spanish name I can't remember. Just look for furniture, no qualifier, and it'll be the only Spanish name. For a smaller selection but very nice things try Tapioca something or other. Tapioca Tastes maybe? I bought a brass bed there and my dining room chairs. They were so nice they custom made my chairs in a different texture and color. For good antiquey type accessories try The Old Curiosity Shop. I bought a white vanity table at Metaverse and they have a good selection of arm chairs. And here's a note I made: "good toilet at JR Dirty Sex Shoppe." I suggest you go alone, though, unless you are really immodest about bodily functions. All of them. You won't believe what you can do on that toilet.</div><div>As far as clothes go, maybe I can remember a few. I've already mentioned the Free Dove, and I went back there even after I had money. It's huge and most of the things there don't make you look like a slut. Very important for me of course. And if the freebies in a particular box weren't that great, at least it gave me new stores to check out. They have a lot of men's things there too. </div><div>On the opposite end of the scale, the best, classiest and most expensive place for just about everything was a store with a name that was kind of a takeoff on Armani. I bought nearly every style of shoe they had and three or four hair styles. Several dresses. Two pairs of shorts. Jeans. Three or four blouses. And then the next day . . . no, just kidding. The only problem with it was there were always girls there asking for money. I didn't have much sympathy I'm afraid. If a girl can't figure out how to make money on SL, she's not trying very hard.</div><div>Damn, I wish I had more detailed information. Shopping was <i>at times</i> my very favorite thing to do on SL. Make money and shop. Am I an American girl or what? Maybe I'll sneak back on sometime, when no one is watching, and get a good list of shops from my inventory. There's a great Japanese shopping center, by the way. Probably more than one. But I bought a few cute schoolgirl type outfits there. And some nice costume jewelry. You think I'm getting lonely down here in Mexico? The way I'm rattling on about shopping? Maybe I'll go to Mexico City. You can get anything there. Maybe the old gringo would like to go with me. There's a bar there, I forget the name right now, where Pancho Villa shot a hole in the ceiling during the Revolution. I'd drag him around to the shops and then let him wait for me for a while in the bar, so that when I came back he'd be real glad to see me. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4312280132828311773.post-50733295034925879332000-01-05T14:19:00.000-08:002010-06-17T07:50:36.237-07:00Chapter 25 Names<div>I think I should name all the characters in this story. Here are their new names, listed roughly in chronological order according to when I met them. Thought I might also add a little synopsis of who they are, as a reminder.</div><div>FD: Adolph (He's from Germany) My first boyfriend on RLC. Became my master. Very dominant and very sweet.</div><div>NG: Ms. Rigg (English, sort of like Diana Rigg except she's blonde) My first and only virtual love. </div><div>The unnamed romantic suitor: Steve (a regular guy) Gave me my only virtual proposal. If this were a normal romance, he'd be the hero.</div><div>The volatile Greek: Homero (As in the poet, Spanish version) Wanted me to be his porn star. Bought me stuff, but quickly got too thrifty for me. </div><div>Rex is still Rex. Always will be I'm sure. And Dog is Dog of course. Dominant and abusive, which I didn't always mind. </div><div>Two most recent regular clients I haven't talked much about yet:</div><div>O'Hara (He's a New Yorker, so after my favorite 20th C New York poet) Slick and sensual. </div><div>Dingo (An Aussie) Vulgar and insatiable.</div><div>And finally, the old gringo: Phil (after Philip Marlowe)</div><div></div><div></div><div></div>Portia Saundershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02188568088221287753noreply@blogger.com0