Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

"When it Rains, it Pours..."


I have to say it. I know it’s a cliché, but forgive me. When it rains it pours.


For instance, last week, I saw eight people, all of whom were Libras.

Why?

Mathematically speaking, shouldn’t it have been spread out a bit more amongst the other twelve signs? Maybe a Leo or a Virgo sprinkled into the mix?

A little odd.


The week before that, I had three people scheduled on a certain day and that morning, (surprise!), I got my period.

(Oh, I know you love to hear about that!)


Which means that, unless I want to cancel my appointments, I have to use an old working girl trick that involves an enormous sea creature.


Before they outlawed Today sponges,

(yes you saw the episode on ‘Seinfeld’)

we used to put the Today sponges inside and voila, ready to go.


But now-a-days, we use those huge natural sea sponges that you must boil, shrinking them to the size of an infant’s head and push that inside.
The only problem with that is, it doesn’t leave much room for company.


It just so happened, on that fatal day of my period arriving unexpectedly, the three gentlemen I had scheduled happened to be my three clients with cocks the size of elephant trunks.


It was a painful day.

(Or: As Alanis Moressette would say, "Isn’t it ironic?")


The week before that was my masturbate-in-between week.
For some reason, my body was particularly revved up that week and it just so happened, everyone I saw was amazing at foreplay but unfortunately I was left each time with the female equivalent of ‘blue balls.’

So after each client departed, I ignored the flashing message light on my phone and ran off to finish the job.

Usually with the Great King. (A gift from my friend Clarisse.)


I don’t prefer to use toys on myself, but it gets the job done faster and I don’t have enough time in between clients to dally.


This week was the week of ceiling-walkers.


Ceiling walkers?


You know.


Those shoes that you see in porno movies or strip clubs that no one can really walk in with their actual feet on the ground?


Uh-uh. Those shoes are meant only for ‘walking’ with your legs straight up.


And the heels are so high, I believe I actually do touch the ceiling with them.


I now have five new pairs added to my collection.


Being that I am a mostly horizontal gal, I don’t actually mind walking on the ceiling with them. What I don’t really go for is the part right before, the vertical part, when I have to actually walk on the floor.


The first pair I received, I wore like a champ. I fawned over them, gleefully jailing my feet and clomping around my apartment looking a bit like a feminine Frankenstein.


The third pair, I accepted as amiably as one can but in a manner similar to receiving, on Christmas, that brick called a fruitcake.


By the fifth pair, I was a bit worn out with the whole thing. They hurt. They cramp my style. And I have to hold onto the furniture when I walk.


The gracious giver of this last pair, watched with lustful, twinkling eyes as I unwrapped the box that he had painstakingly surrounded in lilac paper and a purple ribbon.


Unfortunately, the sigh that escaped my lips, was not what he was hoping for.


"You don’t like them?"
"Oh no. I love them."
"Are they too big? There a 7?"
"I’m a 6 and a half."
"Will they fit?"
"Let me try them."


They were grotesque. 7 inch heels and no platforms in front to ease the slope downward. I squeezed and squished, like a wicked stepsister hoping to be Cinderella, until the vice grips were on. I tried to stand, but couldn’t put any pressure on my feet without breaking fragile foot bones.


"I’m sorry love. I think they’re just too tight."


His face drooped. His eyes fell to his lap. He was a dog who lost his bone.


"Well, my goodness honey. They’re a bit unrealistic. I mean, they’re really for horizontal hiking, don’t you think?"


I could see that’s not what he thought.


I tried to be gentle in my explanation:
"These are meant for photo shoots, where you only have to wear them for a second and then you get to sit right away. Or porno films."


"No. Real people wear them."
"Yes. Chinese women with bound feet." I joke.
"That’s okay. You don’t have to wear them." He starts to take them back.


Now I feel terrible. I hate to disappoint.


"Maybe you could wear them? That might be fun." I suggest playfully.


"No no! That’s not my thing."


(And it’s mine?)


"I just had this fantasy…"
"I know but it’s make believe and my feet are real. You know porno is contrived, right?"
"Don’t you like to watch porno?" he asks.


"I like porno, but not that kind. Okay. Here’s a porno scene. You got this guy who’s really ugly, right? And he has a dick so huge that it really is meant for Orangutan females. Or some species other than human."

"C'mon. Women love big dicks."

"Men care more about penis size than women do."

"That's not what I heard."

"You watch too much porno. I'm telling you this!"

"Okay and then there’s the girl whose tits are the size of your head times two. And she’s on her hands and knees like this:

(I get on all fours to demonstrate my point.)

"The guy is behind her, with a vice grip on her hips bashing his arm-length dick into her with this knotted up, disgusting expression on his face, spitting out words like: "Oh yeah, bitch. Come on take it you whore."

He laughs, perhaps at the recognition?

"It's true, right? And of course," I say sarcastically, "all this misogynistic talk gets her crazy with lust. She’s very turned on, gritting her teeth, spanking her own ass like this:

(I whap my own behind.)

"And rubbing her pussy as if she’s got an enormous ink stain on it that she’s frantically trying to rub off. And she’s grunting through her clenched teeth, "Oh yeah. Give it to me baby. Oh, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum."

(I’m smacking and rubbing myself hard, making an ‘ooh, aah, tongue-circling-my-lips expression.)


My dramatization gets a knowing laugh.


"I have never, ever been turned on by that kind of action much less been able to cum that way."


"Okay, you win. So what kind of porno do you like? You said you like some kinds of porno."


"Hockey."


"Hockey?"


"Yep. Hockey is my porno."


"Please to explain."


"Well okay. You’ve got all these incredibly masculine men with this amazing talent. I mean these guys skate better than anyone in the world. They're so graceful and skilled and fast. So when you watch them, you are lulled into this fascination, watching this Yang, this masculine energy performing with such feminine grace. You know what I mean?"

"They do skate great."

"Then, there’s the intuition. Also, a feminine trait. I mean, here they are skating away at tremendous speed. One guy is way in front of his teammates, racing toward the goal and he doesn’t even have the puck. Yet somehow, he knows when his teammate from the back has shot the puck forward and at the precise moment, he shoots out his stick and grabs the puck as it spins forward. That takes emotional connection and intuition. All feminine qualities. So there you are, hypnotized by the ‘masculine’ performing in Ying."

"Okay, I'm with you so far."

"It’s like sensual foreplay."

"Okay..."

"Then, suddenly, without warning, they break out into a testosterone mess, killing and beating the hell out of each other in a bloody battle. That feminine and masculine clashing so suddenly and I am done in--flooded with wetness and usually can’t make it through the first period and have to go out to the car and masturbate."


"Now I’m pissed."


"Why? Because of the shoes?"


"No. Because Hockey is on strike this season."


"Oh God, I know. You can’t be as disappointed as I am."


"Tell me your best sexual fantasy. Other than hockey. What do you like to do most?"


"Hmm…my best sexual fantasy?"


"You always do mine. What’s yours?"


"I guess my fantasy, or what I like best is when two people are totally connected and together, they make love slowly, quietly, connectedly. Especially missionary style. That way I can smell him, feel is weight against my body, feel every stroke of his cock, hear his breathing, feel his heart pounding against my breasts, feel his balls lift when he is cumming and usually I cum too at the same time."


He stares at me as if I’ve spoken a foreign language.
He studies my face, my eyes, then laughs as if he finally got some joke, and says,


"No! Really."


"Ohhhh. Riiii-ght. Okay. What I really like is to be hung from the chandelier by my fuck-me pumps and spun around, then taken hard while hanging upside down."


"See now, that’s what I thought."


(That’s what he thought? Oh, I’m a wild child, I am.)


He’s happy again. "Let me make you happy. Let’s try it."


Inwardly, I groan. Outwardly, I stumble to the bedroom in my new torture shoes.


Once we reach the bed, we go through so clumsy machinations requiring me to stand on my head while he ties my ankles to the top of the canopy. I am now completely vertical, except for my head, which is flat on the mattress in an awkward position with my chin smashed into my breasts.


He then proceeds to try and get high enough for his cock to enter my pussy. He succeeds one time but once we begin to move, he slips out. This ‘enter and slip’ happens a few times and I figure he will give up.


But no.


Finally, he finds a rhythm and pumps me as I grunt, which is all the vocal sounds I am capable of in this position.

(Isn't this like the porno scene I just described that I detested? Or am I insane?)


At last, he cums and withdraws.


My eyes are the only part of my body that are able to move so I watch upside-down as he recovers.


He doesn’t think to release my now, bloodless feet. Instead, he lays down by my head, kissing my smooshed-up lips and says,


"How was that? A fantasy come true?"


"Mmmm." Is all that I am able to expel from my squished mouth.


I can’t tell you how excited I am that this is the end of the week.
I can’t tell you how anxious I am to find out what rain will pour next week.
I can’t tell you how much I am praying for a week of men with more pedestrian tastes.


I used to think I had just one fault: That I am an ‘Honest Courtesan’.

But that’s sort of like saying ‘Jumbo Shrimp’, isn’t it?

Now I have to add to my roster of self-knowledge, that I am may be the most ‘Pedestrian Courtesan’ around.

Not just in my sexual preferences,

but in the mileage I have put on my ceiling this week alone.



















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