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, May 11, 2005

The Theory of 'Blonde'


Heesham-Hoosham Salon and the Theory of ''Blonde'.
Relax into it.
Why not?


I think I know how it happened.
Again.
Or at least, I am clear about the conditions that existed that allowed it to occur.
Again.
What I am still confused about is the conversation that followed it after it happened.


Again I am in the Hair Salon Chair of Hoosham (as I am everyday),
And again he asks in that little-boy-begging-Mommy-for-a-candy-way,
to sneak a long feel of my,
Boobies.


"No." I say.

Of course.

But I belie my firmness by actually saying:

"Na-giggle-ooo—giggle-giggle".


Don’t get down on me.
I explained this to you before.
A Courtesan is severly disadvantaged without a good hairdresser.


"Plaaa—leee-zzze!" he whispers.
"Na-ooo! Giggle giggle."


I am a wet rat plastered with dye.


(Now that I am a Blonde, my red roots are beginning to show and I must resort to color.)


Goopy hair limbs spring from the top of my scalp.
Strands stick out in all directions in a form of hair anarchy.
And as ugly as I am looking right now, he still wants to have a sexual moment with my breasts?
Ladies, why do we even try?
From my chin to my thighs, I am completely covered by a shiny black rubber looking cape that would only be appropriate in a hair salon or considered attractive if I were a Dominatrix about to embark on a session of ‘Golden Showers’.


"Na-ooo. Giggle giggle. And that’s final. Giggle giggle." I say. Unfirmly as unfirmly can be. "I just want to read my book and have some 'alone time'."


"Let me just give you a massage?"


He rubs an oily hair product on his palms.
Before I can giggle a protest, his thumbs are soothing my shoulder blades.
His touch creates a sigh that relaxes my entire body.
My eyes close.
There are others in the Salon.
I make no sound but allow the warmth and expertise of his hands to penetrate the stress in my back.


Delicious.
Utterly, completely delicious.
Muscles exhale.
Bones disintegrate.
I hear myself sigh.
I hear myself tell him he has sensuous hands; a remarkable touch.
And I need it.
I need it so much.
No one touches me like this.
This is how I touch others.
Or how I imagine others feel me when I touch them.
Or how I hope I affect when my hands roam the terrain of the bodies I soothe all-day and evening.
My body, so used to giving pleasure in such a physically demanding job rarely receives such tenderness that need not be returned.
This is why I allow it.
Again.

The hand that I am following with my inner being, is on my neck, tracing circles.
My concentration is such that I lose track of the other hand.
It surfaces on my right breast.
Cupping it from underneath it’s low slung slope, gently coaxing the nipple, I am lost in sensation.


This is crazy.


Opening one eye, in the mirror I see his hand is undetectable under the cloak.
No one else in the Salon is watching us or able to notice the pornographic activity just a few feet away.
Hoosham’s eyes are closed as well.
The top of his pants are growing a mighty tent.
My one eye closes again.
Hands find both breasts. Both nipples.
In the same fashion I treat my Clients, when I tell them, ‘No, don’t move. Let me do everything."
Torture, yes. But the lack of responsibility—the idea of not having to respond in any way is scrumptious, allowing for complete relaxation and total absorption of feeling.
I cannot speak.
I cannot sigh.
I cannot move.


Within minutes, my nipples are sending signals to my lower half.
Wetness drips into my panties.
I yield to the sensation.
I want to f*ck him.
I want to f*ck him so bad, I start rationalizing excuses as to why this would be okay.


Why not?


We could do it in the basement—me up against a wall, fully clothed, sliding his cock inside me-
We could do it before business hours, before my morning blow dry—or just after before his clients arrive—
We could do it after work with me in the chair leaning my head back to take his cock in my mouth as his hands roam the mountains and valleys of my torso---
Fantasies take root and blossom as he massages my nipples to hardness.


But he’s married.
He’s married, and I KNOW his wife.
I LIKE his wife.
She would be DEVASTATED.


This is not ‘Work’.
This is Play.
This is an obvious deception in which I would play an active role.


When I ‘Work’, they find me.
They come to me.
I know nothing of their lives beyond the theatrical walls of safety and pleasure I create for them.
I know only after, and only if they tell me.
It is their choice, and between themselves and their relationships at Home.


But this?
This would be my choice.
My choice too.


Hoosham leans to my ear and whispers,
"I want to be inside you so bad right now."


I giggle.
But I don’t open my eyes.
And I don’t move away from his hands.
Instead, I figure, "Why not?"
'Relax into it'.

Hedonistic enjoyment.


People are walking by on the sidewalk outside.
Some are looking into the ceiling-to-floor-front window of the Salon.
Can they see?
Who cares?
Why not enjoy it?
It’s bizarre.
It’s naughty.
And it feels so yummy.
So tantalizing.
And ultimately, so sweet to have a loving touch stroking my body not requiring an active response.


So then I think, ‘So what if I get felt up by my hairdresser every now and then?’


I am unable to stop myself from enjoying the carnal, voluptuous indulgence of this moment.
But I want to stop.
I should stop.
We must stop.
I open my eyes and say, "Perhaps I should let my red hair grow in again."


Slowly, imperceptively, so as not to attract attention, he slides his hands out from beneath my bra and back on to the tops of my shoulders, still pressing his thumbs in delectable circles and says,
"I like you as a Blonde. You just have a RedHead personality. That’s why you feel that way."


"Of course I have a Red-Head personality. I am a Red-Head."


"Its better this way. Blonde." He says, still stroking my back.


"How? How is it better? What do you mean?"


"When a man meets you as a Blonde, he immediately thinks Blonde."


"And?"


"And so he thinks he can get away with stuff. But then, wham!"


"Wham?"


"Before he knows it—he’s got You—and he can’t give you any shit cause you’re You."


"Because I’m really a Red-Head—"


"Right. Camouflaged. Bam. He’s broadsided by the Enemy."


"I’m ‘the Enemy'?"


"Not the ‘Enemy’, but you know what I mean—"


"You mean, he’s expecting a ‘Dumb Blonde’ and instead he gets the opposite."


"He can’t take advantage of you like a guy thinks he can with a Blonde—"


"Guys think they can take advantage of Blondes?"


"It’s a fact. But because you’re a Blonde but under camouflage, he’s hit from the behind. Unsuspecting."


"I see. But because I’m really a Red-Head?"


Bing bing bing bing bing bing bing bing—


The timer goes off.
Time to get washed.


Huh.
Okay.
A bit flummoxed.
Aren’t I now a Blonde?


Hoosham, of all Men, is quite clear that I am a Redhead.
And yet, weren’t his hands just rubbing my breasts?
Even under (albeit ‘giggly’) but Protest none-the-less?

I’m confused by his Theory. To say the least.


After the wash, I return to his chair.
"Okay", I say, "I’m ready for you to ‘blow-me’ now." Giggle giggle.


"Don’t say that. Don’t say it that way." He answers.


"I’m teasing you."


"I love when you tease me. But no lie. I want you to blow me so bad---"


"Hoosham—"


"Anything you want. Anything you want."


"Forget it. Stop thinking about it right this instance."


"You don’t Love me."


"I do love you. Don’t bring love into this. Do you love me?"


"I’ve known you since the Salon opened. You're my first client. You're my best client."


"I know. But--Do you love me?"


"I love you."


"So give me free blow-drys."


Gives me a skewed-up face.


"Hoosham. I don’t mean it. I'm giving you heck. I'm making a point. Here's the thing: Just because I’ve been with you from the beginning and just because you love me doesn’t mean you should give me free blow-drys."


"I would pay you."


"You couldn’t afford me." Giggle giggle.


(How annoying am I?!)


"What would it cost?"


"A year’s worth of Blow-Dry’s."


"C’mon."


"I’m serious."


"Your Clients are so lucky. How about three hundred? Dollars."


"Three hundred would get you about 20 minutes."


"That’s all I need. I won’t take long. I promise."


I wonder how he knows, in all reality, what I do for a living. We’ve never discussed it in all the years I’ve known him. Do I just seem like the type that it’s okay to make such an offer too?

I know I tease and flirt and play with words and so on; and I know I’m now Blonde and therefore suddenly, since I’ve become Blonde, it seems okay to feel my boobies every time I come into the Salon, but this is what confuses me: He knows I’m not actually Blonde.

And, even though we've known each other all these years, he has no idea what I do for a living.

And yet—and yet, he feels free to play this 'cat and mouse' with me.


Now I am absolutely, without-a-doubt positive, there is a HUGE, invisible to my home mirror, Hologram on my head that says, "Escort"


(And due to my 'Housing Situation with the Builders', there must be another sign that says, "No Vacancy—All Holes Filled.")


Sigh.


"Na—ooo! Giggle giggle. Give it up Hoosham!"


"Please! I want mooooore."


"God. You’re just like a little boy. Or a puppy."


"I don’t care. I’ll be little boy or a puppy. Just say ‘yes’. You promised me something for my Birthday--"


"Hoosham. You are a Premium Hairdresser. A Premium Hair Artist. And a Premium Man."


(When at a loss, go for the Ego. But be truthful. We all know what we excel at and what we don’t. False flattery is not welcome. And he is, by all accounts I mentioned—quite ‘Premium’.)


He smiles.
"Premium? Premium? I like that word."


"Hoosham, my Premium Warrior against Hair Anarchy?"


"Umm?"


"Just blow me."


And he does.

Of course, tomorrow is another day.

Under my arm is tucked, "Prince Machavelli" (His Principles of War and Relations).

And in my purse, a yellow neon high-lighter marker to take notes.

I have a feeling I may need it.










1 Comments:

At 2:00 AM, Anonymous Electra x said...

hoosham. nasty, nasty boy! electra typing with one hand. fractured my left arm. excruciating pain, but had to reply to dirty, dirty, bad, bad boy hoosham! i can just imagine his hard cock rubbing against the back of persephone's chair, wishing, drooling it was inside of her. why wouldn't he? what sort of a real man would he be, if his cock didn't go hard at the sight of persephone??? i'm a girl, and when a girl thinks of a girl as being hot, we can't blame poor, poor hoosham's cock reacting, can we now!! now as a girl, who knows girl power, whether she chooses to acknowledge it or not, i have to say hoosham is going to be suffering quite a bit on a daily basis. he is either quite frankly, going to be wanking, or suffering 'blue balls' as you American's put it. or, i hate to be bringing his innocent wife into this, she is going to be having the time of her life! in fact, if i think i know men at all, hoosham will be obsessed with persephone, thinking about her incessantly, and as obvious as this may seem, wanking multiple times during the course of his day. play with him persephone, tease, tantalise his male senses, make him explode in his fresh, starched pants, fuck his brain, afterall he took the liberty, now let him sweat it out and enjoy this sexual game! electra x
p.s. the only danger, fuck his brain too much, you may lose a great blow job. don't give into him, tantalise his cock, afterall you're the highlight of his day!!

 

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