Wandering Star – a story by Asian escort Carmen – an escort writer and philosopher
The emotional world of a companion is a complicated sphere. We transition from place to place and person to person who are all experiencing a variety of moods. In order to please the crowds we tend to mirror our callers and so rarely ever stop to experience ourselves. As entertainers we always put our best face forward, thus disappointments often get shelved and losses are never grieved. People come to us to offload their baggage and as a result, we become cargo holds. I would imagine that it is much like being a psychologist. You gain human insight, but what use is insight when it comes at such a high price? In my first and only appointment with a psychologist, he told me that I was externally motivated. I disagreed and we ended up in an argument. I was all like ‘this is not what I’m paying you for’ and he was all like ‘the truth hurts’ and so I made my divalicious exit, never to return. It was then that I realised whores truly do have a place in this world. You don’t come to us for fixing, you come to us for solace when ya cain’t fix what’s broke. People are not necessarily only looking to get laid nowadays, they also want to escape reality for a while and be themselves in front of somebody who won’t judge them. They need to take a break from their real life when they get tired of being fake. Folks just get caught up in roles. We pretend to be the person that our spouse likes or our boss likes because we need their approval or we’re just trying to keep the peace. Maintaining lies of this magnitude is hard work and occasionally everyone needs to let their hair down. Meeting with a courtesan is like going to the anti-Cheers. You want to go where nobody knows your name.
Escorts outwardly appear to be capitalising on others but nobody truly appreciates the personal cost involved. Energy does not dissipate, it transfers and like a silent volcano the angst builds up and builds up and then one day without rhyme or reason, your friendly neighbourhood ho will just blow. To the lucky beneficiary, the event will seem unsolicited but it is a compound release. It wasn’t the one guy, who was rude, or the other guy who tried to break the condom, or the guy who was so vulnerable you had to spend hours rebuilding his manhood before fucking him, or the guy who thought you were so stupid he could manipulate your head ..… it’s all of them at once. This has happened to me before and now it feels as if my volcano has something brewing in its tectonic undercurrents again. The problem is that in the past decade my tolerance for pain and anger has multiplied and even now when my volcano is due for a venting, I cannot even muster the energy. Eventually you reach a stage where you just don’t give a fuck anymore and that is sort of where I’m at. Still there is an imbalance in the ledger; I feel that something needs to happen externally to reflect the shift on the inside.
For better or for worse I am changed. I must embrace the remnants and try to make do with my vestiges. These things happen every day to many people and yet I cannot quite accept my own reality. Maybe I will wake up, maybe this is just a dream, this cannot possibly be happening to me. But it is. I know it and by not accepting it I am merely delaying my own pain. Short of developing amnesia there is no way to delete the past. I never prepared for the possibility of failure, my ego fully convinced that I was bullet proof. Hindsight is an exact science; I should have listened to those nuns and saved myself for marriage. I would have had something to offer the man in my life but instead I tore myself up into a thousand pieces and scattered them over the land. My body was my temple and because I did not appreciate or respect it, I have kind of pissed that opportunity away. I chose money because I thought it would buy me freedom and now I choke under its yoke. No character, no spine and no content, I was easily won over by miscreants and con artists who wanted a piece of me and now that I appreciate the value of my bits, there is nothing left to be had. Unfortunately, even in my twenties, I was just a useless blob of protoplasm. As much as I lament the loss of my innocence, in order to become enlightened and in order to learn how to protect myself, sweet little fat girl had to die.
That leaves one in a dilemma when offering themselves up to a new relationship: What shiny new thing can I give to my lover to prove my good intentions when everything on the inside is tarnished? What do you give to the man who comes stone last? How many of my pieces can I retrieve so that I can offer them to the person who wants them? How much can I afford to buy back from my shareholders? It’s kind of like a chef dropping the steak in the back of the restaurant and while nobody’s looking you dust it off and put it back on the plate. The customer eating the dinner does not suffer because he has no idea where his steak has been. The person who suffers the most psychological torment is the chef because he knows exactly where your steak has been and he winces with every mouthful that you take. I am like the chef with one last piece of steak that has been dropped on the floor and now I have to perform some sort of cleansing ritual to make my piece of steak new again; a nonsensical rite that I need to carry out in order to convince myself that it’s a brand new piece of steak. It seems appropriate that as punishment for dropping the steak, I should endure a smidgen of pain. An outer manifestation depicting the state of my innards. If my lava refuses to break on the surface, it must be let.
People always assume that girls like me swing constantly from the chandeliers, but this is not always the case. Still it is necessary to do something outlandish from time to time just to keep up appearances and maintain street cred. I have not necessarily developed a taste for pain and my position on sadomasochistic activities and power games remain the same, but this is not a game. I am a liberated woman offering my heart and soul to a man. I need to endure some sufferance to repent and cleanse myself. I need to wear his mark so that when I’m out working, my heart lives under the veil of his protection. It should be a subject of mind over matter, but that isn’t working for me anymore. It’s now a subject of matter over matter. I am tired of paper partitioning my head like a dentoutekina house to save old morsels and memories. There is nothing worth saving and the lesson I’ve learned is that if somebody wants to be with you, they will do everything in their power to do so because that is love. It is involuntary. If I’m not with any of those people today it is because it wasn’t love. Why am I holding onto that bullshit? If it were real they would have held on to me. So I need a man to go inside, tear down my dividing walls, open the windows and doors and give the place a good airing (or fumigation for want of a better word) before moving in.
I wrote to my new lover with this dilemma and asked for his assistance. Last week I tried to give myself to him in lovemaking but I failed to convince myself. Surely I can choose to give myself over? This ability should be within my power since it is me I am attempting to surrender but why oh why can I not believe? Maybe because this man is so pure, genuine and sincere? On some level I cannot accept that this is really happening to me. I try to apply him to my frame of reference only to find there is no prior reference. In order to prove to myself that this is real, I need him to stab my steak with his fork and by official decree – make me clean and declare his territory. I need to re-enact the moon landing on my ass, so that I can believe. I want to impale myself on his flagpole so that I can actually feel something. Maybe the years have warped me but fortunately my soul has been scraped off the pavement by somebody who still sees some value in it. Having had this experience, I now realise I have never been loved before. You cannot recognise something if you have never experienced it and you only realise there was something wrong with what you experienced after that experience has been exceeded.
My gentle lover, who I will refer to as Wandering Star, agreed to oblige me although it is not in his constitution to inflict pain. We settled on marking my body in a way that will make me his, a unification ceremony and a proof of our commitment. I don’t usually write about my very intimate experiences but I will try to convey something that has no appropriate words, with words. I never wrote about Fallen Angel except to mention his existence and I feel the same way about Wandering Star, but will try to step outside of myself this time for the sake of art. I am ostracised in the sex blogging community and don’t get much recognition because I get paid to do what I do. They don’t see me as a purist like them (fucking for the fun of it), so I will give them something pure, but unfortunately in order to do so I will have to borrow from my personal life. I have a reputation as a vanilla services girl, which I am, but I am by no means a vanilla person. So I will invite you all into my world to explore the depths of my fucked-upness and twisted soul, but please don’t phone me next week asking for a piece of this action because it’s not for sale.
Wandering Star is Mediterranean; he has golden blonde hair, fair freckled skin and haunted blue eyes. His body is well proportioned, of medium build and rock hard. The golden hues of his skin and hair suggest that he is perpetually followed by a sunset. Light reflects off his forearms as he gesticulates and shadows fall into the peaks and valleys between his muscles and ligaments as they move. He is masculine but elegant. His hands are neat and filed, but have been broken so many times in boxing that they have become disproportionately large. I feel so safe and secure when he holds me gently knowing full well those hands are capable of crushing bones, yet they defend me. His back is so hard that when I run my fingers down his spine they sink into a crevasse. His body is covered by a mass of beauty spots reminiscent of a star constellation. Outwardly, Wandering Star fulfills all the requirements of the word handsome but in actuality he is not traditionally handsome, he is exotic. Endowed like a God, he wears it as a burden. Like Atlas carrying the weight of the world in his trousers. My eyes water with ecstasy when he penetrates me yet I feel as if my body is being torn limb from limb. I can barely wrap my hand around his manhood and only the head fits in my mouth. Although it has the power to destroy me, it is kind and a thing of beauty to behold. So strong and yet so fragile, just pale white skin over dark blue veins. So alive, so effervescent, so filled with life force, that I can feel his thick come trying to crawl its way back up my legs and bore itself into my skin. He is magnificent. So rare and unusual looking that if I were to attempt to classify him, I would fail the human race. He is something else.
Although this story starts as if it were a Mills and Boon novella, besides being young and handsome, it does not stop there. His looks are nothing in comparison to his content. Inside the head of Wandering Star is a machine that dwarfs all others. His heart is a fortress so well defended that I’m sure most people would give up before finding its soft centre. I am trying to describe the deepest, most complex, most intelligent, most beautiful man who is so exceptional in his combination of gifts that he is almost unique on planet earth (I have not personally explored all of planet earth but I have sampled a good slice and have drawn my conclusions based on this data. I am confident enough in my findings to make broad sweeping statements that cannot be substantiated knowing full well they will never be disproved). This man has the most pervasive gaze that looks straight into your soul, soaks you up and leaves you empty when he finally releases you. He communicates with such clarity that you can visit him like another world and walk through the vestibules of his mind. He is completely open but complicated like an unending maze. His soul is boundless. His mind is vast; just when you think you have exhausted the directory there is another sub-directory as long as the first. He makes love to me without laying a hand on my body and always leaves me wanting. Now that I have experienced being appreciated, cared for and respected, I realise my definition of these words left much to be desired. A traditionalist, Wandering Star writes me letters and poetry. I do not want to share his letters with the world but I will share this short threatening verse contained in one of his letters in response to my request:
“I am going to take what I want
Caution is thrown to the wind
Inhibitions stripped from mind
I prepare to desecrate
You will know I want you
I will take my time
Primal I become
Forever changed
Marks ingrained
Tattoo your soul
We start now”
When a man talks to me like this, I get very excited. Somehow, telling a woman what you’re going to do to her a week in advance creates a lot of suspense and I have been squirming in my knickers all week envisioning this desecration of mine. There is nothing sexier than a man gazing into your eyes and without blinking, without flinching giving you a blow by blow account of what he is going to do to you and then making you wait for it. I have lived out this desecration a thousand times just trying to imagine what it would be like, and in a sense, I have been conquered a thousand times in the process. Wandering Star did not make me an object, he spent two months winning my mind and my heart and as a result the rest of me has relinquished itself. He is not in a hurry to get what most men want; he is in a hurry to get to know me. I am captured, I am his slave. Staring into his eyes, I am transfixed, obsessed and completely devastated. I have been walking around dazed and confused in a constant heat all week. Life is what happens between our encounters and I resent it for getting in the way. When we are together time stands still and his appearance is burned into my retinas. Wandering Star caught me just as I was about to take a very serious fall and I feel somehow as if my soul has been saved by him. By saving it he has in one way or another become its owner. My grey matter has voluntarily been harnessed and now it tells me to get down on my knees and venerate his divinity. I sent this response to his verse:
“Stars wished upon
Violate my pantheon
Cut your way through my barbed wire
Make me the vessel of your primal desire
Mark me with your folded blade
Memories and associations are remade
Strip my soul
Make me whole
Legs spread apart
Stab me in the heart”
Please note that we speak in code, meanings are not literal and are generally richly laden with double meanings, puns and references to previous conversations that only we get. I am already struggling to relay our poetry so I’m not going to elaborate … you can just guess.
The day of my desecration arrives…..
Wandering Star arrives at my door late afternoon, a bit flustered from a domestic flight and a rushed drive through the rain and traffic to get to me at the time we had set. The previous day he arranged for flowers and candles to be delivered to my house so that there would be no logistical issues to attend to on his return. My lover walks in, dumps his bags on the floor and asks for a whiskey which is most unusual because he hardly ever drinks. He’s so fit it goes straight to his head but I love it when he drinks because it’s the only time we have the same IQ and his laughter flows a bit more easily. We sit on the patio sipping our whiskeys and cuddling while he has a cigarette. He is hungry and I have prepared a three course meal, so we decide to eat the first course just to silence his hunger for a while longer because we want our ceremony to take place before dinner. I serve an avocado and artichoke salad. We kiss and coo for a while finishing our whiskies. Then matters get serious; we have a brief ops meeting about candles, props, blades, hygiene, incense and a blindfold. Wandering Star is very thorough and if you ask him to do something whacky, he takes it very seriously, he doesn’t laugh or make fun and carries out your request with absolute precision.
We agree that he is going to cut his monogram into my neck whilst making love to me from behind. I really wanted to experience pain and pleasure at the same time and so I asked him to be inside me when he began to cut. After that he would orgasm on my back, set up a small alter of candles and incense to perform a cleansing and unification ritual upon me. Armed with a plan, we grabbed our goodies and dashed off to the bedroom. Wandering Star is essentially very shy and considerate. He’s making his excuses about a long flight and wants to take a shower. He always speaks to me with respect and never makes me feel like an object. He is very educated and never swears. I have yet to experience him tearing all of my clothes off because he cannot wait a minute longer. Wandering Star is completely in control of himself and utterly respectful. Most of the time I have to beg him to fuck me and I can’t say the word “fuck”, I have to think of polite synonyms. He is so unaware of his sexuality that I have to get down on all fours and grind my pelvis before he indulges me. That’s not to say he is not a sexual being, it’s just that he is completely unaware of his gifts and there is a protocol to be followed before engaging in lewd sex acts. Once you get him there though, he unreservedly comes to the table.
Wandering Star makes love to my mind and just the sound of his voice can make me soak my panties. Before he can get to the bathroom, I attack. There is a giant hexagonal object bulging out of his underpants, I reach out for his package and put it in my mouth. He has the most delicious tasting cock. To make sure that all of him gets the attention he deserves, I have to hold the shaft with both hands whist sucking on the end of it. (I have really developed a complex lately about my deep throat abilities and have been practicing on Woolworths smoothie bottles.) Wandering Star has the most unusual facial expressions. I look up at him while sucking on his member as he stands there like a victim of this giant appendage. He watches me sucking him off. I stand up and rest my jewel on it whilst holding him tightly between my legs. Moving backwards and forwards on his cock, I fuck his mouth with my tongue. Finally he comes to, lifting me up and putting me on the bed.
Wandering Star eats my pussy out with his tongue without letting me out of his gaze for even a split second. He slides his cock into me and I feel the blood stop in my sugar plum. His presence is blocking the vein and I feel close to coming. He rubs himself right against my hot spot until my jets finally open and come trickles down the walls of my pussy. Since I have met Wandering Star, I have started having defensive orgasms that are larger in quantity and more slippery than they used to be (Interesting fact – just thought you might like to know that). Then with absolute seriousness he turns me over and empties half a bottle of lube in my ass. Gently, he enters me in stages. Nudging gradually deeper and deeper until my muscles accept all of him. After I convince him that I am not in pain, he starts pounding away at my asshole. His kisses turn to love bites all over my neck and shoulders. As he sucks the blood to the surface of my skin with his cock up my ass, I feel completely stretched and entirely filled. Tears well up in my eyes and I am emotionally overwhelmed. I feel that I’ve been taken as he fucks my asshole like he owns it.
Wandering Star begins to cut my neck while he is inside me but getting the blade to penetrate my skin seems to require more pressure than he had anticipated. As he begins to concentrate on cutting and sees the blood, I feel his giant piece of meat start slipping out of me. This is a real moment of appreciation. My man gets turned-off by the thought of hurting me. We decide to continue with the monogram and save sex till later. With slightly more vigor this time he presses the blade against my skin. I feel it break the surface. As I lay there completely surrendered, I feel a neat line being drawn into my neck, followed by another, then another and then another. I would not describe it as pain and it was not what I was expecting. I think the sensation I felt was clarity. When a blade is moving through your skin it takes all the noise in your mind away. You are completely focused on the movement of the blade and aware of every millimeter that it cuts. It is not pain. It is silence. A meditation. There I lay with my back turned to my lover, his warm wet cock laying on my butt cheek and this sharp sensation in my neck. I fell into another dimension where there was no time, just this one infinite moment. I felt close to the universe, joined with my lover. It was romantic. When the cutting was done, he wiped away the blood with what we call “the shroud” which I believe has been saved somewhere for sentimental reasons.
Wandering Star then placed candles, petals and incense on my back and whispered sweet things in my ears whilst lighting the candles and the incense. He took a large red candle and began to pour its contents out onto my back. Occasionally some wax would also spill off the candles positioned on my back. Although the wax was more painful than the cutting, I still would not call it real pain. It’s an intense shock to the skin and on some level there was increased awareness of sensation but not really pain. It did hurt a bit when the wax trickled down my sides as the skin is thinner there. I found this experience rather unfulfilling and am not really sure what the sadists are going on about. I assume they must just be a bunch of bored pussies. If you want to experience real pain you should go for an IPL treatment at the beautician. Try getting your balls waxed. The greatest amount of physical pain I have ever experienced is in the pursuit of attractiveness. Next time I feel like punishing myself or venting, I will take myself off to the beautician. Blades and candle wax don’t really cut it for me. (OMG I’m so punny.)
What I took away from this experience is the intimacy. I gave something of myself that had never given before. I made myself vulnerable to my lover and showed trust. My lover showed his gentleness when he was unable to hurt me. It was the first time we made love without our armor on and hopefully now that we have found this intimacy it won’t be the last. After the candles were cleared from my back, Wandering Star turned me over and gazed deep into my eyes. He rode me passionately without releasing eye contact. I felt as if we were connected, plugged into each other, one. He trembled in a heap as he came inside of me. We ate dinner by candlelight and curled up in each other’s arms for the night.