I swear I just heard somebody say they “drink porn.” I can relate. Drink Porn, Eat Beer.
I recently discovered a professional masturbator who looks so much like an ex-gf of mine it’s just fucking weird. Fortunately she has a thick European accent so at least her voice distinguishes her from the woman I tried to love. The mouth, the coy smile, the hair, the breasts… almost everything aligns to make me think this was really her and she’d gone back to the sex trade.
The woman I knew was a stripper. I did not know this until after we consummated our relationship and agreed to “make this real.” I had no problem whatsoever with the stripper thing. I made this clear because she seemed to expect that I would kick her out of the bed. She described it as a fun side hustle where she worked mostly at a place where the guards kept the creeps at bay. She didn’t do lapdances or make any physical contact.
The troubles with this narrative came when she dropped clue after clue (usually after the 2nd glass of wine) that she did a lot more in the sex trade then just stripping, and in fact she might still have been turning tricks while we were together.
She had a lot of lies to keep track of. If I’d stuck around long enough I might have challenged her and unraveled at least some of those lies but that was not necessary. Things turned abusive, as they always do with me because I am prone to abusive relationships. But she was, all told, an incredibly nasty drunk. Just mean to a point where homicidal tendencies could not be ruled out. I’ll never forget that feeling of being surprised to be alive after the last time I left her apartment.
I know how to pick ’em. I’d been after her for years but circumstances never aligned. She was taken, I was taken, I think she moved away to Connecticut for 5 or 6 months… Circumstances misaligned until they came together for what felt like a righteous night of sloppy sex and outpouring of the ghosts in our closets.
She told of the stripper thing, I dished about the FBI/Secret Service investigation into my phreaky past. It was such a great night — one of, well, not too many to come.
Now I drink up the porn of her doppelganger. It feels dangerous for me. It’s like I should not be watching this lest I fall into the same trap she set for me. It’s not her but with God as my Witness the nuances of her body and facial expressions are dead ringers.
Read Dingers. Red. Dingers.
Too dark in here to type more… Gah, wanted to talk about my earth’s-axis-changing dump I unloaded earlier
