But who cares what he looks like? As long as he pays me.
I had been telling myself this over and over.
Then I saw a guy coming from the opposite side of the street towards me, waving and smiling.
This is him, huh, I thought, bored. He’s not hideous I guess.
I felt blank. I could feel instantly that he wasn’t out to hurt or cheat me, but there weren’t any positive emotions either, or even any relief in seeing that he wasn’t going to kill me.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hey there.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Emily.”
He pointed in the direction we were supposed to walk and I followed him across the street.
“And you’re Justin?”
“Justine, or Julie.”
I wondered why he had such a feminine name.
As we walked he asked me general questions about how I liked London, about school, told me about his busy day, told me about how he was a hotel designer…
The entry to his apartment had so many stairs. I started panting immediately, due to being weak from being sick.
He mimicked me panting.
I laughed, embarrassed.
“Do you smoke or something?”
“Yeah. I guess I should stop. I’m very out of shape, obviously.”
His apartment was incredible, with huge windows everywhere. He was obviously wealthy. His furniture was all beautiful. He had two huge Louis Vuitton suitcases just lying out in front of his closet, and a Leica M8 camera lying on his desk.
I complimented him on his apartment. He said that he had designed it himself.
“Feel free to sit down,” he said motioning to his couch.
So I did and I took off my sunglasses, hoping he wouldn’t think I was ugly underneath them.
“Do you want a beer or something?”
“Yeah, a beer might be nice.”
He gave me some Thai beer that would have been nice if I wasn’t completely sick of alcohol after my previous week of binge drinking brought on by the excitement of being legally old enough to buy alcohol in England.
He gave me a cigarette that was very harsh on my sore throat.
We talked a bit more.
And then to my surprise he said, “Let’s get this out of the way.”
He reached into his wallet and gave me 200 pounds.
I counted it and put it in my bag. I was a bit disappointed it wasn’t the 220 pounds he had implied he would give me in his emails, but I was too shy to say anything.
“I’m sorry, am I taking too long or something?”
“No, don’t worry about it. I want you to relax.”
He set music on.
I realized it was Lady Gaga and I started to laugh.
I think I offended him.
I took off my shoes, and he perked up, but then settled back after he saw I went back to drinking.
I wasn’t paying attention and the cigarette butt burned me and I dropped my cigarette on his table.
“Oh god, I’m sorry.”
He made some funny sarcastic remark like, “Thank you for ruining my furniture,” and cleaned up the smoking ash I had dropped.
I drank more and more.
I want to get this over with, I feel bored and sleepy I want to go home I want to go to sleep.
I thought about initiating sex with him, but felt too embarrassed.
“Oh fuck it. I don’t fucking care,” I said and stood up. Facing him but avoiding his eyes, I undid my belt and started to unbutton my dress. I could feel him staring at my breasts. I had never felt nervous like this before having sex with someone. I wondered why I was so anxious.
I unzipped my dress and took it off completely. Then off came my bra and tights and underwear.
“Where are we going to do it?” I asked.
“It’s in there,” he said, pointing.
I followed him into his bedroom.
I caught a glimpse of my face in his vanity mirror and thought I looked trashy and hideous.
His bedroom was also big and gorgeous.
“Your bed looks so nice!” I said, thinking how soft it must be compared to the rock hard hostel bed I had been sleeping in the past week.
“What?”
“Nevermind.”
He got undressed behind some wall in his room as I lay in the bed.
He lay down on the other side of the bed.
He wasn’t saying anything. I wondered what to do.
“Do you want me to give you a blowjob or something?”
“Or something?” he kind of laughed. “Yeah, that might be nice.”
I thought his cock tasted and smelled sweaty, but I thought of all the sushi and margaritas I would be able to buy after this and kept going.
He was moaning a lot and seemed to be enjoying it. I could feel he was pretty hard now. I wondered if he would ask me to stop and fuck him. But he didn’t say anything. I just had to keep going and going. I wondered if I would be forced to give him head for an entire hour.
I couldn’t take it anymore so I finally just started to give him a hand job and looked at him.
He sat up and started to grab and suck on my breasts. I fake moaned. He started to kiss my inner thighs and began playing with my clit, with his fingers first, then his tongue. I continued to force moans, though I was thankful that at least it wasn’t painful when he played with my clit like it usually is when men do.
He came up from between my legs.
“Do you have a condom?” I asked.
“Do you? Yes, of course I have a condom.”
He reached for a condom on his bed stand and unwrapped it, but then indicated toward his flaccid penis.
I felt a bit offended that eating me out had been that big of a turn off for him.
I started blowing him again for a bit.
“You know what? Maybe just a hand job.”
I did it kind of lazily with my left hand. I was so sleepy.
“Not so into that huh?” he said and I took my hand off and I sat up against the pillows on his bed. He began to masturbate, while staring at me. He pulled my legs further apart.
He just sat there, staring at me, while masturbating, seeming like he might cum.
He grabbed my breasts and then fingered my clit again.
Then he just went back to playing with himself.
I wondered what the hell he was doing, but I figured that if I get paid for just this it’ll be pretty good.
But then I started to wonder if this was some secret plot to fuck with me without a condom or just to cum inside me somehow. I imagined myself pushing him off of me and scrambling from his bed.
“Why don’t you try playing with yourself?”
I was relieved to finally be given some direction.
“Oh okay. I was like ‘I don’t know what’s going on.’”
“What?”
I started to rub my clit slowly, again with a lot of fake, loud moaning.
I pinched my nipples with my free hand which he seemed to like.
I wondered if he would be more turned on by watching me rub my clit or fingering myself.
He seemed to like both equally.
“Ah, okay.”
He got a new condom and put it on.
I was lying against the pillows and he was hovering above me.
“How do you want to do it?” I asked.
“Like this is fine,” he shrugged.
While penetrating me his cock felt big and good, but then this feeling rapidly declined.
He stopped.
“I can’t do it like this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not you at all.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Yeah, this is my first time paying for sex.”
“Me too!” I said excitedly.
I realized that he probably hadn’t been able to notice my own nervousness, being so consumed in his own.
“I thought it’d be a
lright if I did it with an American, but I guess not.”
Did he have some American fetish?
“Why an American?”
“My girlfriend’s from America. She’s living in New York right now. She said that this is the only way it’d be okay.”
“If it was with an American?”
“No, if I paid for it. She said (he put on a stern voice), ‘you can’t flirt with any girls at bars or club, you can’t go on dates. none of that. If you need sex, you pay for it.’ But I guess I need to go back to Skype sex…”
There was some silence. I didn’t know what to say or do. Probably neither of us did.
“I’m sorry this didn’t go the way you wanted.”
“It’s not you at all. If I had seen you at a pub or something I probably would have hit on you. My girlfriend wouldn’t have liked that…”
He got up and got dressed so I did too.
We went out of his bedroom and stood in his living room.
“Do you want another cigarette before you go?”
“It’s okay. Can you tell me how to get to the tube station?”
“It’s really easy. You just turn left from my place, and then you take a right and another left, and you’re there.”
“Thank-you.”
More silence.
“It was pretty cool meeting you, I guess,” I said.
“You seem pretty cool, Emily.”
We talked some more and he showed me out.
And then I was by myself again, same as before, but with money.
I started to laugh to myself.
“I can’t believe I got paid for that.”
I went back to my hostel and triumphantly took a nap.
the irish photographer
I wanted to know if he genuinely wanted to photograph people, or if he just said that to get girls to go over to his place. I asked Tom about it, and he said, “I think it’s probably both.” Tom and I had been messaging for weeks and I had been asking him about all of the guys I was interested in.
“What do you think of this guy? Very interesting. Asked to take my photo. Seems to have an Asian fetish.”
“Petsheep is—well, he’s honest. I wonder how much casual sex he gets off this site. I wonder how much he gets by offering to photograph girls. It feels a little bit cheap to badmouth him, though. He is from Portsmouth however, which is a big minus. If I’m not mistaken—and I may be—you aren’t actually Asian. Are you Asian?”
“I’m part Korean. You can’t really tell though, except I have Asian eyes. And dress Asian apparently. Anyway I think Petsheep is great. Authentic weirdo artist. I’m drawing a logo for him. Did you hear of him before?”
“I haven’t encountered Petsheep previously. We probably wouldn’t get along.”
“Omg. ‘Just so you know, have your photo as wall paper on my phone.’-Petsheep.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Petsheep sounds like one sketchy dude. Try not to get raped.”
“Petsheep asked me to be his girlfriend lol.”
“Fucking Petsheep. How did you answer?”
“I said ‘no’ and blocked him. He has pics of girls giving him head on his blog. Very weird. Why would he want a girlfriend when he has sex with like different young model girls every week? ‘Your photo is my wallpaper. I want to sleep with you this evening. What I like physically must be obvious.’”
“Poor old Petsheep, the gigantic pervert. He sounds like an asshole. Maybe he was going to photograph you giving him a blowjob? Can you link me his blog please?”
I sent Tom the link.
“His blog is lame. He is lame. Lame lame lame.”
“Why do think you think Petsheep and his blog are lame? He asked me what I like the best in bed.”
“Petsheep is lame ’cause he is quite, quite rapey. His blog is lame because it is bad photography. His Twitter is lame because he fucking only follows you. He has a reasonably sized dick, however. Are you talking to him again?”
“How is he rapey? Seems sensitive.”
“Maybe he’s sensitive when you talk to him, but his external appearance is pretty psychopathic. We wouldn’t get on.”
“Petsheep is taking my photo Wednesday.”
“Thought you’d blocked Petsheep? Are you actually going to let him snap you nude?”
“I did block him, but then I got bored and started talking to him. Then I realized I want more pictures of me, so I said he could take mine.”
“Are you going to end up covered in bruises?”
“I think he’s into getting beaten up, not beating girls up. Or maybe I’ll end up dead, who knows?”
“Are you travelling to Portsmouth to see him?”
“Yes, I’m going to Portsmouth. Gonna see the sea. I think I won’t be able to have sex with him or you either so it kind of takes the edge off.”
“Portsmouth is—no joke—fuck ugly. It’s one of the ugliest cities in the country. It’s fucking awful.”
“Do you wanna see nude photos of me?”
“I don’t particularly want to see naked photos of you, as it goes. Don’t take that the wrong way.”
The train ride from Waterloo Station to Portsmouth is very long. There were school kids on the train dressed in cute uniforms. I wondered why they were still going to school in the middle of July. The kids gradually left the train as it got closer and closer to Fratton Station. Then outside it was fields and cows. I thought I saw Petsheep out the window, but it was the wrong station and the man was much better looking. I couldn’t imagine such a good looking blond business man going to have sex with me. Two stops away, I got up and walked through the carriage to the train bathroom. I stared at my face in the mirror above the sink. “I think you’ll be O.K.”
The train arrived at Fratton Station at right about 5. I followed the crowd over a bridge. The station was small and empty and horrible. The blond business man was standing in the middle of the station, then he walked away. I kind of shuffled around. An old man was looking at me. I decided to stand beside a Coke machine. Then the blond business man was standing in front of me.
“You’re definitely meeting me here today, right?”
His voice sounded stern. It frightened me. He towered over me. I doubled over with laughter. The whole situation was stupid. I started to worry about my face.
“I was hoping for a better reaction than that.”
He laughed.
“I didn’t think that I would meet you today.”
We walked toward the door.
“I didn’t think you would either. Do you still want to do this? You seem terrified.”
He lit a cigarette.
“Can I have a cigarette?”
“Do you smoke?”
“Yeah, see.”
I showed him the pack of American Spirits in my purse.
“Isn’t that impressive.”
“I decided to start again while I was in England.”
“Do you want to try English cigarettes?”
He put a cigarette in my outstretched hand.
“Marlboros aren’t English. My parents smoke these.”
I told him about how I was a liar and enjoyed being that way. He asked what I had lied to him about.
“Nothing important.”
“Maybe I should have lied to you about some things.”
I knew he had lied about his age online. He said he was thirty, but I figured out that he was seven years older. He was an Irish immigrant. His voice was like recordings of James Joyce I listened to in high school. I complained about people in London being cold and rude.
“I could not live my life being as judgmental as you are.”
I said, “I’m not judgmental.”
At his place there was some guy watching TV on the other side of the room. His roommate must have been used to Petsheep bringing home random young girls all of the time. In his bedroom, four blue dress shirts were hanging from a rack.
“You wear a lot of blue,” I said.
; “I should start wearing another color.”
“Show me your phone.”
He pulled it out of his pocket.
“Why did you make that picture of me your wallpaper?”
“Why not?”
His screensaver was a slideshow of photographs, mostly porn. I called one picture “gross.”
“Yeah it is, but I like gross pictures.”
There were also a lot of pictures of me. He asked me if I thought that was weird. I said I was flattered. I was pretty used to guys getting obsessed with me and doing things like that. Not that he was obsessed with me. He had also downloaded music I said I liked, but I don’t think he liked it.
“Do I look like my pictures?”
“Yeah.”
“Do I look young?”
“Yeah. You don’t look fifteen.”
“Do I look fat to you?”
There were so many pictures of tiny Asian girls he had slept with on his blog.
“No, do I look fat to you?”
We talked like that for half an hour. I had been feeling nervous and now felt less so. He suddenly stood up.
“Are we going to take pictures and have sex or are we going to go to a pub or are we going to do all three?”
For some reason I hadn’t thought at all about having sex with him, even though we had talked about it so much.
“I guess all three.”
“Do you have ID, just so I don’t get into any more trouble?”
I reached into my purse and handed him my passport.
“Passport, nice.”
“The picture is really bad.”
In the photo I was fifteen and chubby and broken out.
He offered me one of the cans of beer that was sitting on the windowsill.
“You have to get used to warm drinks.”
“They don’t put ice in the drinks here.”
I began drinking.
“You know what I said?” My voice cracked a little. “I said that as long as I was young I would never have sex with someone not in their twenties.”
“Have you ever had a job?”
“No.”
I’ve never needed a job. I have a trust fund.
what purpose did i serve in your life Page 3
