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Before you judge me...
MY EXPERIENCE WITH A CALL GIRL: CHAPTER 1
The following chapter contains descriptions of sexual content that may not be suitable for younger readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Written by: Diego Ornelas-Tapia
Look, before you judge me and make me repent for my sins and dip me in holy water to purify my soul—and my nether regions— I must let you know that I didn’t want to do it. I downloaded Tinder with the sole intention of starting a short-term relationship after finally caving and giving up on finding, “The One.”
I was tired of searching. Tired of waiting for the woman whom I didn’t just find attractive, cool, mature, funny (and many more adjectives) but someone whom I could connect with on a deep and emotional level.
“They’re out there,” I told myself. “My soulmate is out there. But I’m not going to stumble upon them anytime soon.”
With this declaration — and with the knowledge that I was now at the mature and emotionally ripe age of 28 — I knew that I was finally ready to enter a short and casual relationship where I’d treat the woman I was with kindness and respect, but where I’d set healthy boundaries and let the woman I was with clearly know that I would probably never fall in love with her. That I wasn’t in it for the long run.
Cut to a cold winter night in San Bernardino…
… I’ve just matched with a fine big booty Latina that can easily make a brother lose his focus. I initiate the conversation, coming up with the best possible questions I can ask her based on her profile. She replies with hardly any effort, texting with one to three-word responses.
I grow annoyed and irritated, ready to unmatch then and there.
But then… she hits me with this, “Do you want to fool around?”
Suddenly, the mature twenty-eight-year-old who knows his self-worth jumps out the window and I feel like a stupid and giddy eighteen-year-old kid. I feel my heart racing and I look around the fireplace in the living room, the open-floor kitchen behind me, and the entrance door to my far left, feeling as if my parents were towering over me, about to scold me.
But they’re not there.
It’s just me, alone.
Free to do what I want.
When I want.
This revelation makes my nerves fade, quickly replaced by the full throttle of an eager and lustful eighteen-year-old kid.
I lose focus and I reply, “Tonight?”
Not a minute passes until she replies, “Tonight.”
Ba-thump! Ba-thump! Ba-thump!
My heartbeat races even faster than before and I feel like my heart will burst out of my chest any second.
I’ve never had a one-night stand before. Ever. It isn’t me. I need some sort of emotional connection before I’d even consider spending the night with someone. That’s what the twenty-eight-year-old in me thinks and feels. But the twenty-eight-year-old isn’t present. He’s been locked up and held prisoner by a stupid and horny eighteen-year-old kid who’s gone five years without sex out of necessity for that emotional connection.
I think of inviting the Latina over, but, after remembering countless Mr. Nightmare videos of one-night-stands on Tinder gone horribly wrong, I conclude it best to meet at a public place first. Like Starbucks. Or a Coffee Bean.
“Yeah,” I tell myself as I type the location of a cafe between my city and hers. “That’s smart. That’s safe.”
But just before I can send the message, I look over the Latina’s profile picture one more time. At that booty that makes my palms sweaty, knees weak, and arms heavy. I picture all the ways I’d dominate that booty. Like pinning her against the wall outside the back alley of a Starbucks, lifting her leg, and fucking her raw in a doggy-style position. I picture pulling her hair and feeling every inch of her flesh. Her breasts. Her back. Her waist. And her ass.
I squeeze and slap that ass with all my might, forcing her to utter out a moan that echoes down the alley and onto the night streets where the rest of society resides.
We could get caught. What we’re doing, where we’re doing it, and how — raw and fast and primitive — is wrong… and that only feels even more right.
Five years, I think as I inch closer to her, my hot breath and muffled animalistic grunts grazing the back of her neck. Five years with no sex. Five years of discipline and respecting my love style. Five years of waiting for “The One.”
No more, I think as I grab her by the neck and arch her back towards me, on the brink of reaching my —
My phone rings, transporting me out of my sexual fantasy — fantasies which grow ever more frequent and wilder the longer I respect my love style — and back to reality. Back in my home, on my couch, staring at the Latina’s profile picture on Tinder. I read her message, “Hello? You down for tonight?”
I look down, noticing my erection concealed through my jeans. I don’t think. Not of the future. Not of the consequences. Not of the guilt I know I will feel should I go through with this. I act and ask if we could meet at her place.
“Sure,” she replies.
Eager to manifest my sexual fantasy into reality, I rush to the garage, jump in my car, and wait for her address.
She doesn’t give it to me. Instead, she says, “My meetup isn’t free, you know?”
Boom. In an instant, the mature twenty-eight-year-old in me takes control, understanding what she meant and who she is. Nope, I think to myself as I step out of my car. There is no way in hell I’m going to pay for sex. That’s low. Extremely fucking low. And I respect myself way too much to go down that rabbit hole.
I reply, “Girl, bye.”
On my way back to the couch, I feel proud. And strong. But… though I’d put the horny eighteen-year-old kid in his place, a new character came to play: the curious author always down for an adventure — willing to try a new experience for the sake of a good story — hits me over the head and knocks me out cold, taking full control.
“Girl,” the author types into my phone. I picture writing the next Pretty Woman after getting to know this call girl. “How much we talking about?”
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Diego Ornelas-Tapia muses about mental health and life, shares fiction too out there for primetime, and contemplations about various topics on his Substack, Venturesome Dreamer. In all of his writing, he loves to take risks, try out new things, and elicit an emotional response from his readers.