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MY EXPERIENCE WITH A CALL GIRL: CHAPTER 2
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 ya’ll, I didn’t want to text the call girl back and I didn’t want to ask for her prices. I, the mature twenty-eight-year-old man, wanted to walk away and maintain my dignity. But see, the twenty-eight-year-old man wasn’t present, he’d just been knocked out by another layer of my personality: the curious author always down for an adventure for the sake of a good story.
“Girl,” the author typed into my phone as he sat in my living room, picturing writing the next Pretty Woman after getting to know this call girl. “How much we talking about?”
The call girl sent her prices and said we could do cash.
The author considered it, willing to get back in the car and drive to her place at that very second but… the mature twenty-eight-year-old gained consciousness and ghosted her.
It didn’t last.
Each week for four or five weeks the call girl would send me a sensual picture of her with little to no clothes, saying that we should meet up. And each week I’d go through the same conflict I did the first time: the three personalities — the mature and rational twenty-eight-year-old, the horny eighteen-year-old with sexual fantasies that makes 50 Shades of Grey look like a PG-13 rom-com, and the dramatic author trying to write another Pretty Woman — would battle it out. Like the first time, the mature side would triumph momentarily before relapsing and repeating the cycle again and again until it happened…
… One last time
It’s about two hours until midnight. I’m in my idling car, ready to head back to San Bernardino after spending an evening in Glendale. Before I put the gear in reverse and back out of the mall parking lot, I receive a message. A short video. It’s her, the call girl, in her shower. She’s naked and holding her phone so that it’s facing her, revealing the side of her face, back, and that perfect ass.
And her ass, she caresses it, squeezes it, and pushes it upwards, making it jiggle. “Wanna meet up?” she texts afterwards.
I grow rock hard in a second. I lose focus. I lose strength. And I succumb to one of my most intense and graphic sexual fantasies that I’m dying to make real.
I picture having my way with the call girl. I tie her hands behind her back, pin her face against the bathroom floor, and shove it up her ass, thrusting like a mad man. Releasing five years of restraint and discipline of all my sexual fantasies.
It’s ok. I paid for it. She agreed to it. She can take it. Because it’s her job. Because she understands that there is no emotional connection and I’m ok with that. No, I love that.
In the regular dating world, I’d need to build that emotional connection first. I’d need to be a gentleman and take my partner out on several dates where we slowly get to know one another. Where, little by little, we lower the walls that protect our hearts until we’re comfortable enough to share our first kiss. Our first touch. Our first night.
Not here, I think as I replay the short video of the call girl in the shower, soon picturing myself back in there with her. Back in her ass, finishing inside of it.
It’s ok. I paid for it. She agreed to it. She can take it.
As I continue to fantasize about my evening with the call girl — cleaning ourselves in the shower, drying off, then heading to her dimly lit room where we lie down and I ask why she became a call girl in the first place — I make peace with this decision.
It just… makes logical sense. Prior to that night, the women that I’ve met in my life, though beautiful and intelligent and independent and kind, were never women that I felt that emotional connection with. Some came close, really fucking close, but there was always one major issue. Most of them lacked the growth and positive mindset I have, and a few had major communication issues. We’d talk. We’d have a good time but then, out of the blue, they’d disappear. I get it. They have these issues because of the hell they’ve gone through in their past. I respect it. I respect them. And I’ll sympathize with them but… I won’t empathize. I won’t put my life on hold for them and wait for that emotional connection to fully blossom.
“It makes sense,” I whisper to myself one last time as I replay the short video of the call girl in the shower giggling with that perfect ass. “Spending a night with her makes logical sense.” I pay for her services. I fulfill all my sexual fantasies. Then, we go our separate ways. She doesn’t get hurt because she’s a professional. Because that’s her job. And I don’t get hurt feeling as if I’ve betrayed my love style. “I don’t need an emotional connection with her.”
Content with this conclusion, I text the call girl back, letting her know that I’m down to meet up this very second. I don’t hit send, though. Something stops me. A glimpse of my reflection in the rearview mirror. Staring at myself, I don’t know, it makes me hesitate. It makes me think about my future and it triggers a far wiser and more mature side of me that’s ten years my senior. And this wiser side of me, he says that I’ll regret this decision in the long run. He says that that’s a dark and fucked up world that I don’t want to be a part of. That if I go through with it, there’s no going back. That I’m opening up Pandora's box. He asks me, “is this something you can live with for the rest of your life?”
I take a long look at my reflection. Then, I replay the short video the call girl sent me in the shower. It doesn’t stir up my lust again. Au contraire, it repulses me. No, I think, I will not be a part of that world. I block the call girl’s account.
And I still have it blocked to this day. I have no intention of ever getting first-hand experience in that world. Maybe second-hand experience by interviewing people who have lived and escaped that life for a fictional or non-fictional piece in the future, but never directly.
I always try to search for the positive in whatever experience I go through, especially the bad. And boy, there are a lot of lessons I learned from my experience with a call girl. The first was a reminder and affirmation of who I am and what I want when it comes to love. Who am I? In concise and practical terms, a demisexual.
But see, with this experience, I’ve learned to re-define what that means to me. If you Google the definition of demisexual you’ll get this, “A sexual orientation in which a person feels sexually attracted to someone only after they've developed a close emotional bond with them.”
So, if I as a human being abide by that definition of a demisexual, I shouldn’t have had a sexual attraction to the call girl I almost hooked up with. I should only be sexually attracted to someone once I’ve built that emotional bond.
But that isn’t me. Nor should we as human beings be limited to the exact definition someone else gives us. Those definitions should serve as a rough template. It’s up to us to clearly define what those definitions mean to us on our own.
So, what does demisexuality mean to me?
It means that I do feel a strong sexual attraction to women I come across in my day-to-day life. That I do wish to let loose my high libido in romantic and passionate ways, and in primitive and dominating ones — with consent and the utmost respect, of course — but I’m only willing to let loose my high libido with someone I build that connection with first.
Nevertheless, this call girl experience helped me re-define what demisexuality means to me and reminded me that I’m an old and monogamous soul who believes in “The One.” And as someone who believes in “The One,” I do wish to find a soul mate I connect with on a deep and emotional level. A woman who brings out the best in me. Who challenges me. Who I can share a comfortable silence with. Who I can grow old with and love in mind, body, and spirit until the end of time.
Will I ever stumble upon this woman?
Of course. I’m still giving online dating apps a shot, tentatively and wisely now, of course. But, since I’m the type of guy who needs to talk face-to-face, I’m going out at least every weekend or every other weekend. I’m hitting up raves, metal shows, and doing all sorts of activities that I love. My intention isn’t to find my soul mate, it’s to have fun, but I am open to the possibility of stumbling upon my other half.
When I do, by God, our love will send ripples across space and time and make the world peanut butter and jealous.
The world isn’t ready for that, though.
So, the world can wait.
And I’ll keep on living.
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