Thursday, January 3, 2013

I am a KEPT Woman

I'm not sure what images this term conjures for most people. Probably Holly Golightly in her little black dress, wistfully peering into an expensive storefront... Someone glamorous, but a little shameful.

Or maybe some conniving gold digger. A lovely girl fingering through her lover's checkbook... the kind of girl waist deep in feminine wiles, but pitifully low on ethics.

A year ago, I would have envisioned an older, polished, Madison Avenue-type. One with an endless supply of sophistication and Fendi scarves. A woman who throws lavish dinner parties, running dry of rare wine vintages long before witty anecdotes.

I am none of these.

Unless you consider it glamorous to destroy sheet set after sheet set because the sinister controls of my washing machine continue to baffle me. Or consider it sophisticated to insist on shitty $7 eye pencils, rather than upgrading to a more adult brand of makeup- despite my near-constant raccoon impression. I'm no well-preserved, Upper East Sider.  I'm a twenty-something Los Angelian. And if my two car accidents, overdrawn bank account, and DUI arrest in the last month ALONE are any indication, I'm a mess.

Apparently the criteria for being "kept" aren't difficult to meet.

The club isn't as exclusive or as small as you'd assume. Since moving to Los Angeles, the mothership of all things vapid, superficial, and admittedly fucked up, I've already met a handful of women who have at one time made a habit of accepting money from lovers. I'm talking about regular women. Waitresses and project coordinators and website designers. Women with self respect.

Also one dude.

We're everywhere. All of our stories are different. My story is a blend of self exploration, unimaginably erotic sexual encounters, and love.

I met the man who keeps me one year ago. Until that point, I was the picture of innocence and propriety. Monogamous with my high school sweetheart for eight years. Sheltered. Naive. And painfully ignorant about my body.

In the months preceding my break up, a kernel of restlessness started deep in the pit of my stomach and grew. This urge to do something reckless and dangerous. Something sexual. Something scandalous.

I developed a habit of paging through online sex ads. I looked at them at work, on the elliptical at my gym, at home in bed before masturbating myself to sleep. I especially liked the ads for submissive women. Sadomasochism had represented an unscratched itch of mine for a long time.

There are so many ads... SO many ads posted by affluent men seeking young women to fuck and spoil. Most of them are hideous.
The one I answered wasn't. It was down to earth and respectful. There was nothing seedy mentioned, and it was spelled correctly, which I consider a priority. One day after gathering my courage, I wrote a first draft email to him at the Starbucks by my house. The next day I wrote a final draft, chose some flattering photographs of myself, and hit send. I still remember his reply...

He said I'd made his day, and he called me gorgeous. What an intrigue! We made a phone date for the next week, and I downed two glasses of cheap chardonnay before waiting in my car for my cell to ring.

I'll call him G.

G was charming, friendly, and relaxed. He told me he was married, but his wife knew and enjoyed his sleeping with other women. He said she "liked to hear the stories." Kinky.

He seemed impressed by my ability to string a coherent sentence together, remarking how surprised he was I knew what the word "tawdry" meant. (He apologized for that condescension six months later.) We made a date to share a drink and hung up.

My heart was pounding. But not nearly as much as the night I met him.

Call me cynical, but I assumed any man offering money for sex would be... the kind of guy who'd need to. Physically. You know what I'm saying; don't make me be indelicate...

Ok, a troll.

Or indecently old for hunting 20 year old ass. Either way, not the kind of guy I'd uncross my legs coyly for.

The man who walked in was young and fit. He wore a hoodie, t-shirt, and high top sneakers. It didn't even occur to me that he might not appear in a suit.

I remember thinking, there's no way this guy has any money. And then suddenly... that it didn't matter.

Without detailing his actual physical description, I'll say this. Imagine you have a very specific physical type. Say you're only into 35 year old, blonde hair, blue eyed men with big thumbs and bushy eyebrows. Now imagine this stranger you stumble upon online walks in to meet you, and he embodies every distinct physical trait that turns you on. (Ok… I’ll say he’s tall, dark, and handsome. With ice blue eyes.)  And more than that, let's say over drinks the two of you discover you harbor the same religious, political, and dietary opinions... And he compliments you, and he runs his fingertips over your legs, and he glances at your cleavage when you take a shuddering breath.

Imagine for a moment- the thrill of sitting across a table from a complete stranger. The knowledge in the back of both your minds- while discussing current events and counting siblings- that he's going to be inside of you. That all this small talk is a mere precursor. That sex is already established.

Have you ever been so nervous your body shook? When my adrenaline starts racing, I'm a shaker. I remember withdrawing my hands from the stem of my glass so he wouldn't notice.

After drinks, he walked me to my car, tilted my face upwards, and kissed me. Which was lovely- he kissed with his lips- softly and coaxingly. Occasionally letting his tongue touch mine, but only as a tease. Our lips pressed and fell away, over and over... His fingers slid up my neck, into my hair...

and pulled.

In one instant, everything changed. A dynamic was struck. Roles cast. He took something from me in that moment.. something I was desperate to give away. Something I needed him to take...

I felt no pain as he cocked my head back; rather, I was immobile. Helpless. He held my head in place and took my mouth as softly or as savagely as he liked. He held me still for his own enjoyment, choosing how much or how little to give me.

I slid my leg up the side of his body. His hand trailed downward between my thighs, slid into my panties, and toyed with my wetness. 

He could have had anything he wanted then. He could have had me against my car- there in the parking lot.

He could have bent me over. He could have pushed me to my knees. There was nothing I would have denied him.

But it ended with that kiss.

That was the night something was awakened in me. A sexual hunger. I went from total ignorance to obsession. Sex and G have dominated my thoughts for the last year. Every day is now spent fantasizing, fucking him or myself, plotting, learning, cumming.

My thoughts have become an endless tirade on how to please him. My primary job- my ultimate desire- is being the woman he wants. 

Wearing the lingerie he wants, sending him the dirty photos he wants, taking whatever he wants to give me in the bedroom- no matter how much it hurts.

His to fuck, his to caress, his to whisper sweet-nothings to...

His to keep.




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