I concentrate on not shaking. And if that was with a woman, then how can I be heterosexual, and not lesbian or bi? How it happened that this event was my entry into sex work is covered in this story in SELF Magazine. This is what I am here for. I stand passively, hands at my sides, and he undoes the next. This time the fingers travel upward, from my navel, up my chest, back to my throat, the weight of his hand resting there as he kisses me again, deeply this time. This is one of those times.
I look through his books. This is my first time. I am now and always have been a heterosexual woman. I feel seen, special, beautiful. So, no touching that. I am not now, nor have I ever been, gay or bisexual. Casual conversation halts and he looks searchingly into me. After all, he thinks he is in bed with a man. We both stand awkwardly for a minute, then he reaches tentatively, with an inquiring look, undoes the top button of my blouse. There are banknotes and some change in a dish, but I leave them. This time the fingers travel upward, from my navel, up my chest, back to my throat, the weight of his hand resting there as he kisses me again, deeply this time. Humans are incredibly adaptable and can adjust to the most severe and outrageous conditions, even ones where the body and mind are at war. He kisses my cheek. I stand passively, hands at my sides, and he undoes the next. So, if this is my second first time, what about that first first? Kneeling on the bed, I unbutton his shirt, run my hands up under the collar and slip it off as I slide my hands over his shoulders and down his back. I make a spare living doing this. Then, eye contact, deep and unwavering, as he takes my hand and leads me to his bed, sits me on the edge, and gently lays me back. Sexuality is whom you go to bed with; gender is who you go to bed as. Metamorphosis describes my very different life, just prior to this story. And how to set conditions. Following my wishes was in his interest. He unzips my jeans and runs a hand down into my panties. His fingers travel lightly up my neck, through my long red hair, draping it over my shoulders and down my chest; one hand touches my throat, then runs slowly down, from my collar bone to my belly, around my waist to my hip. I have a fair amount of alcohol on-board, not out of control, enough to take the edge off the fear. That story is told in What He Did to Her.
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