YMMV is a phrase that gets thrown around a lot around here. I usually take it as an unnecessary lowkey attempt at CYA: don’t blame me if you don’t like it. At best. I think, it’s a reminder that we all have different tastes, and my slender-girl-next door is your titless, assless, two-bagger.
Now, some people fuck you in a truly spectacular way that’s well beyond great service or even a meaningful relationship. I’ve paid a few hundred women to have sex with me, and convinced a few dozen more to do it for free. And in all of that, I can think of maybe two or three women that blew my mind every single time - even the first. And maybe these women have left a trail of wistful men in their wake, all dreaming of some random reunion, but I flatter myself into believing that I have something do do with it as well. Which is to say, that I suspect my experience with those women varied well beyond average.
So I know that there are women out there who will fuck me in a way that makes me re-evaluate my life. But I also know that I have no idea how to predict who those women are. And so I drift through a sea of pussy, some great and some not so, in the hopes that I will encounter such a sexually synergistic fuckpartner.
I egotistically believe that you will not have the same experience with Jessica that I have. But, I’ll leave this review here in case I am delusional, she’s just that fantastic for everyone, and other people can experience my bliss.
In more sober times, I estimate the amount of money I’ve given to KKP and to Jessica. At this point, I could have had a week-long vacation in Aruba. At the Ritz. First Class. Likely with money to spare. But I did not book a flight. Instead, I decided to take a chance on a place I’d never been with a woman I’d never seen.
My first few impressions were that I was about to have a forgettable hour. I called, was given the address, walked up two flights, rang the non-broken wireless doorbell, was let in, followed the mamasan to the room and waited.
Jessica is in her mid 30’s, but some people might be fooled into a lower estimate. She is pretty, to me, with a rounded face and delicate features. She often wears a wig, but not this first time. She’s tiny by any measure, but has proportionally large breasts. The dresses. I will see her in presumably are meant to accent her chest, but without a bra they only emphasize the beginning of her inevitable surrender to gravity. She is far from the spinner type that I usually prefer, but I am not discouraged yet.
The next 20 minutes or so continue as you might expect. She collects the 80 house and leads me to the bathroom for a completely average and forgettable table shower. Back in the room she negotiated the full service tip and annoys me a bit by asking for an additional 20 for bareback oral. But I also won’t let 20 dollars set the tone and I hand her the 180 she wants. She disappeared and returned with no money, a condom, lube, and more mouthwash. For reasons beyond me, she never brings these into the room initially, even when she’s expecting me.
The entry fee paid, she begins to render service. My 20 buys an unenthusiastic treatment of my shaft and frequent spitting into a Kleenex. This ineffective pre-cum yes-quit-yes-spit practice has become far too common and never fails to take me out of whatever mood I might be getting to. I know I’m disgusting and I don’t need my dick treated like an A Train pole to remind me.
The blowjob isn’t working and so I position her horizontally across the massage table. She is short enough that when her knees bend at the edge of the table, her head easily clears the wall. I kneel down and begin to eat her out. This starts off a little better, but it becomes clear that she’s doing everything she can to avoid getting off. A heavy fog of discouragement falls upon me as I concluded that she had developed a rigid need to separate her professional sex from any other kind. And I concluded that whatever this was, it would not be a facsimile of anything I wanted. Discouraged, I stood up, asked for the condom, and resigned myself to masturbating myself using her cunt as a living, breathing, sex toy.
Even this proves difficult as she complains about my size and we have to go slow. Like many adolescent nerdy boys, the fifteen year-old version of me anxiously consulted the texts and performed scientific measurements in the bathroom. And like a sixth of those same young scientists, I learned that I fell at least one standard deviation below the mean. If only libido were correlated with dick size, my variance had less mileage, I’d likely be richer and more content. And close to three decades later, I am comfortable with all of this. The consolation to so many hotdogs in so many hallways is that I’ve never been told to slow down or go easy out of pain management considerations. But here it was, a somewhat unfamiliar discomfort for me and grimaces and pleas from her.
Of course, vaginas are designed with convenient elasticity, and eventually her discomfort subsides. And as she eases into fucking me, we reach a dramatic inflection point in our sexual relationship. Somewhere along the lines, whatever had denied my tongue on her clit slipped away and we began fucking without concern. We’d switch through a few positions that night and, in general, our fucking naturally transitions across a wide catalog of angles and orientations. But anything we do seems in the pursuit of pleasure and not out of a collector’s instinct.
She is no technician. Her blowjobs have not gotten any better. She offers no kegal tricks. And anyone watching would likely bore themselves: there are no porn acrobatics or aerobics. But she responds to me subtlety and leaves me hints to do the same. The sex is wordless and effortless and I never have to tell her what to do or where to go. She’s just there. She gets wet, wet enough to be surprised and distracted. She doesn’t come every time, but when she does her tiny frame wraps itself around all of me and I usually follow.
We’ve chatted a bit over the hours over the months. I’ve learned precious little about her. Whatever mental barrier I’ve peeled away during sex, she still guards her privacy well. It’s good, really. Any kind of emotional connection would likely be too much. She lets slip that men have paid her to make out. She claims that they’ve paid for an unused hour so she can rest. I laugh to make it clear that I would never, and quickly stop as I realize that others might be getting the same as me or more.
I’ve considered the random coincidences that have governed my time with her. There are a few such coincidences that I’ve left out as they are identifying. And I’ve concluded that a lot of things had to go a particular way for me to be as enamored as I am and, I think, for her to treat me the way she does. And it’s the opportunity to stumble into a chance synergy that keeps me going despite how terrible paying for sex generally is. Of course, your mileage may vary.