FISTING A SOLDIER BEFORE LUNCH

By on August 5, 2010

I am steeped in sin. Doused in depravity. Won’t anybody save me from this life of torment? Priests, politicians and journalists all condemn sex workers – while using their services as often as they can afford. I’m clean and sober – just. Still in the white knuckle phase. Holding on grimly. Expecting to be blasted off deck by a typhoon of anger and resentment any day soon.
At least concerned Christians are trying to help me. I have little leaflets full of brainwashing mantras from NA, and straight people ringing me constantly to repeat various magic words. I suppose it’s like being a teenage Satanist. You can still wear black but things get better instead of worse. I have survived one day of no drink and no drugs. However, sixty meetings in sixty days is recommended. That’s as may be. I have a soldier to fist.
Priests are paid liars. I tell the truth, even while I’m working. And I am ethical. People come to me claiming they wish to experience extreme humiliation, pain and torture. 24/7 slavery is a common yearning. People so frazzled by the demands of contemporary life that they want someone else in charge – for ever.
Why am I telling you all this? Because NA is making me feel guilty? Surely not…
So. My clients come to me for a vital transformation, a fierce life affirming ecstasy in many cases. So what if they’re addicted to me or to ratcheting up their sex drive. Although, it has to be said that some of these people hate themselves. They ask for services that couldn’t possibly do anyone any good. They make me feel queasy and I’m used to these sordid requests. Am I ‘chem’ friendly? Because it’s not enough to have someone rootle around inside your tightest orifice with a number of bulky objects. They want to be hopelessly trashed too. Then there’s the people who want to discuss ‘yellow’ and ‘brown’ – which I don’t deal in.
“Have you thought of seeing a psychiatrist?” I feel like saying. “Have you thought of a hobby which would get you out in the fresh air? What about Canoeing? Or Mini-golf?” But that would be foolish. I sometimes persuade them to have sex that is good for them. Rather than the hideous torture they imagine they want.

Today’s pre-luch service was typical. It was quite a sight: a fit, chunky squaddie on all fours, naked, hairy and covered in cheap, faded old school tattoos. His 1950’s gents haircut hadn’t been seen in London for a decade – unless on a visitor from the frozen north. He was gagging to be fisted. But it was soon clear that the ex-soldier, a veteran of two horrible wars and several fierce Dominatrices, could not take more than a few of my fingertips. He was scrupulously clean, and eager, but he could only take a sound knuckling, fisting was out of the question.
“Jesus!” he kept saying, at which point I realised I had been mistaking his groans of agony for signs of pleasure. Well, at the present rate of progress towards fisting it would have been the next millennium before I  got my fist in. This from a man who has faced Iraqi tanks and friendly fire from Americans. Or, as he put it, “Friendly fire? Murder, more like…”.
Oddly enough this tough guy, not a strap-on virgin –  was in agony after just three of my knuckles. Memo to fledgling sex workers: they don’t like it up ’em. Even if they say they do. By kinder, gentler means I got him off eventually and we sat down for a good old heart to heart. As his conversation is actually interesting, and not a series of ludicrous boasts about his job, possessions or sexual prowess, he gets close to being an ideal client.
He’s good looking too. So why does this young man, a genuine hero, have to pay for sex?  Because his wife/girlfriend/significant other won’t be dirty. For some reason far too many people are squeamish about sex games that turn a lot of people on. Oh well, more money for us sex workers.
Jerry, my ideal, is clean, courteous and punctual. I couldn’t possibly fall for him but then I don’t want to. I’ve already got enough unrequited love for a lifetime. I won’t need any more. Jerry was a squaddie and is now doing something just as dangerous where you get paid properly. It’s something industrial, too dull to describe. He told me but it was like listening to my mother talk about gardening so I couldn’t retrieve it even with hypnosis or truth drugs. It’s something to do with trying to stop industrial fires breaking out. Then risking his life to put said fires out. For which he gets a fraction of what anyone in PR gets for selling us reality show celebrities and Pete Doherty.
He had claimed to be big and burly and so he was. Burly as the proverbial brick outhouse and just as solidly built. There was also a spare tyre which he had constructed from fry-ups and lager but that’s real men for you. It’s rare to find a six pack on straight men, although they’re standard issue on Muscle Marys.
His new job was less exciting. He told me but it was like listening to my mother talk about gardening so it probably couldn’t even be retrieved by hypnosis or truth drugs.  It’s something hazardous and industrial, trying to stop fires breaking out.
Twenty minutes into his combat experiences and I was starting to feel a profound, all-embracing contempt for our rulers. The  Christian Prime Minister who sent him to war, who claims his full expenses allowance for a house he doesn’t even live in, In his constituency, where he rarely goes. This is not illegal – just stomach churning when the same man is happy to throw council estate women in jail for minor infringements of the tax credit system, which is in any case impossible to understand even – especially – if you’re administering it.
Listen to me. This isn’t Panorama. Or Newsnight. (“Go Jezza!”) Now Paxo could sort me out. He could give me a right imperial stuffing. And I’d make him less grumpy. He just hasn’t met the right woman yet. Speaking of The One, the illusion we all have that some perfect partner could sort us out, Squaddie was once really annoyed because some mad women could only keep up 24/7 slavery for week before packing it in for something like marriage. Where is that implacable harridan who will reign over the slaves eternally? Well, it certainly isn’t me. Up to my old tricks of trying to get subs to stand on their own two feet. “I want to be humiliated, given CBT and forced oral,” they say. I give them what they want of course. But very gently subverting their expectations. Liberal Democrat Domming. Making suggestions. Which we all know are sensible.
Unfortunately most people still prefer power-mad dictators,
which his why there are way too many submissives and not enough dominants. Maybe that’s because the submissives have most of the fun. Who, given a choice, wouldn’t rather lie down and let someone else do all the work?
Unfortunately many of the dominants are twisted fucks who just want revenge. Absolute power does corrupt absolutely. If you do venture to a fetish club you will see some extremely spiteful domming, often done to make some fat cow feel better about herself.
Maybe what I do is anarcho-s/m. If that kindergarten political term didn’t conjure up beards, vegetarianism  and communal body odour. I’m offering tyranny-free fisting. And proper cafetiere coffee afterwards. Let’s call it egalitarian power play…it’s exciting but no tears before bedtime.
I tell my client all this and more. Till his eyes glaze.
“Oh no! I’ve got to get to IKEA,” he says, glancing at his watch.
“Taking your wife?” I asked, silkily, meaning, ‘your wife must be dragging you there. I hope she’s in an especially indecisive mood’.
“Nah! You don’t want women along, do you? Everywhere you go they’re saying ‘That’s nice. Let’s buy that. That’s nice.’ You’d never get out of there.”
Well. Really! I suppose I should thank him for his refreshing candour.
He’s on his feet now, chaste peck on the cheek, the door’s open and there’s his back.
Shouldn’t have opened my mouth. He just wanted an excruciating pain in the arse. Not my life story.

Leave Comment