Miss Makeover – MY MAN MAX: 'TIS A PITY SHE'S A WHORE

By on May 24, 2010

Second date. Already lost count how many times we have feasted on each other. Ooh we’re greedy. Greedy gannets. Gluttons.
My place. I’m in the damp bit. He has an arm around me, holding me tight. Why do other men neglect this essential courtesy? Because they need to get up and hunt, having planted their seed? Because they are terrified of being trapped, believing a post-coital hug constitutes a legally binding proposal of marriage? It couldn’t be because they are thoughtless, clueless clods. Would it really kill them to stretch an arm up, prop us up onto a warm, slightly fast, heartbeat? Seems so.

“This is a very nice flat. Are your people well off?” he asks. Crass question. But it still demands an answer. We are now in a minefield of class and money. The wrong answer could finish my future. He thinks I’m a freelance pianist. Which I was. Then, briefly, an ‘acclaimed novelist’, for a publisher who couldn’t afford to bribe the stores for prominent rack space.
My Man Max probably knows that scribblers do not live in flats like this. Well, you might go into a first marriage with a few white lies. I certainly did. You’re a fool if you do that twice.
“I’m a Transformational Sex Therapist,” I tell him. His eyes pop. About time too. You can have too much suave nonchalance. So he’s rich. I’m richly experienced, well-travelled, in the know.
“I’ve never heard it called that before,” he says, still scandalized and still not hiding it very well. That’s funny, but only because I like him. If a creep had said it, looking to ruffle my feathers, it would have been knee in the nuts time. Try hiding your reaction to that tried and tested testicle tweaker.
Well, he’d seen the dungeon by now. There’s so much equipment in there I am obviously seriously deranged, or a professional. Probably both you may be thinking. If we’re doing straight psychology, that pre-historic nonsense about paraphilias and syndromes, I’m obsessive compulsive, in sex as in everything else. That’s maybe why I keep on collecting equipment, long after I have enough to satisfy every need. But don’t listen to the shrinks, those fifty to eighty quid an hour sleepwalkers. It’s only a few decades since they declassified homosexuality as a disease. As you may know the incidence of sexual harassment from shrinks is ridiculously high, something like ten per cent. You might as well see a real sex worker and have done with it. Speaking of which.
emperor“You don’t mind?” I tease him.
“How do you cope?” he asks. He’s not that thrilled actually.
“I’m a Domme. Some of them I don’t even have to touch. Besides, it’s fun dressing men up. And giving them a good spanking.”
Very uncomfortable silence. Not happy at all.
“It needn’t be all horrid, like at school.” The silence goes cold. I’ve pressed the wrong button. Got to scamper quickly back out of the dark, horrible memory I triggered.
“Of course, a real relationship doesn’t need that. That’s just fun. Romance, love, is something else.” It’s way too early to say the L word. Most men would have their trousers on by now, stumbling about trying to get dressed in the dark. It’s usually a great way of getting some me time. Clears the flat in no time at all.
“I’d love romance with you,” he says, kissing me. I’m so glad we got over the first hurdle that the kiss spreads into a a major cuddle, a hot huddle. He said that word! Maybe not in the right context but he definitely said it. Maybe my work is holding him back. But I can’t give up who I am for him. Can I?

Miss Makeover is an upmarket therapist working with men who would rather be women (as long as their wives don’t find out), behaviour modification specialist, fashionista and scene fetishist.
Suki Greene as told to MarkRamsden.co.uk

Illustration by Ruth Ramsden who can be contacted on
weirdjazz [@]sky.com

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