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Story - A is Born, part 1
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Story - A is Born, part 1 She has been sitting in the hotel lounge for almost an hour, waiting for a complete stranger to rent her body and fuck her. Nursing her third glass of wine, trying not to smudge her lipstick, she resists the urge to check her phone for the time, for messages, for anything but this mindless waiting. This was such a stupid idea, she thinks, with a mixture of shame and embarrassment. She should go to the washroom, she thinks suddenly, check her make up, then come back and if nothing happens in fifteen minutes, she’ll leave. But it wouldn’t be to check her make up, not really. It would be to look at herself in a mirror, at a pointlessly gym tightened body, at full breasts, at a sexy, curve hugging, red dress with a deeply plunging neckline, a dress that made her feel sexy and slutty and wanton. She vividly remembers finding the dress in the store, being attracted by its daring. Much more daring than she was used to. She recalls the excitement of putting it on in the store, and seeing herself as this provocative, vampish figure. And she remembers wearing it for her husband. The way his eyes slid off it, as if it was oiled. Looking, and then looking away. The nervous smile. The hesitant chuckle. “Don’t you think it’s a little much,” he’d said. “But I want to look sexy for you,” she’d told him. “You are sexy,” he’d said. “You don’t need the dress for that. You don’t need to show it off. I’ve seen you naked lots of times.” So she’d laughed with him, and put the dress away, come to bed naked, and laid under him as he’d laboured over her. But on some level, deep down, she felt disappointed. He wouldn’t even look at her in the dress. It was as if he had become so comfortable with her, so used to her as a wife, as a mother, as a person who had shared years, that he was embarassed to see her as a sexy being. They had seen each other naked so many times, thousands of times. Explored each others bodies. Slept together, cuddling, woken up. They had become ordinary to each other, casual, when she was with him it was okay that her tits were starting to sag, or it was okay with him that his gut was starting to grow. But where was the magic? Where was the electricity. There’d been a time when knowing he was hard was enough to make her wet. When all he had to do was look at her to get hard. When they could look at her and they would get hungry. Where had that hunger gone. She felt so ordinary, so dull, so leaden. She didn’t want to be that. She felt like so much was passing her by. That there was a whole world of sex and life and excitement that she’d missed out on. Her Husband was the first man she’d been serious about. She hadn’t been a virgin when she met him. There’d been crushes and romances, and dates, had sucked a few cocks, spread her legs. Once in college, she’d dated a black man but it hadn’t gone further than a grope. Sometimes, alone with herself in the bathtub, she’d wished it had gone further, closed her eyes and fantasized and touched herself. Maybe it was the dress that made her a , she thought. A wannabe anyway. After that disastrous night, the next day, she’d resolved to take it back. But instead, she put it on again, looked at herself in the full length mirror. She’d pulled the hem up slowly, exposing knees, then thighs, then her pussy. Had pinched her nipple, then clutched her breast, squeezing it, imagining an eager masculine hand, grabbing her this way. Someone who wanted her, someone who lusted for her, a mouth that devoured, a body that shook with hunger, a cock hard and relentless.... She had gotten a chair, and sat in front of the mirror, pussy exposed, and brought herself to fierce orgasm. The dress did not go back to the shop. She didn’t wear it again, not right away. What would be the point? There would have been something pathetic about doing it again. Dressing up like a slut, to do what... Finger yourself for the mirror. She had some pride. She wanted someone to see her in that dress. To look at her and get hard. To think about fucking her. To want to fuck her. To see her as more than a wife of seventeen years, as more than a mother, as more than a naked body that you woke up to or went to sleep next to after a thousand nights. She wanted to be mysterious again, desirable, exciting. So the dress hung in the closet, and sometimes she took it out and looked at it. And she thought about wearing it. To the mall? To shopping? No. On a stroll? No. Maybe some night alone, order a pizza and wear it when the pizza boy came.... she laughed at that impulse. There was no place in her life where she could wear it, where she could dress up and be slutty. It was a knowledge that was almost painful. Which was where the idea to become a had entered her. Or perhaps it had always been there. She had never known a . There’d been whispered rumours about that girl in university, the one in English Lit, who had been dropped out.... that she’d been seen working the streets. That was as close as she’d ever come. But she admired the idea. Sex had been so complicated in high school and university. A matter of unspoken negotiations, of looks, and flirtation, dates, and stages - first base, second, home run, where every aspect and facet had been such a project, from figuring out where to do it, or how far to go, to the endless baggage of the aftermath - would he talk about me, what should I say about him, should I keep it secret, or brag about it, are we dating, do I want to date him, what if people think I’m a slut. seemed so elegantly simple in comparison - a proposition, if acceptance an exchange of money.... And then fucking. And then each gone their separate ways. It was all the baggage and complications shorn away, stripped away, just sex and nothing but sex. Of course, it was a horrible thing she knew. prostitutes were beaten and robbed, there were diseases, arrests, it was a degrading lifestyle. But still.... Just sex and nothing but sex. Oh god, that appealed to her. That world of excitement and being excited and exciting that had slipped away from her. That seemed so compelling. Her slutty dress was still a dress, still classy. Not something a would wear. Being a didn’t really appeal to her. It was too gritty, too nasty. She envisioned something higher class, a hotel room with clean pristine sheets and fine furnishings. An escort? That seemed too complicated, too elaborate. It was the simplicity. A Hotel ? Was there a name for that? A sexily dressed woman who would hang out in a hotel lounge, wait to be picked up. Relaxation and elegance and dressing sexy, she envisioned old movies, the flare of a cupped match, lighting a cigarette for her, smoky voices whispering over martini’s.... and then a walk to the elevator... And then.... Ridiculous of course, she didn’t smoke, and anyway, smoking had been banned from hotels and bars. And they’d probably throw you out anyway. The dress would be perfect for that. The idea wouldn’t go away. She’d have her rational moments, when she’d think it was a stupid idea. That it was a good way to get assaulted or beaten, or pick up a disease. And the sex would probably be terrible, some one minute wonder. But it kept coming back. Because, as stupid an idea as it was.... It would still be doing something. It would be being something, being sexy. As opposed to this place of dull and dulling comfort that her life was become, of being sexless, of losing that part of herself. There came a day, when she realized she was no longer playing with the idea, that she was going to do it. To be a . If only for one night, one adventure, just so that she could know she had done it. That, is how she came to be sitting in the hotel lounge, dressed in her form fitting red dress, the fabric clinging to her curves, her nipples hard, wearing high heels and black stockings and a garter belt, but no panties. Her lipstick glistened, her make up perfect, red hair loosely spilled around her shoulders. Waiting for a man to make her a . |
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