Boymeat (boymeat) wrote,

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Money Can't Buy Me Love - Part 1: Character development.

I have recently stumbled into something that most say does not exist.

Or, at least, it hasn't existed.

Of course, I am sure it does. I cannot be the first. Granted, my situations certainly fucks with the gender stereotypes surrounding the whole ordeal, but there must be others out there. I mean, there are gay men's phone lines that offer harsher versions...

Perhaps I should start from the beginning.

I was at an event this past summer in a midwestern state. The event director, a friend of mine, invited me to teach there. I've taught at the event before... and had a lot of fun in my previous years. The event, despite being located in a midwestern town famous for more banal activities, proved to be a magical event. I met one of my loves there, someone who became a huge part of my life and changed the very nature of my being. My leather family expanded there in an unexpected and whirlwind manner. Like I said... magic has been known to occur there.

This particular weekend was tough for me. My father had just been admitted into the hospital for what would be a long, long process that at the time of this writing has not ended. My mind was torn between the classes I needed to teach, the wonderful boy who had come to this midwestern state to serve me, and my family needing me back home. There was a celebrity auction this particular weekend. I usually love auctions like these - they're a lot of fun and allow me to meet cool and interesting people while contributing to charity. But I was reluctant this time. My mind was in a million places, I feared I could not do any purchase justice, and the crowd lacked... attractiveness. I was preparing myself for a dud.

And then she walked in. A long-haired lass with a beaming smile. Milky white skin, curves that can kill a man in one charge. Gorgeous. She had caught my eye in a class I taught earlier that day. We had briefly bonded over a shared medical history, and I must admit I was hoping I would get to speak to her again. Before I could walk up to her, the auction had begun.

..."going for $50 once... going twice... SOLD."

I looked up, and there she was. Bought. She paid $50 cash for the chance to have a scene with me.

My friends looked at me with envy. I'd say they had good reason.

We met later in the dungeon, and made some small talk. I confided to her the trouble I was having... my father being in the hospital. She hugged me, and offered to release me from the terms of the sale. I thanked her for the offer, but declined. A contract was made, and I intended to see it through to the best of my abilities. She wanted to feel what I had done earlier that day in my class... a caning. With the crowd beginning to spill into the dungeon, the sound level rising, we decided to get started.

I spilled my collection of canes onto the ground, and went to work. At first, it was a nice, playful time. What I would call a "getting to know you scene." Light taps, medium strokes, just enough to gauge reactions. Nothing fancy. A flick of the wrist here, a brush of the hand onto the curves of her ass, a strike leaving a faint, yet present grouping of parallel lines. Gasps and laughs were heard. We were having fun.

As good scenes often do, this contractual agreement turned into something else. The crowd began to disappear from our periphial visions. The stage had been set, and we were the only two in this production. The cane strokes slowly grew more intense, eyes locked into one another firm. Seductive smiles, licks of the lips... the baring of teeth. My stance grew firm, my arm began to rise higher, a rhythm was set. Our breath seemingly locked onto each other as the cane landed with perfect precision like a metronome. One after another, cane strike after strike, her body began to levitate off the massage table and into the sky. 5 minutes, a half hour, 2 hours... who knows how long we were there.

It was magic. A great scene... nay... a phenomenal scene. Tears streamed her cheeks, their meaning reinforced by her radiant smile. What was an exchange of money... her wallet to a great charity... my end of the bargain being the man with an arm and a toy bag... became a private affair for two souls to temporarily seek each other out and entwine.

We kissed goodbye, and promised to say hello again another time.

Time did indeed pass, and another event came to the horizon. This time the midwesterner traveled to my neck of the woods. We said hello once again. She talked of our scene... still as excited as if it just ended. She spoke of how the scene changed her... opened her into something else that was indefinable. I thanked her, bowled over with her words, perhaps even blushing. I have a strange relationship with praise. I seek it out constantly, and yet, am horribly embarrassed by it just the same. I find the words almost unbelievable... after all, I am just me. Just Phil. Nothing more, nothing less. My own self-evaluation generally finds me lacking. And yet here was this woman who I know is amazingly intelligent, bright, and streetwise, praising me and practically putting me on a pedestal that she clearly thinks I deserve.

It was mind boggling.

We continued to stay in touch, and in time she would come to visit me again. We played again. Perhaps not as magical as the first time... after all, how does one really recreate a magical event? But we had great times nonetheless. We spoke more, we bonded. We began to know each other, filling in the other on the gaps. Putting words and expressions to the emotions we saw in each other while we played. Attaching meaning and mutual understanding. A true friendship began to form.

Or maybe something else.

We spoke of dominance and submission. Of service. Debates on whether or not people deserved submission, or if it was simply a gift or an expression within a scene. It was becoming clear that our conversations danced around thoughts within our own heads. She felt submissive to me, and wanted to show it. I felt the presence of someone looking up to me with praise.

And then one day, an e-mail. "Is there anything I can do for you from where I sit so far away?" She asked to serve. I racked my brain as to what might work. And with the help of my sister, I extended the offer to e-mail me regular web-columns I like to read when I remember to check for them. She agreed excitedly, and by the next day, there was e-mail waiting for me. The stage had been set... her submission began. Service had been integrated into our lives.

Soon, another visit. We met up with one other at a midtown hotel. She was there as a guest to one of her clients. You see, my lovely lass, brilliant and sexy, is a sex worker. Men offer her money for her companionship... for her mind, for the chance of a touch. She was hot, and her clients knew it. The hotel was lovely, a premium clearly deserved by her. I was fascinated, and asked her about it. We talked about the industry, and what she got out of it. She had thought this through... she knew what she was doing and why. I was blown away.

But not as much as I was from her next sentence. "Do you have an Amazon wish-list?"

She wanted to send me a present. As tribute.


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