Post Love

Post Love Thirty Six

Sometimes the drudgery does reward your sacrifice. Sometimes they send you on a business trip to Amsterdam, and you instantly dismiss your duties in the foreign land as a new agenda blossoms inside of you. Possibilities. You haven’t been to Europe since your young days, cruising the land with friends in the back of a van. Oh, those were good days. But they’re gone now. Those people are gone, and that you is gone, and that van has probably seen it’s best days by now, being pushed to the limits by endless generations of young people on adventures. Now you go back to Europe as a man. An older, darker man with more baggage, more wisdom, more nihilism, more interest in the late night corners of Europe than the bright summer beaches and booming cities it has to offer.

You board a plane for the man, paid for by the man, you check into the assigned hotel, you sleep, you work, you shake hands, you smile, you go for drinks, you walk around the city alone, exploring the vast nothingness you find in every city you’ve ever been to. What’s there to do in Amsterdam? There’s only two things to do in Amsterdam. You do the first one right away, a familiar sensation in a strange land, surrounded by careless strangers, and all is well. But you’re not sure about the other thing. Sure you’ve done worse, but never this official. Never this out in the open. An old woman in a dark corner back home, that’s one thing. And I wasn’t looking for it then. It was serendipity. But to go out shopping for it in the neon wilderness, that’s something else. That’s a step into a lower territory of the mind. And I couldn’t think of one reason not to take it. Long forgotten remnants of morality arose in my system and tried to make a stand. What a joke. I’d been addicted to filth my entire life, even before I was a good little married boy. I was scared to do it then. Some kind of unspoken dogma held me back from fulfilling my fantasy, my destiny. But as I stood in the old world like a veteran of war, the war of man against woman, a rawhide soldier who had shed layers of shame and stigma, awol from social standards, I could not for the life of me think of a reason not to fuck a hooker in Amsterdam. It was legal, well regulated, clean, cheap, and most importantly, I had never done it before. That old hunt for life experience that had dragged me through the early stages of my divorce, the early stages of single life, it was still calling the shots. On my very first night in Amsterdam, I made my way to the red light district. 

Beggars can’t be choosers, yes, but I was paying tonight, and I choose my purchases wisely. I roamed the pink streets long and hard, strolling slowly past hundreds of them, those glorious objects of lust that sat and stared at me, smiling. I liked the red light district for its honesty, its open truths, its unabashed invitation to the core of the war. The street screams the most obvious truths, casually. These women want your money! These men want your pussy! A stripped down, real place where no one has time to pretend. Where the real drive comes out. Far removed from the uptown pretenders, this place is the last stop on the line, where the desperate come and the curious join, merging with the ones that like to do what they’re not supposed to. 

It really is like they say. Absolutely stunning women, incredible creatures, anyone for anyone, anything for any desire, any taste, any god forsaken quirk and kink and fantasy that could possibly be fulfilled in the red night steam. So what did I want? What was I into? Did I want the big tit brunette I always want? Or did I want to try a blonde? Did I want a pretty one, or an overdose of make up and silicone? Did I want something outrageous, or a better version of what I’d already had? I walked around and made mental notes of the ones I liked, tried to remember where they were, kept looking for something better. I made more and more rounds, systematically erasing and adding girls to the list of the Chosen One, the finely tuned heap of flesh that I would subject my last virginity to. I was circling the district like a nervous vulture, getting closer and closer to my carcass. Only a few girls left now, money burning in my pocket, dick already hard under my coat from the excitement, visions of the greatness that I was soon to be parttaking in. There was no way out now, but there is always doubt. On any treshold of new territory, there is always the same question. Will it really happen? Even if I had already made my way down to the district, down my list, cash in hand, eyes wild, dick hard, I was still second-guessing, like a nervous groom walking down the aisle in disbelief, all I had to do was turn off my brain and stop walking when I saw something I liked.

In a swift motion I finally side-stepped into my evergrowing spiral and let it take me to its center, where all the paths point into eachother, to one single focus. She smiled. I’d seen her twice on my rounds. A tall brunette with huge tits, a voluptuous but streamlined build, big eyes, eastern european or russian face bursting with sexuality. She opened the door. “How much?”. “Fifty”. “Okay”. She let me in. Finally on the other side of the glass that I’d stared through all night, I was surprised to end up in a narrow elevator leading us upstairs. A classy joint, nerves set in as I entered the bedroom. A blend of cold rational questions and hot paranoid fear streamed through my head. Does she have condoms? Do I pay up front? Is it safe to leave cash in my pockets with my pants on the floor? Is her pimp hiding in the room? There was some small talk, that I remember none of. We exchanged names, that I know for sure, because I remember worrying about giving her my real name. 

Somehow only my first question needed an answer to ease my mood and forget about the rest. She handed me the condom and watched me put it on. I was standing naked in the room, dead center in the spiral, rubber on hard cock, and she smiled. It seemed almost natural. She took her bra off the way I took my socks off. Casual, just like yesterday, just like tomorrow. There was nothing sexy about it, and I liked it. Her tits were on no pedestal, though they could have been. Her tits were there to do work. Big, real tits that were sloppy enough to look honest but firm enough to look great. “You want blowjob?”. I nodded. She got on the bed, lied down on her stomach and started sucking me off. That was new to me, the girl lying down and me standing. I thought she was being lazy, like the hooker back home. But I had landed a good one this time. She seemed almost enthousiastic in her technique. It felt great, and it looked great. Her pretty face thumping against my crotch, her tits swaying with the motion, her ass within a simple reach. The pros of a pro, she eased me. There was not a worry left in me now. I told her to lie on her back and went straight for my favorite position. Her long legs up on my shoulders, she smiled before I put my dick in her and started fucking her. She was looking at me. I had purposely saved up my cum for this. I’d been having problems having a good orgasm, or one at all, and I didn’t want to get into some situation with a hooker complaining that I was taking too long. I took her legs and started to turn her body. I stopped her halfway through and put both of her legs on my left shoulder. My favorite transition. I saw a glance of surprise in her eyes. She wasn’t used to this position. I started fucking her, and she kept looking at me. This was not the dead eyed hooker I was expecting. She was not lying there like a body being used. She looked great and played along well. What a good hooker I had found. The hunt had paid off. Her tits looked fantastic in this position, she was still looking at me, and I wondered if there was anything about me. She must smile at all her clients. Ofcourse she does. It’s a great technique. But would she really lie there and look into the eyes of even the most disgusting pigs, the fattest, smelliest old drunks that pick her and drive their vileness into her? Have her senses been fucked so much that none of it matters? Can she fake the warmth in her eyes for anyone? And am I different than any of them? The most gruesome pig and myself, we are the same. We both have the same goal, the same intent, the same cowardice and curiosity, the same physical need and moral bankruptcy that guides us into her. Does it matter to her that I’m slightly more kind, slightly more handsome than the one before me, the one after me? Am I a rare occurence? Does it matter? These thoughts and more were at the bottom of my senses, deep down beneath tons of lust, excitement, addiction to filth. They all drowned eachother out, each pulling my waist into hers, humping away at her pussy, much tighter than I would have imagined, her heavy tits rocking with my thrusts, her outlined mascara fixated on me, I was in disbelief when I felt myself starting to cum. All odds were against me. All the trouble I’d had during good sex with good women, I came like a teenage boy in this loose, meaningless pussy. Was that it? Was it the meaningless nature of it all? The fact that I didn’t have to impress, didn’t think about her orgasm, didn’t care about anything but fucking her? Was it the lack of emotional connection? Or was it my imagined connection with her, the big eyes and smiles that fooled me into questioning my meaning to her? Or was it simply because she was a hot piece of meat? A perfectly shaped slab of fuck, getting me off the way she was made to. She wasn’t cute, or even that attractive from an intelligent point of view. Her appearance didn’t lend itsself to a meaningful conversation or an evening stroll on the town. She was built and enhanced to extract semen. It lead itsself into the shaft of my dick and shot out into a hooker-provided rubber. I was taken by surprise, too much to feel anything good, but somewhat pleased that I did at least get there. So mere minutes in, I was done. But I wasn’t done with her. Not yet. Completely bewildered at my newfound ability to cum within a normal timeframe, I did what I would normally do. I kept fucking her. I wanted more of her. I wanted all I could get. I grabbed her big tits, plowed into her, relished in the historical event that was my first real hooker until I had established myself as the King of Vulgarity, the Master of Immorality, the Hooker Champ of the world. I faked an orgasm and pulled out.

She stepped into an open bathroom and showered her parts while I washed my dick in the sink. That was closure. The old whorehouse cliche you hear in the stories was now safely wrapped around the  encounter. I had done it. I had fucked a hot European hooker and washed my dick in the sink.

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2. drunken-soberness reblogged this from postlove and added:

   uncomfortably enjoyable...gets, then follow him.

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