Close Enough

Prologue: His New Addiction

Chapter 1: Money Well Spent

The neighborhood was on the older side—mostly senior citizens who were original owners from the 1970s, or new young couples who had purchased homes in the last ten years after the original owners died or moved on to assisted living. Jasmine pulled into the driveway and briefly surveyed the house. A ranch home that still held little hints of an owner who no longer remained: a dilapidated angel statue, broken and green with moss in the yard; a goose statue that was normally dressed in seasonally appropriate clothes, still wearing a faded Fourth of July smock despite it being September.

Meeting clients—at least the safest and most consistent ones—at their homes instead of a hotel often meant more money in her pocket and less spent on Hiltons. She had started meeting John at his house after only a few sessions. It was quickly apparent that he fell into the sad but harmless category of clients. Some men were tough clients Jasmine wouldn’t see a second time; some just wanted straight sex. But a surprising number were simply desperate for female interaction. They were mostly harmless as long as you kept your wits about you. John wanted even less than her easiest clients.

He didn’t even drink alcohol.

Just cuddling. In Japan they had professional cuddlers for hire. John would thrive in Japan instead of Wisconsin.

One night they split a literal cherry pie from Walmart while watching Star Trek—with Captain Kirk and all.

Jasmine adjusted her pajamas and T-shirt and tightened her ponytail before ringing the doorbell. It must have been a year ago when, in bed, John had held both sides of her face and plainly asked, “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in… uh… like bed clothes? Shorts or something?”

She had never thought to dress differently before that. She used to arrive in full makeup and a bodycon dress—skin-tight but stretchy enough.

John answered the door, and she placed her purse on the couch while her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Luckily, she had been here enough times to navigate despite the single table lamp serving as the only source of light in most of the rooms.

It smelled like an old woman. Many signs of an old woman remained: doilies under crystal angel figurines, stark Serenity Prayer signs lining the walls, candlesticks never lit in candleholders collecting a layer of dust. It was as if she might turn the corner at any moment.

But she wouldn’t.

Jasmine had come to the house the night of the funeral. What son left his mother’s funeral to lie crying in her bed with an escort comforting him?

John did.

She had even spent the night. It was enough to cover a month of expenses.

“Hi, Jasmine! How are you?” John ran his hands through his fading, thinning hairline.

“Oh! I am doing really well, John! Thank you for asking. You always worry about me.” Jasmine patted his shoulder as he beamed. “How are you doing, John?” She stared into his eyes.

“Oh, it’s been a rough week at work. You know… Chris continues to mess up the schedule. Of course Darlene doesn’t care because he’s her favorite. I have this sponsee who went out again. This is… what… the third time? Which I know—I can’t keep him sober. It’s not my responsibility. But I really thought he was locked in this time. I can only show him the tools…”

He continued to ramble and unload about the various stresses of work and AA as they walked toward his bedroom.

“Wow,” Jasmine consoled sweetly. “You have been dealing with a lot.”

She slid off her shoes and lay on the made bed, patting the thin blanket with a firm hand.

Like a high school play Jasmine had rehearsed until she dreamt the lines and cues and beats and quick changes, she moved through these motions and exchanges with the same autopilot efficiency she had every week for the last two years—first in hotels, then here at the house.

She would lie beside him, hold him, be held by him, rub his shoulders, rake her hands through his hair, and offer comforting platitudes.

You did your best. You practically run that place. They should appreciate you. You work so hard.

Sometimes, if he was sadder or more upset than usual, she might gently kiss his cheek or the top of his head.

Jasmine had no reason to believe tonight would be any different as she spooned the older man from behind.

“Jasmine?”

“Yeah, John?”

“Can I ask a question?”

Jasmine chuckled. “You can ask, but I can’t guarantee I’ll answer.” She continued stroking his hair.

“Well… that’s fair. I guess… I want to ask why you do this? Like, you’re really smart and pretty… it seems like you could do anything, really. Like, I don’t know… you don’t do drugs or anything. I see all kinds in AA… you just seem like one who could do something else.”

Jasmine paused and pulled away a few inches as John rolled to face her.

“Well, John,” Jasmine said, her forehead furrowing as she thought of how to delicately answer—or deflect—the question. “I’d say the money doesn’t hurt.” She offered this with a grin, like she was delivering a flirty joke, and pushed him playfully on the shoulder.

But John frowned, suddenly more serious.

“It’s just about money then? Lots of jobs pay well. Why, you could go to school and become a nurse or something. You don’t have to do this.”

He motioned to himself as if he were some horrible burden she endured weekly.

Sure, his hairline was receding and he was middle-aged, but he wasn’t unattractive for his age. Slight and gangly but muscular, like most blue-collar men—leathery skin that had clearly been in the sun too long and too often. But more importantly, he never wanted much from her. Hold him while he cried and complained. An easy night of work.

Yesterday she had given a blow job while the man’s hand held her down so hard she choked and sputtered phlegm all over his lap while he crooned, “Oh, you love it!”

She did not.

John was easy compared to most clients.

She wanted this conversation to turn back to him. She wanted to regain control of the night.

“John, maybe I just love hanging out with you. It’s my calling.” She cradled his face and planted a quick, soft kiss on his cheek.

“Jasmine…”

His tone was pleading now, almost whining, as he stared straight into her eyes.

She didn’t feel like Jasmine the character—the one who made coy little jokes and playful banter. She felt like Jasmine the woman. The plain woman she was when she brushed her teeth and took her shower, before the makeup and hair. Not a personality slipped on to protect herself—an emotional condom that kept a barrier between herself and clients.

She felt raw and vulnerable and utterly herself, just as she was when she was alone.

Shifting onto her back, she looked up at the ceiling.

“Well,” she said quietly, “it started in college.”

She stared at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above them.

“I started with just stripping. I know you won’t believe me, but I started dancing for school. I was in grad school studying human sexuality. My dissertation was supposed to be on sex workers. It’s like a big research paper.”

“I know what a dissertation is… so you were getting a PhD? Or are?”

“Oh. Of course. I did clinical rounds at a free clinic and was collecting interviews. Stripping felt like the easiest way to make money and see the world I was studying from the inside.”

She paused.

“But I was naïve,” Jasmine gave a small, embarrassed laugh. She glanced at him briefly. “Anyway. Now it mostly just pays the bills.”

“I read Masters and Johnson in prison. Kinsey too.”

“Really?” Jasmine couldn’t help the surprised flit in her voice. She was genuinely shocked.

“Yeah. In prison, you have nothing to do but read and work out and wait. Read through the law books first. But then I read all the sex books… a lot of guys do. Unless they go straight to the Bible or Quran. A lot of guys do that too.”

“Wow. I didn’t know you were in prison.”

“I was young and stupid and got caught being young and stupid. I’m not a bad guy.”

“John, if I know one thing, it’s that you aren’t a bad guy.”

“So why did you start… uh…” He motioned toward himself again. “Instead of stripping? More research?”

“Kind of. I thought it would be more like…” She hesitated, chewing at her bottom lip. “More like being a therapist. Like a frontline sex therapist. But that was magical thinking. Stupid to think I'd heal people through escorting and then using all that information to revolutionize the field of research.”

She glanced briefly at John.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I was wrong. And I enjoy my time with you.” She stressed the word you, hoping to move on.

“No… no… not silly. It makes sense. I, uh, I’ve like been there, you know? It didn’t feel like crime at the time. Uh, I dealt drugs, but selling drugs to these guys sweatin’ and, uh, shakin’… they were sick. Dope sick. But sick and hurting. It was like community service. Like a doctor.”

He paused.

“Alcohol was like that for me. I know pain. I medicated my pain… those guys too. But even, um…”

John rolled onto his back so they were both staring up at the ceiling from the bed, side by side. Jasmine’s hand barely grazed his. She could feel the heat from his hand, but not his hand.

“Even breaking and entering… stealing… robbing people… it was like Robin Hood stuff at the time. Even the aggravated assault—self-defense. Justice. I don’t know. Maybe all the things we do make sense at the time. At least you were in school. You have an education. I was just running around.”

“John, can I ask you a question?”

John chuckled and, in a poor imitation of Jasmine, replied, “You can ask, but I can’t guarantee I’ll answer.”

An awkward, barky laugh escaped Jasmine.

“Okay! Okay! I deserve that!” Jasmine felt the gentle breeze from the ceiling fan overhead as they both watched the shadows flit around the room. “What was prison like?”

“Well…” John stiffened and shifted his weight to the side, putting a hand under his chin and propping up his head to stare down at her face. “Well, from my research… many years of research. On and off. It’s loud. Very loud. Men yelling all the time. Sometimes just yells and nonsense.”

Jasmine closed her eyes and listened. She could hear the hundreds of men. Sentences. Screams. Hoots. Hollers. Whoops. The clang of metal and the pounding of hundreds of feet.

“It was bright. So bright. Big, uh, buzzy tube lights. Constant light. Even at night. There really isn’t, um, lights out like in the movies… there’s always lights. I can’t stand them now. Now it’s so quiet with Ma dead that the voice in my head—like that inner voice—it’s hard to ignore.”

Jasmine continued to imagine the deafening noise, the bright lights illuminating every surface, stealing any privacy, any sanctity, any peace a man might want.

She rolled onto her side, facing John and propping her head on her hand in a mirrored position.

“Jasmine…” John hesitated. “I understand why you started. Why do you still do this?” He motioned again toward himself. “You could just be like a professor or something.”

Jasmine sighed.

“There are a lot of people with PhDs,” she said. “A lot with PhDs in human sexuality. People with more publications, more conferences, more connections.”

She rubbed her forehead.

“I wasn’t even near the top of my cohort. I burned out. Thought I’d take a break and come back later.”

Despite wishing to reel the conversation back to a safe script like all the other nights, Jasmine continued to talk and share.

“But later never came. The debt did, though. I owe about the price of a house in student loans, and no one is hiring a master’s in sex except sex toy shops and strip clubs.”

Jasmine blew out a long breath.

“God, sorry. That’s a lot. Let’s get back to you. Why do you… do this?” She motioned at herself with a wink and a grin. “Because I’m so pretty?”

“Well, before prison and sobriety, I did alright with the ladies. But I always needed a drink to relax. Without it I just, uh… how to put it? Freeze. But I had Ma too. I don’t know how anymore. How to just talk to women.”

He paused.

“But, uh, I had some… like buying photos or videos. But I just… I wanted a real girl. At least—” he paused and peered at her intently, “as close to a real girl as I can get.”

Jasmine smiled, the skin around her eyes wrinkling slightly. She lightly pushed him with an exasperated laugh.

“John! I am a real girl!”

“I know. A professional real girl.” He said real girl like it was a code word. “That’s why I do this. It’s close.”

He motioned a hand between them.

Swallowing, John lowered his voice until he was almost whispering.

“Can I ask you another question, Jasmine?”

Jasmine trailed off gently. “You can… but… you know… no guarantees on that answer.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Jasmine blinked, her face softening at the shy, bashful way he asked. A redness rose from his neck up to his cheeks.

“No… but what if I kiss you, John?”

“What’s the difference?”

“This.”

She leaned toward him, their lips barely grazing in a dry kiss before parting.

Glancing back into his eyes, she felt emboldened. She held his jaw with her hand and leaned in again, slipping a quick, darting tongue between his lips.

He was still and frozen, so she moved his hands to her waist.

“Touch me, John. You can touch me. It’s okay.”

She felt his body release a shade of tension and melt toward her. His grip on her hip tightened, moving, stroking.

Her hands gripped his head by his hair as he pulled away and stilled.

“Jasmine… is this okay?” He seemed to need her unconditional, fervent permission to continue.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

She briefly rolled her eyes and pressed her thigh between his legs, rocking her body flush with his.

“Yes, John. I want this.” She motioned toward him, then toward herself. “Do you want this?”

“I didn’t pay for… this. I paid for the other stuff.”

“Okay, John… then maybe you earned it. Maybe after two years it’s not just what’s on the menu and paid for. It’s just… John and Jasmine.”

John scoffed. “That’s not even your real name.”

“John… Jasmine is my real name. Jasmine Kopernick. I am a real fucking girl. Really here. Right now. Wanting this. Are you real? Can you be real with me too?”

John nodded into her shoulder. “Yeah. I can be real.”

“Good.”

“Jasmine?” He paused.

“Yeah, John?” she said softly.

“You weren’t wrong or naïve. You are like a therapist. At least for me.”

She kissed his cheek. Maybe she was more for him, but she wasn’t to any other client.  Jasmine shook off the comment and decided to ignore it, push it away like she usually did with things clients said. Let it hang there until the moment passed. It didn’t have to mean something to her.

 “John, I’m going to take your shirt off now.”

She pulled the cotton over his head and tossed it somewhere toward the floor.

The ceiling fan hummed softly above them, pushing warm air through the dim room. The blades sent slow shadows across the walls, over the framed Serenity Prayers and the crystal angels watching from the dresser.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

John looked at her like he was trying to memorize her face.

Jasmine felt the strange, uncomfortable sensation of being seen without the costume—no stage lights, no lines to remember, no part to play.

Just a man and a woman lying in a quiet house that still smelled faintly of someone who used to live there.

John reached out and touched her arm, tentative at first, like he expected her to disappear.

But she didn’t.

Outside, somewhere down the block, a dog barked once and then the neighborhood went still again.

Jasmine leaned down and kissed him.

This time neither of them asked permission.

Parasocial Paramour.

"Life is made up of desires that seem big and vital one minute, and little and absurd the next. I guess we get what's best for us in the end."

 — Alice Caldwell Rice

"Approach/Avoidance is psychology-speak for repeatedly seeking something out and then running away right before you get it, and it’s a common pattern of behavior around power exchange and kink in general."

— The Dominance Playbook, Anton Fulmer

Over the past five years, I've cycled through crushes which, at least for me and my emotional and mental investment, bordered on much more than just a silly schoolgirl crush. I would pour the cement foundation for a house I couldn't yet afford. I was ready to build a life with them all. Why not? If not for this pesky little marriage I found myself in, we could be together. They were what I wanted!

Through these one-way-road relationships, I would push up to the line of plausible deniability. If I was ever called out, I could claim it was just friendship. But assuredly, I tell you, I flirted openly on the Internet, relying on the safety of multiple state lines to protect me—miles and miles of space between us. I could blame all kinds of external forces for why I wasn't happy. It was all these external things holding me back. Distance. Marriage. Husbands. Boyfriends. Timing. Money.

And over the past few months, these crushes fell away. Fell to the sidelines. Fell apart. They seemed fucking stupid. I didn't love them. Actually, I wasn't even sure how much I really liked them. I liked the idea of being close to the edge but never crossing it.

You know, no one is actually stopping me from cheating but myself. No one is stopping me from leaving my husband for any one of these women but myself. At some point, surely, I was bound to look at myself. Hi! It's me! I'm the problem! It's me.

But is it really a problem? Am I actually a problem?

When I was very young, being the only child of a single mom in the '90s, I was allowed to free roam. Until fourth grade, the only rule was that I be home before dark and never go past where the sidewalk ended (just like the Shel Silverstein poem, you know?).

I remember walking to the end of the sidewalk, looking over my shoulder toward our apartment door, and hovering a single foot over the lush, manicured apartment grass. I touched the tip of my shoe down for barely a second, then lifted it up again. When my mother, through maternal psychic discipline, didn't immediately appear at the door to scold me, I planted one whole foot.

I continued to look back at the door. Nothing.

I made a choice then—to test the limits. If Mom came out, I would lie. I would say that I fell off the sidewalk into the grass.

I planted the second foot.

I was past where the sidewalk ended. I was out of bounds.

For five or ten wild seconds before I returned to the safe cement.

Now, almost forty years old, I realize no one would have stopped me. I could have run in that field. I could have run away. I could have run to Mexico.

But I didn't.

In hindsight, my mother trusted me. I knew it. This allowed me unsupervised freedom. It I was type to bolt, I would have played in a locked house.

Still, I felt wild and ungovernable and bad to the bone from those few seconds.

And I have lived my life like that ever since.

Doing what I have been told to do, but just up against the line. Toes over the line. Testing the hold of the rules. Thinking that I am like a prisoner shifting in handcuffs to see if the latch is really holding, secretly hoping there was a weak point.

But in reality, I am like a child who squirms and protests a hug to test the hold of love. Secretly grateful when the grip tightens.

My love to obey. Flirt with the line. Touch the line. Toe over the line.

But never run.

I read a short story about a man who liked to be tied up for sex. He pulled and tested his constraints to enhance the sensation of being bound. He wanted sex with men, but he didn't want to want it. Being bound freed him to enjoy sex because it freed him from the responsibility of it all. Accountability. Choice. Gone. No longer his. So he could relax into it with the notion that he couldn't run away even if he tried. Blame the ropes.

But ultimately, he was paying a male dom to tie him up and stroke him, so at what point did he start thinking he wasn't laying down the tracks toward his destination?

Deep denial.

The illusion of being trapped and stuck.

At what point do I admit what I want and quit acting like external factors hold me back? Nothing holds me back but myself. I am choosing this.

Years and years telling myself I am trapped, I am stuck, as if I didn't build this world brick by brick. Touching the wall I constructed myself. Labored to make. Ah! If only there wasn't this beautiful fence I commissioned.and paid for myself!

And it wasn't sudden—my seemingly sudden disinterest in these parasocial paramours. But when I finally realized I wasn't stopped by any tangible constraint but my own. Patterns built up evidence.

I probably only ever touched a toe to the grass because I wanted to know I could.

But I returned to the sidewalk because I didn't want to.

It wasn't fear.

It was love.

Even if there is a little fear. 

My want to stay is stronger than my want to run.

My desire to see it through is stronger than my desire for something new.

Fuck, I don't know if that's maturity.

Or fulfillment.

But it's something to think about.

Angel Tits

Don’t be delicious. Don’t be pretty.

Don’t writhe like a happy worm in spring soil,

and I won’t slink like a snake along your nape.

Dopamine Danger

Will you loan me your own lone moan,

for mine was snipped short from the start?

The right thing isn’t always right.

Too long I’ve tried to be good, and

it isn’t good. Weeks chasing dopamine,

and I don’t want to be chemically castrated.

Emotionally, inevitably, there’s a drop.

Drip-drop down, down, down—downtown.

I need you. Need to live vicariously

in you for a while. Hold me safe,

secure, until the light beacons at the end

and I can begin on my own again?

Mental Skin Tag

    I never had skin tags before. But now I have one too prominent to ignore, and two smaller friends beginning to form on my neck. Google tells me it’s likely due to friction—clothing and jewelry rubbing against the skin. I look at my jewelry box and closet with horror and suspicion. Or maybe it’s aging. Or genetics.

    I am older. I remember my mother having a few around her neck—one of those things I egotistically assumed would never happen to me. Like dry skin on the bottoms of your feet. Or flabby arms.

    But alas, like everything else I believed about my future as a child, I was wrong. Now there is a skin tag big enough to freeze off. I have the kit. I’ve read the instructions. I just haven’t yet. But it does need to go, even if its two little friends will grow and replace it in no time.

    It’s like how, for years—years on years on years, folded on top of more years—I haven’t really been plagued with many new thoughts. Sure, I’ve had new issues. Grappled with feelings. Made goals. Worked. Succeeded. Failed. All that. But thoughts? Recurring new thoughts that linger, rubbing, pressing into my brain? No. Not in years.

    Yes, I’ve had those tired, old thoughts that pop into my head. The negative ones programmed in childhood, surfacing at the worst moments. That I’m unlovable. That I ruin everything. But these aren’t new thoughts. They fade into the noise of my brain and my life—like crumbs on the counter, brushed into the trash. Until panic strikes and another preprogrammed thought appears.

    But now this is a new thought. I wake at 3 a.m. with a new thought, a new fear, rubbing on my brain—the kind of friction that could cause a mental skin tag in just a week.

I haven’t made out with someone in over a decade.

I don’t know when I will again.

Possibly never.

    Silly. I want to tell myself this is silly. Childish—to care about something like this. To cry about something so stupid at 3 a.m., quietly, of course, in bed. It’s probably the same thing men during the Depression thought about steaks. Or women in WWII missing silk stockings—after so long, unsure if they’d ever have them again. For some of them, it probably was never again. But most lived to see steak and stockings again and those thoughts ended. I might live that long too. I have faith I could be one of the lucky few.

    If it even is lucky. WWII alleviated the Depression. The Atomic Bomb ended WWII. We humans often trade one pain for another. A new problem hidden in solution-wrapping paper, soon discarded, leaving only what’s inside. Then I rationalize: if I had some passionate tryst, what new struggles would it unlock? Like Pandora’s box, some things are best left unknown. Perhaps I am lucky to be without. Perhaps people in the past told themselves that too.

    I chuckle through my tears as I hold a pillow tighter to my chest. Imagine my ego, my conceit, to compare a tongue uncaressed to starvation and war. Perhaps women drawing lines on their legs laughed too. Perhaps they reminded themselves that others had endured far worse than bare legs and no steak.

    Are we only human? Wanting what we don’t have, then reminding ourselves of what we do. Leaning on progress like a crutch. I have it better than anyone in the past; therefore, it must be enough. I am wrong to want more. Always more. More. More. But isn’t the wanting of more how we progress? 

    A skin tag just mean I am older, wiser, connected to my mother. My neck is bathed in a wealth of 24k gold and Bandolino shirts. Isn't desire beyond my sufficiency just indulgent? 

Behind all my rationalization: Still, this new thought—my new thought—unwanted, unnerving, unwelcome—enters my mind:

I haven’t made out with someone in over a decade.

I don’t know when I will again.

Possibly never.

    I’m unsure how to address it other than to wait for the mental skin tag to grow large enough to freeze off. Wait for another to grow in its place. Maybe, with time, it won’t be so prominent. Maybe it will become like crumbs on the counter—a thought easily discarded. Not a thought like a favorite necklace or shirt, rubbing a skin tag on to my neck.

...............................................👍

 

When you finally reach out to me, I won't know how to respond. Whatever safe, palatable, plain, polite response I offer up… know what I meant to say was:

For years, I have needed you to see me as a calm, cool, mature, stable force. A beacon that can lead you. Provide you the assurance, security, and reliability you lack in your life. Be steadfast for you. Be, for you, what I am not. Not really. Not right now. Not in my real life, where I am told what to do, what to be, in small, safe boxes made of concrete.

But perhaps more than that, when the façade cracks, the mask slips, and you finally respond to a peek at the real me, I might realize I need you to see me as I really am: messy, disgusting, gross, sloppy, sick, chaotic. I want you to see the want that lingers under the things I've done and said—my wants greater than my needs.

Wants that scare me. Bruise my ego, strike fear in my heart, threaten my very being. Wants that paint me as degenerate, despicable, monstrous, horrific. My want of you. Want of so much.

I want you to spit in my mouth and claim me.

Take you to the restaurant you've only driven past. Order for you because I don't want your head distracted with even one decision. No concerns about what is too expensive to order—just thoughts of me and what I choose for you. Clean the plate like a good girl because I paid for each bite.

During a trip to the bathroom, slip your panties off and into my pocket for a keepsake. My darling, you can't comprehend how I will treasure this gift. I pat-pat my pocket.

Don't be scared off by what I want. Want it too.

I want you. I want to possess you. Be possessed by you.

There's a freckle on your shoulder I want to name Steve. Long, winding conversations with Steve. All-night convos. My best friend Steve. See him? Right there on your shoulder?

Constellations, cosmos, written and stippled on your skin. Too many unnamed, unknown, unloved freckles and moles. Nebulas to navigate. Star charts to map. New territories to discover. Own. I wish to name and know them all.

My ear pressed to your chest, listening for a heartbeat, making sure you are still alive, real, here, with me. What would I do if it wasn't beating? Wasn't real?

I want you to touch yourself when you think of me. Even if I am not me—just a disembodied voice from your phone or words spreading black on a white screen. Just like that, honey. So good. Just for me—however you might take me.

I want to feed you chocolates. Open your mouth. You are my little baby now. I feed you. Wipe your mouth. So sweet. So good. So precious.

Just when I think I want too much from you—more than you can give—just when I am scared you will run—you'll cry out, “More! More! Take more! I can give more!”

When you are frustrated with me, I will crawl on hands and knees, massage and kiss your toes, playfully hold your foot to my ear like a phone, and ask, “Is Caroline still grounded, or can she come out and play?” And know you will laugh. Hold my cheek. Say all is forgiven, my love. Will your forgiveness really be easy? Just like that?

I want to go to clubs, watch you dance and grind on men, turn them on until they think you'll go home with them, then return to me, patient at a table against the wall. I want you to always return to me, sweetheart. Will you?

Please, tell me all the things you need and want from me. Those deep, dark desires you've never said aloud. Speak clearly. Use your big girl words in your big girl voice as you tell me what to do and say for you. It's all for you. You know I won't shy away. I will do anything. Just ask.

And me.

Be as intense as me. Enjoy this.

Melt into me and let me melt into you.

Will you like me when I feel pathetic and lost and need guidance?

Will you guide me gently with your palms?

And will you like when I am confident and strong, when I pull you to my attention?

All of it. Will you want all of me?

I want you to:

Like me. Crave me. Want me. Need me. Savor me. Appreciate me.

So you see, I need a lot. But I want even more than I can write—too much. I want too much from you. Don't I, sweet girl? I know it.

So I won't say any of this. Instead, I'll pop out a nice, polite response when you finally reach out and give a stupid fucking thumbs-up emoji… what else could I even say?

I could never say what I really think.

Sympathy for the Devil

Lately, I have spent too much time thinking about paying women for intimacy.

Like I could, unironically, join an incel group.

Like I may actually be the only female victim of the male loneliness epidemic.

Like this is a slippery slope you couldn't see coming.

Only two or three years ago, I fantasized about what felt like a reasonable, attainable future.

At first, it was women I knew. I imagined that after years of easy acquaintance, we might awaken to sweet, passionate, romantic feelings. But always there was the creeping fear—because I know this path. It only leads to losing a friend and never gaining a lover.

Eventually, my thoughts smoldered down to something smaller: the idea that maybe, someday, in some far-off future, I might find a woman, a stranger, who liked me as much as I liked her.

That it would click—comfortably. Easily.

But that feels increasingly unlikely. How many rejections would I face until that mythic, unicorn woman appeared?

And now I find myself turning over thoughts of how to simply hire someone.

God, it would make everything so much easier!

Like hiring a masseuse, or a personal trainer, or a private chef.

The cleanness of the transaction. I’m so fucked in the head.

The waitress always takes your order. The maid always cleans your kitchen.

Easy. Comfortable. It clicks. That’s what I want.

It’s professional. It’s simple.

After all, haven’t I always preferred the easy, simple way—something that stays neatly within professional boundaries? Predictable professionalism.

Yes, a best friend will defend you. But a lawyer will also fight your case as long as the retainer is paid.

Probably even better than a friend would. Without hesitation.

With no chance of a “no.” 

No no's. A world without no's. I've longed for that for a long time.

I’m slipping into logic—such logical logic that it’s frightening.

Ideas like paying someone to never say no. 

Logic like fearing rejection so much that I might ignore a no.

It's terri-fucking-fying to sympathize with men this much.

But also, take a few moments, think about how much it would take per hour, for you to let me hold you. 

Brush your hair. Maybe make out. Sleep next to me in bed. How much per "I love you," slipping out of your mouth? I'm just taking estimates right now. 

No pressure.

How much would it cost for you to not say no to this?

Just something to think about.