Call me uptight

I am a prude.

There, I said it. After finally getting off the roller-coaster ride through hell that was my last relationship, I decided that what I really needed was a boy hooker. Sex with the ex had sucked, and I was emotionally wrung out from the myriad psychotic mindfucks he'd put me through. I didn't want an amateur who might want to get to know me, nor some friend who already did. I wanted a pro—someone who'd come in, get the job done, and split. I think it was Frank Sinatra who said (re: hookers), "I don't pay them to fuck me, I pay them to leave when they're done." That sounded just fine to me.

After I expressed frustration at the dearth of such professionals, a helpful reader wrote in suggesting I investigate the swinger scene as a possible remedy. I half-heartedly looked into it and quickly decided that swinging was not for me. Perhaps it is a testament to my generally misanthropic nature, but there are few enough people that I deign to speak with, let alone get naked with. My friends are a good-looking bunch, yet I have absolutely no urge to orgy with them— so why would I want to with strangers at a club?

That's not to say I've never had sex in public before—when you're the teenage daughter of a coupla rabid Catholics, you have to be inventive and not too terribly shy about where you're gonna get it on. But the main turn-on then was the ever-present fear of getting caught. What fun is it if you have permission? Call me uptight, but the thought of having some guy's dick in my mouth while a couple who look like my parents are sweating to the oldies in the next bed doesn't exactly make me dizzy with excitement. However, if my mail of the last week is any indication, I am in the minority.

It has been made extremely clear to me that the Swingers o' Seattle are a very well-organized and vocal group. Much to my surprise, they also seem fairly humorless—especially when you consider how often the terms "play" and "games" come up in their vocabulary. Boy, did they get pissed off at me! Here's a small sampling of what they had to say:

"Your smug dismissal reeks of cowardice. It's much easier to just TALK about sex than it is to get out there and find out what it's really all about."

"You're entitled to your opinions, of course, but they are as far from reality as that of most people who know nothing but secondhand information about swinging."

"Either you are yourself someone who would be one of the first out of your clothes and most people would rather not see, or more than likely, you are just too interested in yourself to give a damn about anyone else."

"If you are revolted by the thought of accidentally viewing ugly people making love, you probably wouldn't want to attend."

Yikes! And there's a lot more where that came from! Now let's get something straight: I have no problem with people having sex wherever and with whomever they want. You want to do the nasty surrounded by a hundred other rutting couples, good on ya! You want to be strapped to a wheel and urinated on by seven men dressed as priests, yay for you! Please, have a good time. I didn't mean to imply that there was anything wrong with swinging. It's just not for me. All I wanted was a goddamn hooker!

Then I was presented with an opportunity for strings-free sex with someone who is just about as close to a pro as I've ever met. My friend Chloe and I were hanging out, bemoaning the state of our unmet hormonal urges, when a tall, dark, and handsome acquaintance barged his way into our conversation. "There is nothing I like more than pleasing a woman," he assured us. We laughed in his face. "And I have a huge dick," he added. We looked down at a pair of pants that would've made Greg Brady proud and snorted derisively. Yeah, right! Then he took out the monster. I swear to god it was like two beer cans, one on top of the other, and growing larger and harder by the second!

"Put that thing away!" I shrieked.

"Put it over here," Chloe purred, stroking it like it was a small animal. "Touch it," she urged. I jabbed it with my index finger and fled.

The moral of this story: Be careful what you ask for. Me, I'm taking the hooker fund and investing it in a good shrink so I can hopefully put an end to my habit of dating only the criminally insane. It just seems like a more worthwhile investment.

Dating difficulties? Ask the expert. Write dategirl@seattleweekly.com or Dategirl, c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste 300, Seattle, WA 98104.

 
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