Beautiful little Rich Girl

She was born rich, beautiful too, and twenty was all she was.
She needed no man to secure her, she had no cellulite, she didn't want to be Madonna. Just herself.
She didn't even follow her own horoscope. Much.
She liked to fuck a man once and walk away. Once was enough.
She didn't even lie. Very much. And certainly not for the usual reasons.
And if she had a best friend, she would fuck her friend's husband.

Being a Happy Slut

She was spoilt, beautiful and very young—and she was trying to explain her sexual needs and philosophy. Honestly.
When it came to herself and men—to put matters at their pure and simple best—all she wanted was casually and regularly to engage in sex with as many men as appealed to her. She enjoyed being simply and uncomplicatedly promiscuous.
Admittedly, she was a slut, if a slut was:
(a) a woman deemed to be promiscuous,
(b) a woman who regularly engaged in casual sex,
(c) a sexually promiscuous woman,
(d) a woman who has sexual relationships with a lot of men,
or even,
(e) a fornicatress.
In terms of any of these dictionary meanings she was a slut, pure and simple. And she was prepared to cut all the bullshit that came in between. All the lying and justifying and euphemizing.
Being a slut for her was simply being true to herself.
And above all, you needed to be true to yourself—truly. Didn't you?
She wanted to know.
He said that sluts were among his favorite women.

Faking (2)

According to him, a very wealthy inheritance man, his wife had always performed sex. And even the performance deteriorated.
Come to think of it, he said, in retrospect—and as things cooled down—she got to sound less and less convincing. And more and more like a big dog after a long, hard run.

Should he tell her?

It's like, it's like...Nature abhors permanency.
There, 'zactly what it is!
He wanted to know, Should he tell her?
Give her the old bottom line? Would this help?
Suppose he gave her the old bottom line...Told her the truth, that, know what, he could never be permanently faithful. Nature abhors permanency, but, know what, don't worry...
Like right after their Honolulu trip he felt totally fucked out with her. And who wouldn't be, considering how much they'd done! But the cute Japanese air hostess in first class appealed to him, with her cute, round, tight ass as she bent over and stretched forward to pour coffee. Damn...!
Should he have told her? Told her, tell her, Be okay, don't worry. He'd never actually have taken off with the cute Jap hostess—or anybody else, see—only fucked this anybody else. Which is not the same thing. Come right back home to her and the kids. Kisses goodnight and pats on the head for everybody.
And flowers for her too because he'd fucked somebody else.
He and she, his wife, would still be together forever. But, also see, he needed to fuck other babes too. Had this need.
Jeez, the man in him can't help it. Can't be helped, how it is.
See, suits are like women are like suits. No matter how elegant, how in fashion, how beautiful, any one suit always ended up boring a man--especially a man who loved suits. Why he has thirty two.
Nature abhors permanency...
In three little words. Nature...
Blame nature, don't blame him. Not his fault. Not hers either.
In three words.
Interesting question is, should he have told her? Should he tell her? Will this help? End the fucking nagging?

How it feels for a woman—by a man

Having posted a knowledgeable and experienced Las Vegas casino hooker's ideas on what the average woman feels about sex (How it felt for a woman, 14 January, 2008), here are the thoughts of a male—a male knowledgeable, experienced. And a heavy consumer of sex.
S speaks to men--and puts, or tries to put, himself in the female mind:

Men with little sexual experience often have a hard time (imagining this)...Imagine yourself at a time when you were a young man without an appropriate outlet. You certainly were susceptible to sexual stimulation.
Now imagine that at that stage of you life, you were approached by a toothless grandmother of 60 plus, who tried to get you into bed with her.
You decline? Why? Because the whole thing just isn't right, and you are not aroused.
Now, to the best of my knowledge, that's about how women feel most of the time when they are approached by a man. It's not that they wouldn't be sexually excitable. It's just that they are not excitable as randomly as men.

S also says that the secret to abundant sex in a man's life is location, location, location. And location. You can find S at asiatours.com.

How it felt for a woman

A Las Vegas hooker catering to the casino's high rollers was telling him about what women felt about sex. Apparently she liked and trusted him enough to share this.
Sexually speaking, P told him, a woman generally and permanently felt like a man who has just had an orgasm. Near as P could make out, okay? With all her experience and knowledge, that was pretty close to what a woman felt. And she was pretty knowledgeable, and experienced, wouldn't he agree?
So, as a man who had just had an orgasm, did he feel like sex any time soon? No, she wanted the truth, okay? He felt a little flat, right? Right. Needed lots of tender foreplay to get him up again, wouldn't he agree? And time, time too. Exceptions to the ordinary existed, of course, P said. But that's what it was generally like, being a woman. You feel a little flat, sexually speaking—all the time.
Thinking about how he felt, after his orgasm, how flat flat was, he found the concept unappealing. It was going to take much tender foreplay to get him up again, even more than what was usually the case. In fact, he felt like going to dinner instead.

Spoilt, lazy daughters

But of course, said the successfully married—and now rich and powerful—mother: Her darling, lazy, spoilt daughters haven't had to bother.
She'd done so well for everyone. Too well. Nailing their rich and powerful father when it mattered. Panting for him when she had to, men were so easily fooled. Men like their rich and powerful father easiest of all. They liked to hear a girl pant, the harder the better.
And getting pregnant clinched everything, of course.

Avoiding involvememt

He was disclosing how he planned to avoid 'involvement' with somebody very attractive he had just met. And who also scared the hell out of him.
He started by misquoting Machiavelli: 'A man who mistrusts his emotions is more than half saved...'
But...here was the plan...
Look, he knew a very beautiful hooker. Call girl, in fact. He would call this exclusive call girl... (How 'exclusive' is a call girl?) Ask her to call on him tomorrow.
She was very expensive—as expensive as she was exclusive—but cost effective at the price. (Is 'exclusivity' price-related?)
Anycase, an envelope discreetly placed in her Chanel bag was all that was called for. She did not lock her Chanel bag, she was that discreet.
No jealousies either—except about other call girls. And this was just business jealousy. Also, no insecurities about him. No politics, no serious manipulation of him.
Apparently they never fought, she brought all her own toys, had seemingly easy orgasms by the ton in multiples of three. Good for her, he said. Implying, If she did I'm glad...but I'm not that naive.
She even had a kind of orgasm giving him head. As he said this, his face screwed in disbelief.
Heck, they even talked, the two of them, he said.
Sometimes she'd crack a couple of eggs for the two of them, fry bacon. He had to remind himself, sometimes, she was a hooker. A beautiful hooker, strictly on business, frying bacon and eggs.
So that was the plan, and what did I think?
I tried to sound hopeful. But obviously not hopeful enough because he began all over again.

The Boss, his daughter, and J

J was in complaining mood.
He'd been wondering why the Boss had been so good to him. And now he was convinced that he'd found out why, after all.
The Boss wanted to marry off his little girl, trade her for his, J's, little place in the House. A place at the high table in The Wall Street House the Boss had built.
Apparently, the Boss was about as subtle as a House pre-dawn takeover bid.
But what's the complaint?
What has ever changed?
The rich bazaar merchant, his marriageable daughter on the shelf, her prospective husband—and the husband's dowry?
How to move otherwise unwanted merchandise by making a special offer of a discount daughter with House coupons attached.
Has it ever changed? The rich man, his daughter, her fiancee, the finances, some finessing.
Maybe J should have been glad he was worth finessing, but he wasn't in the mood to hear it.
Or so he said.
Probably he wasn't complaining after all. More like boasting.

Sexy implants

Bumping into a cocktail waitress who worked the casino floor, he saw her look down to her breasts.
Again, she looked.
Then, God, it dawned! Her implants had been done! They were bigger, more rounded, closer together—more sexy than they had ever been.
But, see, the irony had obviously escaped her.
Her implants had been done to make her more sexy. A point reinforced even as he examined them while she balanced her drinks tray, and allowed his inspection to pass. Here she was, faking a so-called erogenous zone through having wasted and destroyed under the surgeon's knife whatever feeling she'd ever had there. This 'erogenous zone' now comprised two unfeeling implants!
Not only had a basic numbness resided between her legs, but now also did it reside in her fake breasts!
And no doubt should some unwitting male ever fondle either sexy looking implant, she would fake some kind of ecstasy!
'Beautiful, really beautiful,' he faked.
And, pleased, she swept away.

How she finished with her virginity

"Lie on your back. Take your pants down. Keep your legs together."
Aha, at least this one was functional. Hard, very functional. Hooooray!
So he was easy, very easy to mount—to cap. Especially when wet.
"And now I'm going to fuck the come out of you."
''I jest...
''Shut up. And keep your legs together."
''Cain't I...''
"I said, Shut up!"
She topped, capped and trapped him. Draped and covered him in silky, wet velvet.
And proceeded to fuck the come out of him.
Which took no time at all.
She felt the wet, but hardly any emotion. And she got very little from it, except this: She'd finished with something troubling her, pestering her—her virginity.
Felt like, Good...she'd done it. Dunnit!
Surpisingly, we all believed her.
She was telling us how she lost her virginity. Weird story, but we all believed everything she said. And the guy was a biker!