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I’m contemplating if I’m allowed to say it, if it'd be professional to share, but it feels wrong to never give back any of the vulnerability that my lovers give me. So after he thanked me, and told me how much of a nice time he had, with very little talking in our three hour journey, I tell him I was nervous for this night: my first longer booking, in a private spa, with someone I’ve never met before.
I never doubted whether he’d be a nice person, the clear message of what he was looking for and the respect he approached me with gave me all the reasons to trust him. But still, I'm quite new to this, and every first is an exciting new experience.
My nervousness was unnecessary, I know that now.

He stands in front of the door, wobbling on his legs, looking around. When he sees me, he smiles. I give him a hug and tell him it’s my first time here. It’s a nice place, he says reassuring. I ask him if he’s ever been at the dingy day hotel near the station. It’s as much of a liminal space it can be, but I do think there’s a charm to it. He laughs that this will have its own charm. We enter the private sauna. The space is long and rectangular, and upon entering there's a bed, a table, a lounge and three different spa’s. Outside there’s an ice bucket (which you will never see me touch) and a jacuzzi with busy lights. The owner starts his talk, shows us the amenities and goes to the back to turn on the jacuzzi. We’re still inside, waiting, anticipating for the moment he closes the door, and leaves us to it. Seconds last forever, and I try to breathe slowly, not to be too impatient, and then he finally leaves.

I ask him if he has a plan, which warm space he wants to visit first, and he pushes me softly onto the bed.
This is where we are for more than two hours. Most of our time we spend in between the soft sheets, but there’s some kissing and touching in the jacuzzi, a little bit of talking in the Finnish sauna and more feeling each other up in the shower. The shower works with a button you have to push every 30 seconds. It’s hilariously inconvenient. Every once in a while one of hands tries to find the button, trying to still focus on the other things we’re giving our attention to. 
The long seconds of before turn into fleeting hours, and before I know, time’s up.

During the few words we exchanged surrounded by the dry heat, we were laughing with the absurdity of reviewing a professional companion, based on what we would measure an experience like this. But I've I could review him, and I wish I could, I'd give him five stars. 

Thank you, J.

To deposit or not to deposit


Before I put my ads online, I had been playing with the idea for a while. I love meeting new people, I love sex, and I love working. But I had no idea how. A friend introduced me to R., and during our talk she told me she sometimes worked as an escort. I didn’t dare to ask too much, it’s a bold subject for a first meeting, so I stuck to pleasantries. But I couldn’t forget it. A few weeks later I’m at a residence at a communal art space, and I ran into R., sitting on a sofa in the dining room, eating a kebab and being as gorgeous as always. I took it as a sign. I quietly asked her aside, shy and awkward, and all the words rolled over my tongue, containing one vital question: how on earth do you start this? She was, and still is, so generous with all the information she accumulated herself through the years. She sent me her profile, the websites, how she works, what it is about for her and why she does it. She told me I had to blur my face and tattoo on every picture, and to work with a deposit. She had been stood up a few times, and, more importantly, she noticed that people who paid the deposit without hesitance were the best and most generous lovers.

I took almost all her advice. But the one time I got scammed was because I didn’t follow her guidelines to a T. I learned my lesson, and during this wonderful trip it has already been, I learned to trust my gut enough to stand my ground.

It’s in my ads, it’s on my website, it’s in one of the first messages I’ll send you: I won’t block our date in my agenda until the deposit through Throne is paid. Not everyone is as active and clear in their desires as the men I've met until now. Some stay rather passive, stop responding or cancel last minute. When you pay the deposit, I know you're the type of man who knows what he wants and understands my needs, and that's one of my biggest turn-ons with lovers. I understand I’m not the only one who got scammed, but I put so much time in this blog, my profile and my website to give you the best idea of who I am and how I like to do this, so that I won’t waste any energy negotiating my boundaries. I can't stress enough how big of a lack of trust I have in someone who won't accept my terms. If you don’t want to proceed this way, for whatever reason, power to you, but then I'm not your girl, and I'm okay with that. 


I need to know you want to spend time with me, and honour my wishes. That way I can completely let go when we’re together, and I can fully honour yours. I want to be able to take a long shower, do my hair and make up without worrying if you’re going to be at the place we agreed on. To put some music on and happily look forward to what we’ve planned. I have my rituals, and I hold them in high regard. I do all I have to do to be the best version of myself when I’m with you. So, please. Don’t waste our time, because we could spend it under much better circumstances <3 

Not why, but how

Last weekend, I had an impromptu date. He sent me such a clear message with everything he was looking for, for how long, and emphasized the words kink and consent. I had a long day, and I was really considering asking for a reschedule, but I found his way of communicating endearing. And frankly, his description of what he wanted really turned me on. Two hours later I’m in front of his door in black trousers, a black sweater and underneath a full body stocking with an open crotch. Kink and consent.
At the end of our date I’m lying in his arms on the couch, our bodies sweating, the endorphins slowly drifting off. We talk a bit about what we liked, how good it felt. And then he asks me, “Why do you enjoy being humiliated? You would never want to be humiliated like this in your daily life, so why do you like it during sex?” It’s true and it’s a question worth asking. Why did I enjoy the role play so much, the face slapping, the double penetration, the words he used? Why did I let him call me names, and confirmed them with a “Yes, master, I am your (...).”? “I don’t know.”, I say. “Why do you like dominating?” He says it’s the feeling of power that excites him. He then laughs and says it’s probably something Freudian. I add smilingly that Freud would have had a field day with the script we came up with that night.
But his question got me thinking - in between the flashbacks of pleasure and complete surrender. We each have our reasons. Sometimes they are linked to past experiences, to a danger that hangs over our heads like Damocles’ sword or to fears we have. Or sometimes we just experienced someone doing something that made us feel good, and we started craving more of it. I enjoy giving away my power and autonomy. Of placing my body in another one’s hands, to trust them to take it as they please, while the continuous notion of consent and respect is present at the back of our minds. I love it when they call me words they wouldn’t use in any other context, to let me know what I mean to them. How little or how much. I love the aftermath, where I can see how satisfied they are, how at peace, how vulnerable, too. When I'm in front of the door again, he asks if he can text me again and I tell him I hope he does.

I’m not as attached to the ‘why’ question, as I am to the ‘how’ question, just as Tina Horn describes in her book ‘Why People are Into That: A Cultural Investigation of Kink’. I know I have these desires and I meet people who have complimentary kinks. And that’s where the how is important, the respect for soft and hard limits. The clear communication and discussed boundaries. The groundwork to build a connection on, and to enjoy the safety and the trust a dom/sub dynamic provides. Just like I did last weekend, and hope to continue to do so.

Een stortvloed aan "Hey"

Ik doe dit nog niet zo lang, dat geef ik graag toe. Ik heb al jaren een specifiek soort interesse in al wie dit werk doet, hoe het in elkaar zit en of ik het zelf graag zou doen. De redenen liggen voor de hand: ik ontmoet graag mensen die ik anders nooit zou ontmoeten, kom graag op nieuwe plekken, en hou ervan me te verliezen in intimiteit en diens armen. Maar de negatieve kijk van de maatschappij op dit soort werk - zowel wie de diensten aanbiedt als degene die ze opzoekt- hielden me vaak tegen. Het was nog nooit zo duidelijk als ik toen ik één voor één, op iedereens aanraden, mijn tattoo's op mijn foto's moest vervagen: dit is iets wat je in de schaduw doet. Het kan niet paradoxaler zijn voor mij: ik schaam mij niet om mijn verlangens, mijn kinks, mijn nieuwsgierigheid, maar ik moet me in de schaduwen terugtrekken, want daar is het veiliger.

Ik begrijp dat dit niet enkel voor mij zo is. Ik weet dat dat ook is voor wie op zoek is naar dat allesomvattende gezelschap. Er zijn zoveel meningen, en die laten maar weinig ruimte voor de complexiteit van verlangen. Daarom is discretie en comfort net zo belangrijk voor mij als voor jou, en kom ik je daarin graag tegemoet. Maar ik begrijp niet hoe weinig begrip er is voor al de tijd die ik steek in mijn voorkomen, mijn profiel en het plannen om jou de beste tijd te geven die ik kan. Niets symboliseert dat gebrek aan intentie meer dan de "Hey"s die mijn inboxen overspoelen. Ik heb helaas geen tijd om veel berichten te sturen. Daarom ben ik hier ook niet per se: ik wil mensen ontmoeten, leren kennen, voelen. Als je graag met mij stuurt, dan is een cadeau een lief teken van appreciatie voor mijn tijd. Ik wil altijd zoeken naar wat het beste is voor ons tweeën.
Maar die "hey" zegt niets. Niet wie jij bent, niet wat wij voor elkaar kunnen betekenen, en niet wat jij verlangt. Het is passief, en ik hou van mensen die weten wat ze willen, die durven zeggen dat ze houden van plezier, in welke vorm dan ook. Ik hou van helderheid, en standvastigheid, en tegendraads denken tegen de normen van de maatschappij die nog te vaak bekrompen zijn. Als we het dan toch in de schaduw moeten doen, dan liever ten volle, dan liever enthousiast. Dan wil ik het vrij, en speels en actief.  Dus stuur een "Hey", maar stuur evengoed wat je wilt, waarom je denkt dat ik dat voor jou kan betekenen, en gun het mij om al te beginnen dromen over wat dit kan worden.

Angels and heaven in the city of love

ENG
He is standing in front of the shop where we agreed to meet, somewhere in Le Marais, with his eyes glued to his phone. From a distance, I can see the page with our conversation open. He doesn’t notice me arriving. When he does see me, he is happy, even a little surprised. As if in the three minutes I was late and he was looking at my last message, he had already concluded that I wasn't coming after all. But I always come.

We go to one of those Parisian cocktail bars where the door isn't really a door, and you have to crawl through somewhere halfway to get inside. As we sit down and the bartender explains how the cocktail menu works, I take off my sweater. I didn't know he would keep talking, and so I ruin my grand reveal myself. I know the man will try to contain himself in front of the waiter. A missed opportunity. My hair, trousers, shoes and sweater are black, but as I peel off the top layer, a purple top is showing. It’s a single piece of fabric that comes together in one place, just below my breasts, with a silver jewel. Above and below the jewel, the fabric falls open. It shows the lines of where my breasts begin and where my stomach ends. The bartender and the Frenchman both let their gaze fall on the bare skin between above and below the silver jewel, and for a moment the air around us is silent and crisp. The bartender leaves and in the man’s eyes I see a sparkle. He showers me with compliments all evening, and not one of them feels hollow. He keeps repeating: "You are so alive and vibrant. You are bursting with energy." I giggle and let my hand rest on his arm.

We go to his studio in the 3rd arrondissement. He hands me an envelope. I smile and can’t hide how much it turns me on to count the notes and feel his presence next to me, the tension of waiting until one of us takes the first step. I look around. There is a kitchenette, with a bathroom behind. Everywhere there are shelves filled to the brim with dusty bottles of wine. An investment, he says. Wine crates are stacked on the floor, and black-and-white photographs he took himself hang on the wall. He tells me about two photos he took in Biarritz. The sea is exceptionally calm in one of them. He took the photograph during the equinox, the longest day of the year, when there is no ebb and flow. The sea is so calm that there are no waves, barely any swells. The next day, they return with even more force. The ebb and flow thrive again as we know them. I ask what ebb and flow is in French, and I find the answer disappointing. It's not as romantic as in Dutch, I tell him, and that's his cue. He kisses me, long, passionate. He kisses me and carefully undresses me and lifts me onto the bed. We each start taking off one of my Dr. Martens shoes, and I make it a game to see who can take them off the fastest. I win and announce it beaming. We laugh and he pulls my trousers all the way down. He takes off his shirt. I want to help, but my long nails rob me of the freedom to undo someone's buttons. We laugh again. It’s funny how someone completely changes when their clothes are off. Once they are naked, they are real. Their bodies, body hair and scent become real, and are objects of desire.
He is so grateful. He falls apart with gratitude. He falls apart and rebuilds himself, and his cock is hard and ready, but first he bites every surface of my upper body. No one has ever bitten my shoulder bone, my elbow, taken my fingers in their mouth and played with them with their teeth. I surrender to the pain and my body twists like a contortionist. He turns me around, bites my ass, my thighs, lets his fingers come dangerously close, turns me around again, licks around the heat and then finally where I've wanted his tongue to find me, where I wanted to feel it, for so long. I come. He tells me how good I taste and how beautiful I am. I sit on top of him, kiss him, put on a condom and return the gesture. He lets me suck him off the way I know how to, with fat drops of saliva, with my tongue, mouth, lips and hands. Sometimes they just ram their cocks down my throat, and I like that too, but I love it when my craft is appreciated. He asks if I want him to take me. I want nothing more and I climb on top. His eyes. They are filled with wonder as I ride him, as I position my arms so that they squeeze my breasts together. He turns me around again and asks if I want a break. I stammer a no, and he sighs under his breath that he's not my age anymore, but slides into me anyway. He mimics my look of utter despair and I have to laugh. He fucks me harder and tells me I like it. I confirm with loud cries and a stammered yes, or ja, or oui, I can't tell anymore. He asks if he can lick me again and won’t stop until I can't take it anymore. He tells me to breathe calmly and asks if he can come inside me. I almost beg him to. Please, please, please. And then that's exactly what he does.
This may not be what most people expect sex to be like when one party pays for it and the other is paid. But this is exactly how it went. I came twice, I felt fully satisfied. We catch our breath and drink water. He tells me again how beautiful I am. ‘The face of an angel,’ he murmurs. He tells me he hasn't had such intense sex in years, and thanks me. I count the money again, and he tells me it’s good I count, washes his hands, and helps me put on my coat. I put my arms around his shoulders, thank him for everything and kiss him goodbye. He wants to see me again, he texts, from “the cloud in heaven where I brought him”.
Frenchmen. I like them. 

AMERIKA

“Your breath is high, try breathing into my hand.” Mijn haar zit in een knoop in zijn hand terwijl hij zacht, maar vastbesloten op mijn borstkas duwt. Mijn ademhaling zakt. “Good girl”, zegt hij. Hij vraagt of ik op de stoel kan gaan zitten voor hem, en ik knik. Ademhaling laag. Hij trekt mijn schoenen uit, daarna mijn sokken. Ik denk dat niemand mij ooit zo langzaam heeft uitgekleed. Hij kust mijn benen, mijn voeten, mij. Mijn ademhaling schiet weer de lucht in, zijn hand meteen naar dezelfde plek. Ademhaling laag, ik herhaal het mantra in mijn hoofd. Of ik voor hem naar boven kan. Ik knik opnieuw.
Ik heb een rok aan met daaronder een doorzichtige onderbroek met aardbeitjesprint. Die had ik hem al eerder die avond getoond nadat hij de kersen op mijn sokken “adorable” noemde. Een woord dat hij de avond lang nog veel zal gebruiken. Mijn handen gebonden boven mijn hoofd: "adorable". Ik die vraag of ik hem mag pijpen: "adorable".

Ik hoor hem onder mij zwaar ademhalen terwijl ik de ladder naar de mezzanine beklim. Ik ben blij met mijn kledingkeuze. Wat volgt is alles wat ik vraag. Alles wat ik vraag is: “Just that”, wat hij wilt.
“Do you like any marks, bruises, hickeys?”.
“I like bruises.” fluister ik zacht. Ik verlaat de volgende ochtend zijn tiny house met exact dat. Overal blauwe plekken, in mijn hals, op mijn pols, mijn borsten en op mijn dijen drie grote blauwe ovalen cirkels, waar hij me de avond ervoor beet tot mijn ademhaling stokte. “Good girl.”
Hij had wapens, vertelde hij me eerder terwijl ik een onigiri openprikte met mijn stokjes. Hij vertrouwde de meeste mensen met geweren niet, en zat ooit in een shooting, “at the mall in Alaska”. Hij zegt dat hij mijn Europees pacifisme begrijpt, en het respecteert. Hij zou gewoon nooit kunnen leven met het idee dat hij iemand die hij graag ziet niet zou kunnen beschermen.

Hij slaat me. “You’re doing so well.”
Hij draait me op mijn buik, en glijdt eindelijk in me, nadat hij vroeg of ik iets wilde vragen. Ja, ik wilde iets vragen. “Will you please fuck me hard?” Mijn handen achter mijn rug gebonden, mijn benen bijeen, mijn gezicht in de kussens, deze vreemde Amerikaanse man met wapens en een beer die zijn hele rechterflank beslaat boven op mij. “God, you’re doing so good. You’re okay, you’re okay. ”
En dat is ook zo: ik ben heel oké;

Mijn wereld is weer groter. Ik hou van Amerikanen, dat had ik hem gezegd. Ik hou van hoe ze met iedereen praten, hoeveel complimenten ze geven. Ik hou van hun openheid, en hoe ze alles zeggen alsof het het meest ware is ooit. Het doet me denken aan een film, en hij zegt dat dat precies is hoe ik klink. Tussen Duits en Frans in, cinematografisch, “Picturesque, how you are sitting there, with your legs on the bench”.

De volgende dag nemen we afscheid en geven elkaar nog een knuffel. Het is altijd iets vreemds om van zo’n intimiteit terug te gaan naar de handeling die je deed toen je elkaar voor het eerst zag. Maar niets daarvan tussenin, lijkt minder echt.

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