This life is rough. Night after night, until just before daybreak, I am here on the street. I strut and peacock up and down this boulevard, waiting, looking, and hoping. Not for the right trick or some john to help me pay my rent, but for the perfect man, someone who will make me feel as I have never felt before. I desperately seek the man who will make me a lady, if only for one night. I walk. I look. For hours, there is no one. I look. I walk. And then… I see you.
You are perfect. Your face is kind and your hands are strong as they cover mine and pull me close. The streets are quiet tonight, and it feels as if you and I are the only two people in the world.
“How much?” you ask, but price doesn’t matter. Not now. Not tonight. Tonight, I would go with you for free.
Tonight, I would go with you forever.
I ride with you on this damp fall morning as dew mists lightly on the windshield. I unzip your pants and lower my head, poised to taste your delicious manhood. My mouth agape, you stop me.
“No,” you say.
I sit up, my face flush with embarrassment, although I’m unsure why. This is what I do for a living, but you, special you, have turned me away. I glance out the window, hiding my shame. You reach for my face, pulling it back in your direction. And then, you kiss me. A sweet, tender flutter against my lips that warms the surface of my skin and pushes away all shadow of doubt.
“I want you,” you say, your eyes dividing between the road and me. “But let’s do this right.”
We drive away from the squalor of the world where I’ve desperately been earning my keep, to a place where the streets are free of potholes, the air is clean, and the moon shines directly, as if its glow is just for us. As the car pulls up at an upscale hotel, I am suddenly shy and self-conscious. This moment is out of my realm, bigger than my small hustle back on my own sordid streets. I am underdressed. No, poorly dressed. Certainly not done up in a way befitting a place such as this. A gorgeous woman in a stunning gown waits at the curb, her arm tucked into that of a man in a splendidly tailored tuxedo. I am mortified. A valet rushes to open my door.
“Welcome to The Crescent,” he says, his smile wide, but his eyes giving him away as he takes in my tawdry appearance. I step out of the car, glancing up in awe at the dazzling building before me. It is a far cry from the strip and seedy motels I frequent nightly.
The chilled night air stiffens my shoulders and frosts my breath. I tremble from a mixture of cold and fear. In a moment you are beside me, sheltering me from judgment and the elements as you place your heavy woolen coat over my shivering frame. The woman in the gown glances at me with disdain, and I hang my head, cowed by the power of her gaze. On the strip, I am confident and empowered, bold in my endeavors. Here, I am a fish out of water, an ill-equipped interloper among others way out of my league. As if sensing my panic, you raise my chin high.
“Never be ashamed,” you say, your eyes holding mine. “You are with me tonight. And that’s all that matters.”
You slip your arm around my waist and lead me through the grandiose lobby, past the front desk and the concierge station. The concierge nods his head at you in humble recognition. You smile as you guide me to the bank of elevators. With a solitary ding, a set of doors opens. We step inside as you slip a plastic card into a slot above the numbered buttons, and then push the highest number. It lights up. The doors close, and with a swoosh we are lifted away.
Your lips are on me now as the floors fly by, gently sucking at my neck, suddenly making me feel brand new.
The room is not just a room but a suite, luxurious and plush. Two couches, a chaise, a dining table for eight, and a fabulous view of the twinkling city. A wood-burning fireplace crackles in greeting. I take it all in with wonder as you lead me down the hall.
The bath has already been run in anticipation—as though you have been waiting for me all along—heat rising from beneath the bubbles, steaming the mirrors, the walls, and my skin. Your eyes are lovingly on mine as you remove the heavy coat and my worn, cheap clothing. You unclasp my bra and my nipples, exposed, instantly harden. I hold on to your shoulders as you pull off my panties. I am so wet for you, I almost feel faint.
You undress without ever taking your eyes off me, filling me with a warmth and desire unlike anything I’ve ever known.
We sink into the soothing depths of the whirlpool tub as I lie between your legs and you gently, sweetly wash away from my body and mind all traces of everything that has ever come before this moment. With tender circular motions you scrub, purifying every inch of me.
I am clean. I am reborn.
The king-size bed is an ocean of comfort as you lay me naked against the turned-down sheets. Soft music is playing, the lights are already dim, and I feel natural here, completely at ease. This is where I belong. This is where I’ve always wanted to be.
You straddle my body, looming over me, prepared for descent. Your hardened manhood is an eager sword. I spread my legs just enough, an invitation for entry, as you slowly lean into me, eyes on mine. We are skin-to-skin, chest-to-chest, your heart beating in unison with mine. I spread my legs wider. Your member throbs between them, but it doesn’t slip inside. You want to take your time, so you reach down and touch my wetness. I ache inside. I need you to come in. I need you now.
“I want to love you slowly,” you whisper close to my ear. “I want to feel every inch of you inside and out.”
This is all so unfamiliar, I’m unsure what to do. With you, there is no tearing at my clothes, no grabbing or pushing, no dark corners in dank back alleys. You touch and caress my body with care and intent; this body that has been used without regard, again and again, a hollow receptacle for anyone who could afford to pay for a few detached moments of carnal heat, never giving me a second thought after release. Men never stay with a woman like me. They never come back for anything more than another tumble just like the last. My life, up to this point, has been a series of strangers and familiar johns, each one bringing me that much closer to a bill paid, a week’s worth of food, clothing, shelter, heat for my meager home. But you… you make me believe all that is over. As your tongue trails down my belly toward my wanton womanhood, I feel as if I’ll never see that dark, cold street again, as if you’ll cherish me and never, ever let me go.
You stop at my clit, first breathing me in, and then covering it with your warm, wet mouth. I close my eyes in ecstasy, feeling sensations I had long abandoned as memories past, never to be experienced again. Your tongue slides into my glistening hole, tasting my sweet honey. I want you so badly I’m dying inside.
“Please,” I utter.
In response, you rise from between my legs, moving your hips closer. I open my eyes in time to witness you planting yourself deep inside me, all the way to the bottom. I am overwhelmed with so much pleasure, I can barely breathe. Your member is strong, pulsating, sending shivers through my core. As you move in and out, out and in, I move in sync. Within moments, for the first time in many years, I achieve full, uncontrollable orgasm. I cling to you, tightly, as I shudder and quake, my tunnel and my eyes both glazed with joy.
“Please,” I gasp, my arms tight around your back, “don’t send me back. Please don’t ever let me go.”
You answer me with another round of thrusts, grinding against me and into me, renewing my pleasure once more. I arch beneath you, raising my love so you can plunge even deeper. I touch your chest, my fingers flickering across your hardened nipples, and with my touch you let out a great moan as I feel you twitching and throbbing within me, your cream filling my canal with its goodness. I shift my hips beneath you, cherishing this incredible feeling, the joy I have been able to give you in return, as I feel you slowly pull out. I panic, fearing the worst, not willing to accept abandonment once again. I am hopeless now, bracing myself for the inevitable, but instead you sink below the crisp white Egyptian cotton and I feel your warm, wet mouth upon my pink flesh. You taste me, and not only me, but the hundreds upon hundreds of men who have, quite literally, come before you. You taste the pain of a thousand nights spent parading alone on that desperate strip, in search of—in search of. You taste me with appreciation and delight, relishing all your palate encounters. You devour me. Tonight, I am loved.
“Take me home,” I whimper, my eyes closed in pained ecstasy. Pain at the reality that soon this would have to come to an end. Ecstasy as you spread my legs wider, your tongue searching for more delicious treasures deep within.
“But you are home,” you reply, your words a distant echo as I come even harder than before. I don’t remember when sleep overtook me, but when I opened my eyes this morning, I realized he was right. I am home, those are the sounds of our children playing, that is the smell of my husband making breakfast, and last night was the kind of night only a man in love can truly deliver.
There are many instances—too many to count—when men and women meet, marry, and start families, all without ever really knowing each other. Women, especially, are prone to do this more than men. We are sometimes so intent on getting married, so focused on that endgame, that we have no idea what marriage actually means and what we need to do to maintain a healthy, enduring bond. I’m not saying I have all the answers, because I don’t, but I do know this: Marrying a stranger is no way to make a marriage work.
Having said that, however, playing a stranger can definitely help keep the ties that bind bound. Acting out fantasies, as we’ve been establishing all along, does wonders for reinvigorating the marital bed and your overall intimacy. Pretending to bed a stranger is a surefire way to set off the sexual fireworks.
Ironically and hilariously, being single is one of the most common fantasies married people have. Now, ladies, it may be unnerving to those of you reading this to consider that, for even one millisecond, your man would rather be well rid of you. The nerve! Who does he think he is? If anybody would rather be rid of anybody, it would be you wanting to get rid of him!
Even though we both know that you couldn’t imagine yourself in real life without him for a minute, in fantasy life all bets are off! You and he could both be living the single life—together—having some of the best sex ever as a result. It is the perfect case of having your cake and eating it, too!
When you spend day in and day out with the exact same person for years and years, it can become a little torturous at times. That’s normal. Any two people, no matter how much in love, who are pushed upon each other along with children, if they have them, can’t help but irritate each other on occasion. When real life sets in and the bloom is off the rose of your enthusiasm for each other, your partner can start to feel like an absolute bore and, in many cases, a downright nuisance. Life does that; as the adage states, “Familiarity breeds contempt.” This is why things like Xbox, the Super Bowl, basketball games, and golf exist for men, while we have our Sex and the City DVDs, margarita night with the girls, shoe shopping, and spa days. If we don’t get away from each other to de-stress when we’re feeling contemptuous, that contempt runs the risk of devolving into something truly ugly. We can say things we don’t really mean as a result of feeling too crowded or as though we’re losing our identity inside the marriage. We all need a little time away now and again, but it is a pretty sound idea to also learn how to get away from each other together, in a fantasy that allows us to get a fresh start. After all, ladies, how many times can we watch Carrie Bradshaw break Aidan’s heart? Seriously?
I can hear you already: Vixen, how am I supposed to be with my husband without being with my husband? Ladies, I hereby present, for your consideration, the strategy (rather, fantasy) of being a couple of perfect strangers in search of a good time.
Now, while I know you would love to believe that your husband has never fantasized about being with anyone but you since you two have been together, the truth is you’re only fooling yourself if that’s what you think. Take heart, and whatever you do, don’t take it personally. Be happy your man has a vivid imagination. As long as he isn’t acting on his fantasies to be with someone new, all is well. The upside of all this is that if you are a chameleon in your own right, your husband’s fantasies of an extramarital affair with a completely different woman are just a wardrobe change away. And even though you’ll be playing a streetwalker, play it on the conservative side, giving your mate layers he can peel away. Everyday clothing with a hint of sultriness can make a much better impression than being done up like a stereotypical tawdry hooker.
Being a believable streetwalker is going to depend on your attitude more than anything else. Remember, this not the same as the sleek, impeccably attired and coiffed escort we’ve discussed in a prior chapter. No, ma’am. This chick is a gum-popping, fast-talking, money-hungry slut who’s willing to do anything for a buck. She carries a roll of condoms and a canister of Mace in her purse (you may even find a switchblade in there as well). Now, that’s not to say that you have to channel Charlize Theron in Monster and get all buck-wild on your hubby. Just make sure you have the right attitude, and stay in character, in order to bring this fantasy to life. Think Pretty Woman—the first twenty minutes. You, too, can be like Julia’s character, Vivian, swept away on your very own streetwalker adventure!
Playing a stranger can definitely help keep the ties that bind bound.
Being single is one of the most common fantasies married people have.
Learn how to get away from each other together, in a fantasy that allows you to get a fresh start.
Your husband’s fantasies of an extramarital affair with a completely different woman are just a wardrobe change away.
Make sure you have the right attitude, and stay in character, in order to bring this fantasy to life.
Wasn’t that amazing—that whole Pretty Woman streetwalking concept? It was so amazing, you and your husband decided to try it out right away, a version of it anyway, where you play a streetwalker and he picks you up. You run out to the store, gathering all the props and materials to doll yourself up—rather, down—in complete tawdry streetwalker fashion. You even know the perfect corner where you can pull this whole thing off. One edgy enough in appearance to create the proper illusion, but not so edgy that you’ll get sliced, shot, or shanked the moment you step out on the curb. You get your hair done the next day, wild, big, and disheveled, to top off the look. You overdo your makeup, spritz on some gaudy, cheap perfume, and then post up at the designated spot. Your husband is just a few yards away in his car, so you won’t be out there for long, even though you are a bit nervous.
The hoe-stroll experience is about as far from your life as Chicago is from China. Still, you definitely look the part with your torn fishnets and seven-dollar high heels. He pulls up to the curb and you saunter over to his window with a what’s-your-pleasure swagger that catches the eye of those in the area. A few passing cars honk and slow down, checking out your wares. You’re not sure whether to feel flattered or offended by that, but it’s irrelevant. You’re playing a hooker, so a hooker you’ll be.
You husband slowly lowers the window, seductively drinking you in.
“You buying?” you flirtatiously ask.
Without answering, he opens the passenger door and you get in. He whisks you away from this dangerous street. To your surprise, there’s folded money in the cup holder between the front seats, yours for the taking.
“It’s all there,” he tells you, looking straight ahead.
You pick it up, counting through it. Fifty dollars. Fifty dollars! Is this what streetwalkers make? It can’t be. Maybe it is. You have no way of knowing. This whole world is foreign to you. Oh well, it’s a fantasy, you think. When in Rome…
Before you can get to whatever mystery destination he has planned, he pulls onto the side of the road near a discreet wooded area. He stops the car, unzipping his pants, whipping out his already rock-hard meat.
“Blow me,” he demands.
Wow, you think. He is really getting into this. He has never talked like this to me before. But wait, you’re a tramp he just picked up off the street. Of course this would be how he’d talk to you. You’re a cheap whore, not some high-class escort, and you are certainly not his wife! Decorum goes out the window for hookers. There is no kid-glove treatment for a woman who walks the streets. You’re game. It is role-playing, after all.
You lower your head into his lap and he mashes down on your freshly coiffed hair, which sort of pisses you off because you did just get it done, even if it was precisely for this. He rudely presses your face onto his hardness. You barely have your hand around it as you bring it into your mouth before he begins thrusting upward, pushing you down, grunting, groaning, forcing himself down your throat. All the gentility and dignified touches that usually accompany his lovemaking are strikingly absent. In their place, harsh, rough handling and shockingly salty language. The things he is saying to you… my goodness!
“Suck it, bitch. Yeah, suck it like that.”
You suck it like that, unsure about the bitch part, but you’re play-acting, so you try to keep a straight face—a hooker’s face—as you lick and lap and suck and do your best to breathe and he shoves your head down, down, down like he’s working a jackhammer.
“Suck that dick, you stank-ass hoe!”
That did it. Game over. You raise your head, completely breaking character, outraged at the way he has been talking to you and jamming your head down into his lap. He is shocked by your response, rightfully thinking that the two of you were in the middle of a fantasy. You inform him that the fantasy’s done and you want to go home… now. Apologetic, he starts up the car and the two of you ride home in silence, your mind spinning with a million and one thoughts about what you’ve just experienced.
The problem: You’re upset that your man, without much prepping, seems not only familiar, but very comfortable with the care and treatment of streetwalkers. The leaving of the money in the cup holder, the cheap-ass fifty-dollar rate, the pulling over on the side of the road, and, most disgusting of all, the rough way he forced you to go down on him. But ladies, let’s assess this fairly. This is, after all, a streetwalking fantasy. You did what he expected you to do—dressed up, or down, like a whore, worked the corner, came up to his car, and agreed to get in. He did what johns do once they’ve picked up a hooker: He pulled over onto the side of the road or into an alley and had you give him a blow job. Had you let him, he probably would have put you in the backseat and given it to you right there! It was a streetwalking fantasy, not a Disney movie.
Your husband wanted to add some adventure to your marriage by pretending his wife was a hooker he could use as he chose. You indicated you were okay with this fantasy by quickly rushing off to get all the materials required to create it, including getting your hair done. What the two of you didn’t do is set the boundaries of what could and couldn’t be included in this fantasy. You were so eager to play the part that you forgot about all the things that could seriously affect you regarding how your husband plays his part as a john.
It is important to realize that fantasies, by their very nature, mandate stepping out of your comfort zone. You are electing to do something edgy, something different, something daring, something so outside the realm of your world that the mere thought of it gets you excited, and maybe even frightened to your core. Because it requires you to do the uncomfortable and the unfamiliar, you have to decide upfront, with your spouse, that you are willing to go all the way. You can’t be half-in. You can’t start the fantasy, realize that your man is getting into it more than you expected, then shut down the party. It is the kind of thing that will make your husband unwilling to try a fantasy with you in the future. He won’t be able to trust how you’ll react and he might worry that it’s all just a setup for you to browbeat him later.
Ladies, please, discuss, discuss, discuss! I cannot emphasize this enough. As you can see with each progressive V-Log, failure to discuss and clearly define the parameters of what might go right or wrong during the commission of your fantasy is a recurring issue. What results is usually more division between the two of you than ever, which foils the whole purpose of this book. This book was created to bring you closer, to help eliminate barriers, to heighten your mutual sexual pleasure and experiences, and to keep you together as a loving, committed couple. Having you become pissed because your husband treated you in a way that made you believe he has picked up hookers before is not the desired objective.
So please, whatever you do, don’t spend the rest of the night screaming and interrogating him about whether he has been with hookers in the past. These are things you should know about him already, although I’m not sure how many men would actually own up to having trolled for prostitutes. It is a slippery slope. That’s a secret many men would happily take to the grave. Maybe he has. Maybe he hasn’t. Whatever the case, just pray that he isn’t doing it now.
If you keep yelling at him, though, don’t be surprised if he slips out while you’re sleeping and finishes up this fantasy with a streetwalker for real. Choose your battles, girls. And for goodness’ sake, make sure you’re really prepared to do a fantasy—not just prop-wise, but mentally, emotionally, everything—before you decide to just jump into it. Now, don’t spend that fifty dollars all in one place.