WHEN ONLY THE SPIRIT IS WILLING

Were a sex worker to tell you that you had a nice cock, you might perhaps, have two reactions, one negative, one positive.

The negative reaction might go: “I’m paying her to make me feel good, so I should dismiss this well meaning flattery!”

Alternatively, were you all post coitally glass-half-full, you might think: ” Well, she’s presumably seen quite a few, so a complement from her is really cool!”

I was first told by a sex worker that I had a nice cock about 13 or 14 years ago. That’s insufficient justification for this post, but I can recall at least three other sex workers who, quite independently, have commented along the lines of: “You have a really nice cock.” I am therefore willing, at least partially, to dismiss the more negative of the two reactions above and entertain the notion that my penis might, in fact, be relatively attractive.

Which is why it’s a bit of a shame that it doesn’t work properly any more.

I don’t want to bore you with medical details; lists of medicines I take or descriptions of more self inflicted ailments borne of having a bigger appetite for food than for exercise. Yet, at 60, I find it doesn’t always get as hard as it used to, shrivels at the very mention of the word “condom”, and obstinately refuses to orgasm other than under very specific circumstances. I find the well known brands of pills decreasingly effective.

When I see Elita, I sometimes ask her not to go looking for an orgasm; removing that pressure lets me lose myself in the sensations without the vague feeling of inadequacy that comes from not quite making it happen.

However, with an escort, try as I might, I can’t quite eliminate the slight sense of disappointment when a liaison doesn’t end with the (for me) Holy Grail of an organism during penetrative sex. I could point you to the blog post from the last time that happened but I won’t. It isn’t a recent one.

So, instead, I find myself focusing on her orgasms rather than mine. Fortunately for me, I have come to realise that a woman’s orgasm is the most wondrous, beautiful thing in the world, and I’m seemingly on a mission to witness every one that I can. They are all beautiful, whether it’s Lilly’s “OhMyGod, OhMyGod”, Katie’s gloriously free yelling or Donna’s low moan. There’s the quick, hard orgasm that comes as I push her against the wall; the mellow outflow of energy from the steady, patient work of my tongue or the shaking, gasping, seemingly endless tidal wave that comes after half an hour of stimulation and denial. I once guided an escort though so much pain and pleasure that her orgasm left her sobbing in my arms from the release of it. Special, that was, really special.

I always feel incredibly privileged to have witnessed something so intimate and personal, the veil of sex worker/client transaction falling away to reveal a glimpse of the whole woman; unguarded, naked, vulnerable.

It’s wonderful to experience these things, but I’m still left with the sense of my own powers ebbing away as I get older.

Putting a fun session together with a sex worker is one thing. I wonder how it would be with someone I’m not paying to enjoy it. Perhaps having a “nice cock” and a good way with my tongue wouldn’t be enough.