I’ll Happily Pay For It

It’s never for free. You always pay for it one way or another.

There’s no such thing as free sex.

 

I said that recently and I think I was wholly misunderstood. So I just wanted to go back and to clarify what it is I meant because it’s not half as awful and cynical as it sounds. Let’s not forget I’m a big, filthy, romantic at heart.

 

Sex isn’t for free and neither should it be, in my opinion. You have to pay for it, you always have to pay for it. Sometimes a price you want to pay, sometimes a price you’d pay more and sometimes you’ve no idea you were going to pay way over the odds until it’s way too late.

 

want to pay for the sex I have. I want to pay in reciprocity and in fun and in effort and in respect. These are the things I will happily pay with for sex. It’s an imperceptible trade but it’s part of the contract; I will give you all these things and in return I expect to get them back. Not only that I will also give you an orgasm or at least my very best efforts, I will put my utmost into trying to make sure you have a good time.

That’s what I think I should be paying. That’s what I believe sex costs.

 

In return, if you want to sleep with me, I hope that you’re paying me respect, I hope that you’re paying me attention I hope that you’re paying me the courtesies that I am affording you. And I hope that you’re giving these things willingly. This isn’t a strict trade, this isn’t clinical i.e. if you don’t make me come then I won’t make you. No, this is unconsciously what we agree and gleefully should give. We shouldn’t want the sex without wanting to give something.

 

But it’s not always like that is it.

Sometimes we encumber ourselves with terrible debt. We pay for it with bruised egos and battered hearts and skewed versions of love.

I have paid awful prices. I have saddled myself with debt I thought I would never escape yet I always have, and I know I will continue to.

(I’m not talking about unwanted pregnancies or STDs  – they are all failures of contraception and protection, they are not the price we pay for sex, they are the price we pay for carelessness and sometimes, rotten bad luck.)

 

Just recently I paid an awful premium.

 

The sex was fantastic. His goal was to make me happy, to extract as many orgasms from me as he could, hungry, greedy for them. His goal was to see me writhe in ecstasy and lose myself. And I did.

My goal was to please him too, to give him what he always gives me. To not say no to anything.

What could possibly go wrong?
What is possibly amiss with this happy, wanton tale?

 

I have always been the other. Initially it was just me, but I knew she was likely to return, I always knew there was a she. My acceptance of this peaked and waned. Whatever else I can say, I always knew. But I never felt like a mistress, it never felt like an affair. It feels naïve to say it like that now, but I never did. It just felt outside of whatever else he had.

 

We have nothing in common really, except appetite and insatiability. A recognition of something that is at our core, something neither of us has with anyone else.

This was just other.

This was not to end with a fáinne, it was not to meet parents or friends or….. anything typical. And that I could live with. That I would pay, and pay, and pay forever for.

 

Until this last time, where a hint, a glimpse a half word almost not caught, made me understand that this, this thing we did, that we can’t stop from doing, this was now….

I was now..

The mistress.

 

A title I never wanted and will not keep.

And I hate the price I paid for that last night. I detest how it mars everything. It was already marred you might cry. But not to me. It is only sullied now.

 

So what did I pay? I paid with the reality that it was now over, that we had had or time. I paid with a sense of loss and of sadness. I paid not with regret but whatever that thing is that’s two steps from it.

And yet. Maybe I need to pay this bill, maybe it had been owed all along, like a winter heating bill that hits you in February; an accumulation of all those winter nights you sashayed around in your underwear with the heat turned up to 11. It was always in the post.

 

I’m paid up and I don’t want my credit extended. There will be no more ‘One last night’, we’ve had about 5. Where would it ever end? When he bought her a diamond? When the honeymoon was over, when he she gives him a child?

No.

I don’t want the title. I want to cash out and walk away.

 

 

But not even I can believe myself.

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