*Please note: I will never use any identifying information regarding my clients on this blog. Discretion is of utmost importance to me. Anything written here regarding a singular client has been written with full consent*
I recently had my first virgin.
No, not someone who’s never seen an escort before (because I’ve had those, and they are a lot of fun!) but a man who has never, in his life, engaged in sexual congress with another person. Nothing.
What am I to do with that? My regular patter for new clients (“What do you like?” “What don’t you enjoy?” “Tell me a fantasy.”) wouldn’t hold up in the face of his complete lack of experience. But never say I’m not resourceful.
My virgin is younger than most of my clients, and not unattractive (though this could be said of most of my clients). He is shy, understandably, but it takes a real introvert to not relax after a few minutes of chit chat with me.
“Why did you choose to see me?” I ask gently, touching his arm to convey my question holds no judgement, just curiosity.
That one question, so evenly spoken, opened the flood gates. It’s the age old tale: Man graduates high school never finding “the one”. He isn’t a stud, a jock, a geek, or any special niche that might have helped ease his way into sexual adulthood. He’s just himself, and figures it’ll happen when it happens.
When the man graduates college, again without knowing the touch of a woman, his friends begin teasing him. Surely he’s a latent homosexual, or broken, or some other awful thing. They throw women at him, any woman willing, in their own boorish way showing they care about him. He rebuffs all comers. He gets so insecure he can never rise to the occasion.
Now the man, having developed a complex surrounding sexual things, actively dates women with low to non-existent sex drives. Until he finds “the one”, a person who clicks with him so completely, that assuredly everything will fall into place and be as natural as walking. But the inner voices start again, and self-doubt turns into a self-fulfilling prophecy and he is unable to rise to the occasion no matter how much he tries.
Enter the compassionate whore, who’s ads, website, writings, have convinced the man here is a woman who will hold no judgement, no scorn, no expectation. And, he reasons, if she did, she’s just a whore. She doesn’t matter to him so her scoff won’t sting as bad.
Well, I am compassionate. I don’t judge, and my only expectation is for a man to come to me willingly and honestly.
We talk. Oh how we talk! We kiss. I compliment him. Before I continue every step, I ask his permission, if he’s comfortable. I show him how to touch a woman to make her squirm, how the skin comes alive under delicate hands. And I show him the sweet surrender of allowing a woman to take over to send him to bliss.
I will most likely never see my Virgin again, but I hope very much that I helped him with the demons of self-doubt. There is no shame in virginity, just as there is no shame in spreading your love where ever you choose.