I’m alive. I’ve been derelict. And flu-ish. And busy, but in the best of ways.

Prague was phenomenal.  It’s hard to give much of a summary of the experience, since my memory is a strange superimposition of daytime treks through museums and evening drinks with strangers and nighttime dirty talk with Gabriel. It’s an overlay of cobblestones and street lights and fellatio.

At some point I met up with a friend and we went out for Czech food before hitting a Cuban bar. The waiter tried repeatedly to get me to order some kind of animal joint, like a knee or an ankle, and when I paused to consider it, my friend shook his head hard. “Don’t do it,” he said. I guess he’d tried it the night before and it was about as disturbing as you’d expect from a boiled joint, so I went for some kind of meat dish with dumplings that was heavy-as-lead delicious. Later that night, after the Cuban bar and another wander through the city, I fell into a cycle that would repeat for the rest of the trip: I’d have a drink, feel the sudden need for sleep, call it a night, and then wake up promptly at 3am, dazed and horny.

One of those nights, I opened my laptop and found Gabriel online some seven time zones away. “So how many cocks have you sucked?” he asked.

Gabriel and I have been doing this tango.  He loves my slutty impulses, but I constantly question whether I should act on them, even with his support. I’ve run into this problem in the past.

I had a boyfriend with similar tastes a couple of years ago, someone I saw while I slept with clients. I never told him that I was a prostitute, but I did tell him that I was sleeping with other men.  And while it wasn’t the deepest relationship, it worked beautifully for the time that it lasted.  It worked for him because he was emotionally unavailable, and it worked for me because my clients left me emotionally exhausted. And it worked because he never asked too many questions about how I spent my evenings. Except for the sex.

We developed a strange routine. He’d come over to my apartment late at night, when I’d be in the middle of doing something quiet, like reading. A little drunk and a little coked up, he’d strip out of his clothes and pull out his cock. And then he’d ask questions about the sex I was having with other men, and I’d answer him slowly, meting out details while he jerked off to the sound of my voice. He’d ask how many men, how often, what I did, what it felt like, whether I came.

Sometimes he’d open his eyes and tell me to strip, slowly, while he watched.

Sometimes he’d get on top of me and grind against my body while I spoke.

And over time, he got more aggressive, and took that sexual aggression out on my body.  I fueled it, and if he drew back, I’d goad him until I was pinned down by all four limbs.

But he was always conflicted after he came. He’d apologize and fumble with his clothes, or he’d feel depraved and worry that there was something wrong with him and his kink.  At one point, I asked him about this, why he felt so much anxiety after sex, and he said that he hated that I wasn’t faithful, but the thought of it turned him on, and he hated that, how much it turned him on. Even when we were apart, he’d call (drunk and a little coked up) asking me to talk.  (“Tell me stories,” he’d say.)  And even when we broke up and he entered another relationship, he’d call with his cock in his hand, hoping to hear that I’d been on a sexual rampage.  But that night, when I asked about why he felt so conflicted, he said something I’ve remembered ever since: “After I come, I just want you to tell me that everything was a lie.” He wanted to hear about the men I’d slept with – he just didn’t want any of it to be true.

Gabriel is turned on by the idea of me sleeping with other men, and I’m turned on by the fact he’s turned on.  He’s my perfect perverted complement – I like being overwhelmed with cock, and he likes the idea of me being railed from all angles.  I like the idea of him watching and jerking off, or fucking me with the memory still fresh in his mind and mine.  We talk about sleeping with other people and sharing the experiences with one another, and I love his intensity when we talk about this. When I think through the possibility of carrying it through, I always stop short and wonder if he’ll regret it. If anything, I’ve learned to question the things that men say when they’re drunk or hard, and while Gabriel is never drunk, he is always hard.

Which might mean that he’ll never regret it at all.

I suppose we’ll never know until we do it.