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A New York Escorts Confessions

Oh my God. My breasts were suddenly KILLING me. I slipped off my silk baby doll top to have a look at myself in the bathroom mirror. Jesus. My breasts were like two softballs poised in mid-air for someone to take a swing at. They were like a parody of breasts. They actually looked ripe.

Oh right. Right. I abandoned my little temper tantrum and went to get a grande cafe mocha whip and two chocolate biscotti at Starbucks. Well, if I was going to do this I might as well go all the way, right?

That night I was going out with K, a sweet commuter who liked to meet me before the 6:58 express at The Grand Hyatt. K loved to touch me. As soon as I closed the door to the room, he would begin petting my head. He’d run his fingers through my hair, brush his knuckles lightly along the hollow of my neck. And then he’d go for my breasts.

The first time we were together he was tentative. He unbuttoned my shirt with the greatest delicacy, like I was an antique made of the finest porcelain. When he reached the last button he stopped and just gazed at me. He didn’t want me to move at all except for the natural rising and falling of my chest. It was as if he were hypnotized, or—or enraptured. Thirty minutes later he would rebutton my shirt, glance at his watch and leave.

On our fourth meeting he grew more daring. He began to trace the outline of my bra with one finger, moving in an unbroken line over every edge. When he got to my cleavage he paused. His breath caught in his throat. He began to sweat. Then the same thing. Button me back up, glance at his watch, and make his exit.

Today though, on the eve of our 9th time together, the day my breasts felt like engorged water balloons that might pop at any moment, I knew much more lay in store for me. K would slip my straps off my shoulders, slide the top of my bra slowly down so my nipples would just peek out from the fabric. He would trace my aureoles, one then the other until they were both erect. He would grow bold and pinch me, then go soft and caress the underside of both breasts, let them weigh in his hands, close his eyes and sigh. He would inhale deeply the smell of my perfume and my sweat. He would suckle me, lay me down, rub the stubble of his cheeks through my cleavage. He would softly kiss my right breast, snap my bra back together, button me back up, glance at his watch, and leave. It would last approximately forty-three minutes. Dear God—I couldn’t even touch myself without wincing. How was I ever going to get through the Breast Olympics?

As it turned out this time K entered the room with a new found determination. He actually pushed me down on the bed, tore through my shirt, undid my bra, and thrust himself into my cleavage. He came a mere three minutes later.

As soon as he got up the pain and utter prickliness hit me. Unfortunately, K saw my expression before I had a chance to cover. He hung his head, flushed a deep red, and barely mumbled, “…I ruined your shirt.”

“It’s alright. I travel with a spare.”

He gave a tentative smile at that then just as quickly stopped. “I’ll—I’ll get—I— a washcloth. Um.” He stumbled up from the bed. I could hear him moving around abruptly in the bathroom. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at the clock on the nightstand. “You’ll miss your train.”

He came back in the room, nodded ever so slightly, then handed me the wet cloth. There was a heavy silence as I cleaned myself. Then he said so loudly and so suddenly that I nearly fell off the bed, “My wife won’t let me touch her breasts.”

“—oh?”

He shook his head sadly and looked away. “She says she’s too sensitive…”

Did someone say SENSITIVE?!!!! “Some women feel a lot of sensation there.” Like me now. Uhhh…was I really going to have to go all the way down to Grand Central to get some more Ibuprofin?

K shook his head. “No no. She—it’s like she’s hiding from me. She’s become protective…from from me. I don’t—” He bit his upper lip, nodded, glanced at his watch. Then he looked me in the eye. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Sometimes pain is a hazard for me. But this time the pain wasn’t mine at all. The sound of K closing the door echoed with finality. I wondered if I’d see him again.