I Have A Sexual Fantasy That I Don't Talk About With Anyone

I have a sexual fantasy that I don't talk about with anyone. It's far from my only fantasy, but this one is very specific and possibly quite brutal, depending on whom you ask. I've never acted it out -- a bit too dangerous, really -- though I've seen it acted out on video many times. I've only told this fantasy to one woman, a girl I dated in college. She was a little freaked out at the time, but she seemed to get over it -- until several years later, when we reconnected online and she ended up sending an email all her friends and family, describing my fantasy and portraying me as a potential serial killer.

I've never forgiven her for that. I've also never told anyone else about this fantasy because of what she did...

Other than that, I'm an ordinary cubicle worker who's not so lucky with women. I met a woman last year who would become my first sex partner in about seven years. (I had gotten to 2nd base with many women in that span, including two long-term girlfriends, but that was it.) We only dated for six months, but we had fantastic sex during that period. However, she dumped me last spring and quickly hooked up with someone else, which left me feeling like a fool.

After that, some of my friends convinced me to come out to Las Vegas and party with them -- to help me forget about her, they said. So I set aside some money and went out there to meet them. I thought I might sample a working girl while I was out there, mostly to satisfy a curiosity. I considered hiring a prostitute back home just to get reacquainted with sex again, but I was hesitant to spend that much cash. Most of the escorts I found online were not cheap.

Then I won big at the tables my second day in town. In my mind, the money barrier was gone. So I trolled the hotel casino late one night to see what I could see. Sure enough, I spotted a very attractive young woman sitting with a drink at a slot machine -- not drinking and not playing, but just waiting for a guy like me to come by. We sussed each other out very quickly and went back to my room. Once there, we agreed on a price and began.

She was very professional and made me feel comfortable with the experience... until we were about a minute into it. Then she looked me in the eye and asked, "What's your kink, baby?"

I froze. I was that guarded about my fantasy that I couldn't bring myself to describe it to her. This was a working girl in Vegas who had probably heard far worse fantasies than mine, and chances are we would never cross paths again. Still, I was too scared to tell her my kink for fear that she might freak out, just like that girl from my college days did.

I tried to change the subject and change positions, but I started having trouble keeping my erection full -- something that almost always happens to me the first time I have sex with a new partner, but my fear might have had something to do with it, too. Unfortunately, when I needed a break, she used that as a prime opportunity to hit me up for more cash. It was then that I realized something: this was just a job to her. She wanted to get me off and get out. That left me a little cold. I did give her the extra money -- I had it available, and really, I wanted to finish up as much as she did at that point. She did eventually bring me to orgasm, and she stayed to talk with me for a few minutes afterward, apologizing for making me feel uncomfortable.

I have no regrets about the experience. In fact, I'm glad I did it, because it made me realize that a working girl can't give me the type of sexual experience I really want. My encounter with this particular woman lacked the kind of intimacy I had with previous girlfriends. (At one point, she seemed to recoil when I kissed her chest.) I'd prefer a sex partner who wants to be there and wants to come with me, too, rather than someone who just sees it as her job to get me off and get it over with. Perhaps other working girls aren't this bad, but because of that, I probably wouldn't do something like this again.

The experience also made me realize that I have some major trust issues to sort out. Maybe one day I'll feel more comfortable talking about this fantasy of mine with a girlfriend. I suspect, though, that this day is still a long way off.

I'm Kind Of An Oddball Guy

I've paid for sex three times.

Once I was new to the West Coast and with no friends and I made eye contact with a pretty junkie walking down my street. We started talking and she asked me for money, so I proposed a trade. She was up for it so we walked to the atm and in the street she let me feel her breasts for a few minutes. It was a letdown, but I felt slightly thrilled. She was hot but sort of gross.

Several years later, I came home from a family visit late one night and was feeling energetic so I went to rent some pornos. As I was leaving the store I picked up a free magazine of ads for escorts, and when I got home I called one. She told me it would cost $300 on the phone and I agreed. When she got to my apartment she took the money down to her companion waiting in the car. Then she came back and wouldn't have sex with me! I was pissed. She was conning me. She finally did a strip tease while I masturbated, then left. I felt totally pissed and sad/ashamed hateful of myself and her. I basically resolved never to deal with prostitutes again because that was so shitty. It also made me somewhat misogynistic in a way.

A few years later I was driving on a rural highway and saw a sexy hitchhiker. I had this weird feeling so I turned around and picked her up. We drove for a while and talked, she was cool. When we got to my turnoff she said she needed to go another twenty miles and she would give me money if I would drive her the rest of the way. Instead I suggested that she give me a hand job instead and I would drive her. She said ok but only a handjob which was fine with me. That was a fairly pleasant experience overall even though it seemed kind of scandalous to me at the time.

The first and third weren't really formal prostitutes, but it was prostitution right, so I include them.

As for why, I'm kind of a oddball guy, I don't go to bars, and I am introverted, somewhat shy. My family of origin was dysfunctional and abusive, and touching and intimacy were never something I saw nice examples of until basically my twenties. I have had a number of serious girlfriends, but I tend to go a few years between them with practically zero hookups in between. Like most guys, I get very horny, and want someone to hold and touch. I don't feel like it's a desperate desire to avoid loneliness. It mostly feels like out of boredom and desire for physical stimulation and release.

I don't feel any regret or guilt consciously about these acts, though I wouldn't want people to know either.

It is sort of sad, but I do think paying/trading for sex has been around forever and serves a function.

I think it would be better if it was legal and not as marginalized where abuse and violence enter into it.

I don't think humans have figured out a functional form of sexual relationships. Traditional gender roles seem useless and non-productive, and these are generally mirrored in sexual roles and representation. Of course, that is true in prostitution as well, but to me it seems fairly rational and straightforward, which is more respectful of the participants than the unconscious charade psychodrama that usually constitutes regular romantic sex.

I Said That One

I saw a sex worker just over a year ago, but I had thought about it for a long long time. It never seemed like something I could really do. A sex advice column pointed me to an escort review board for my town. Reading through it, I was shocked at the openness of the posters and just how many different services were available. It didn't change my mind, but I kept looking every few weeks, using the advertisements on the site instead of porn to jerk off. The women seemed closer, more real, with a call I could actually fuck them.

I changed my mind a year ago because I was turning 30 and I was still a virgin. At the time going to a prostitute seemed like the only way to do something about it. Even after I had made my decision it took me a few weeks to actually make the call. I chose an incall service near my apartment, I didn't want to meet her at my place and I didn't want to spend more money on a hotel room.

I was so nervous when making the call I barely paid attention to what the operator was saying. I heard the name of a girl I remembered from the website and I said that one. I noted down the information on where to go, but I made a mistake and had to call back twice.

Once I finally got there, I was shocked by how broken down the room was, but the girl was pretty. I handed my money, she told me to get comfortable and she went out of the room for 5 minutes. I had no idea what to do. I removed my clothes, keeping on my underwear. When she came back in the room, she immediately got undressed and got on the bed. She was beautiful, but this is not what I had imagined. I couldn't do most of what I had in mind: couldn't undress her, couldn't kiss her, couldn't perform cunnilingus. She was also weirded out by my penis, I have a phimosis. Still, I was enjoying myself until she got on top of me. She immediately started to moan, and it hit me as incredibly fake. I lost my erection. We spent the rest of our time together lying on the bed, me holding her.

For the next few weeks what I had done would hit me: sometimes it would make me happy, sometimes sad. Now it's just another memory. I stayed away from the review site for a few month, but I started going back recently. I may end up trying again, but right now it doesn't feel yet like I need to.

I Like Women

I'm 41 and divorced. I have had a few girlfriends since breaking up, but the combination of a demanding job and the fact I spend most weekends with my children means I am usually single.

I have a high sex drive - not freakish, but I like sex, and I like women. I started seeing working girls after I'd been single for 6 months, and have had the usual range of experiences - I even made friends with one of the girls.

A few weeks ago, I arranged to see a girl who advertised on a web site. Her online persona is very much the crazy cumslut porn queen - she wears exotic make-up, has huge silicon boobs, and in her blog wonders if she's a slut or a whore.

I visited the hotel where she was staying, expecting a full-on session of filthy porno sex - and I wasn't disappointed. Thing is, afterwards, we chatted for a bit - and she opened up to me, a total stranger who had paid her for sex - about her life. She showed me pictures of her cats, told me about her no-good ex husband, how she was hoping to move to a remote place and just have lots of animals. She told me about her boyfriend, and how her submissive bedroom persona was matched by a bossy and demanding real world attitude.

I fell a little bit in love with her - wanted to hold her and make her feel safe. Of course, I knew that to her I was just another nameless guy with a hard-on, so I suppressed the feeling.

I Was Forever One of the Johns Now

I had sex with a prostitute once, when I was in my mid-twenties.

I came about as close to going crazy that year as I have so far. (Knock on wood). I was single and living alone, being stressed beyond all previous experience by a job. (It amazes me now to think of letting an employer drive me to this state.) Though I wasn't consciously tracking it, I had also been going up a steady ramp of commercial sex trade, from porn to phone sex to strippers.

I grew up in a small town, and I was pretty unworldly. I don't remember how, probably through some movie, I realized that you could actually find escorts in the telephone book. I went to look and sure enough. For a couple weeks, every so often I would look at those listings. But I didn't think I would actually do it.

One day, I went to the movie theater alone--the way I did most things those days. The movie I saw was "Angels and Insects." Throughout that strange, messed-up story of class, repression, and incest, I felt like a bubble of hot blood was swelling in my head and chest. I was also plagued by hypochondria during this period. In the end of the movie, two of the main characters escape their damaged, repressed situation together. I knew that there wasn't any escape in the cards for me.

When I got home, I put myself into the sort of unthinking trance I do when I want to do something I don't think I should and don't want to think about it and dialed a number selected based on an unremembered criteria. I hadn't even thought about money, I was relatively poor, and the amount cited (a couple hundred) surprised me. I said I didn't have it on hand and didn't know if I could get it, thinking that might be the end of it, but she said she would call back in half an hour and see. It must have been a slow day. I walked to a nearby convenience store (I had no car) and took out the money plus an fifty extra because I figured I ought to, as a cash advance on a credit card. I went home and told myself she probably wouldn't call. But she did.

I was very excited, the kind of rush I used to get going into the adult store (or, when I was a kid, shoplifting), but in the time it took for her to arrive the feeling decayed and I felt like I'd made a mistake. But the doorbell rang and I figured: in for a penny, in for a pound.

I think she said her name was Laurie, but I'm not sure. She was pretty, buxom, and slender, though she had her hair gelled to the point of being crunchy, which made touching it sort of unpleasant. I almost forgot what I was about for a minute, until she told me I couldn't kiss her. Oh, right. I fumbled over some stupid line I thought would protect me from a potential police sting (some over-thought variation of "You're not a cop, are you?") that only made her nervous, though she got over it. Foreplay felt like a stupid charade, but I went through the motions, for my own sake, not hers.

When we moved into the bedroom, I was suddenly embarrassed by the fact that I slept on a mattress on the floor--I was just a couple years out of college. I lost my erection while she tried to get a condom on, but she managed to get me back up with oral. The oral was the best part of the experience, even with a condom. She was very skillful.

The sex was really average. When she started to moan. I felt like telling her not to bother, but it seemed like it would be rude to do so. Orgasm was a little flicker, quickly dissipated to nothing. But the pressure in my head went away.

She asked me about what I thought afterwards. I didn't really know what to say. (I said something but I don't remember what.) She asked me if I was expecting her to be prettier, and I said she was very pretty. She said: Some guys expect us to look like models. If I looked like a model would I be doing this? Then she seemed sort of embarrassed, like she'd let the cat out of the bag that she didn't really want to have sex with me. No worries, sister. I knew that going in. She asked if she could have my belt. It was strange. It wasn't really a remarkable belt at all, just black leather with a steel buckle. It was probably worth twelve bucks. I told her it was a gift from my brother (true), otherwise it would have been no problem. I walked her out to her car, and she hugged me before she got in. I wondered about that. Maybe she was trying to leave a good impression for potential repeat business, or maybe she was grateful that I'd showered beforehand and didn't try to stick it up her ass. She said to call her any time.

I sat in the dark listening to records afterwards, smoking and thinking about how I had joined this dirty club, and I couldn't take it back. I was forever one of the Johns now. I felt like I had changed something about who I was--and not in a good way--more so than, say, when I lost my virginity. I worried about the money, too. I really couldn't afford it.

Then again, for months afterwards I would find myself thinking that I would do it again, only this time I wouldn't be such a nice guy. I would really take advantage of the situation. I went through a similar escalation with phone sex, like the first time I asked an operator to role-play anal, which at the time was very exciting. But I never made another call, and I've never slept with another prostitute. I regret it now, though I don't think or worry about it anymore. I don't judge sex workers or in general the people who employ them, but it isn't what I want sex to be in my life. I don't think the experience added anything of value to my existence. I have told very few people about it. My brother, and a couple of friends, and the woman who is now my wife, before we started dating, because I knew I wanted to date her, and I figured it was better off being out there. I got appreciably saner, and I stopped calling phone sex, though I do sometimes look at dirty pictures on the internet.

I'm Not a John

I’m not a john. Never wanted to be one.

Not for any great moralistic reasons, not because it is bad or sinful or exploitative or anything like that, although I later developed some opinions on that. But because I never felt any attraction at all towards the idea.

For me, sex is basically a friendly act. You don’t have to be in love or anything, but for sex to be interesting for me, it has to be accepting and participatory; basically, if a woman isn’t actually interested in having sex with me, I’m not interested in having sex with her. So if I am paying someone to pretend to like me or be turned on, well, it feels about as sexy as cold mashed potatoes.

And all this would be fine, but because of my social work type job, over the years I have found myself on various prostitution groups; some working to help sex-workers, some to abate street-level prostitution, some to help underage sex-workers, and so on. And when you are doing that kind of work, well there is always the nagging suspicion that you are actually a john, rather like the pedophile/cub-scout leader. There seems to almost be an assumption that all men are potential johns, only being held back by money, or a spouse, or social conditioning, or religious/ethical beliefs. It is rather like the fundies that are so scared of gay sex: they almost seem to think that every man has a fag lurking within, struggling to get out and enjoy addictive gay sex.

Well it just ain’t so. And I really don’t like people thinking this way about me. But when you are actually working with sex-workers and ex-sex-workers, they seem to almost have an article of faith that all men have either hired a hooker, or want to. And that because of their work, they think that they are some kind of sex expert, and have a good understanding of male psychology. (Porn stars seem to get into the same way of thinking--one thing about sex work I think, is that it can warp your thinking.) Which isn’t true, they just have a good understanding of the psychology of johns, who are, I believe, a minority. (I also don’t believe the figures given for the porn industry--I suspect that the numbers are a lot smaller, and that there are a small percentage of porn consumers that consume the majority of the porn sold. But that’s just my guess.)

It is true, as Mark Twain said, that 90% of men masturbate, and the other 10% lie about it, and it is also true that there isn’t a man alive that hasn’t enjoyed looking at some kind of porn or other a few times if he has had the opportunity, but it is not true that every man is a potential john. Indeed, not every man is even a stripper spectator. I went to a few shows, and it was interesting at first in an almost anthropological sort of way, but once you’ve seen a couple of shows, you’ve seen them all, it gets dull as ditchwater listening to bad music, drinking over-priced drinks, and being surrounded by losers. I just don’t get the guys that are into that either.

I know from experience that street-level prostitution is a very nasty business. It is very dangerous work, where assault and rape is a matter of When, not If. It pays terribly, and workers are ruthlessly and violently exploited by pimps and gangs and dealers. And most of them are doing it out of desperation, usually driven by addiction.

There is a very old cultural myth, the hopeful belief in the carefree happy hooker, the prostitute with the heart of gold, the satisfied professional. And I am sure there are some, working as escorts and such, I have no direct knowledge, but in my experience, there are damn few working on the street. Most of the women working on the street that I have encountered are desperately unhappy; not unhappy because they are hooking, but more that they are hooking because they are unhappy, or perhaps that the same things that are making them unhappy are also driving them to sell their bodies.

My experiences have turned me from being bored by the whole notion of hiring a hooker, to being repulsed by the idea. When you have seen, when you know, why a hooker is doing what she is doing, what her life is like, only a monster or sociopath could want to engage in it. I’ve seen too many needle tracks, too many apprehended children, too many disappearances, too many bruises and cuts and fits of terror and panic.

In the cities I have worked in, and when I talk to my colleagues in other cities, the levels of street prostitution seem to be falling. There are probably a lot of factors behind this, but one of them seems to be smarter policing: most of the time the cops aren’t targeting street-walkers, they are targeting the johns. And johns tend to be a fairly frightened bunch, and easy to scare off with publicized busts and car confiscations and mandatory attendance at john-schools. But we really don’t understand the psychology at work; I really don’t think it is as simple as being horny and finding an outlet.

A group I was working with started recording the license plates of guys cruising the stroll, and we compiled a fairly large database before the government cracked down and stopped releasing information on the plates to us. But while we were running it, we discovered a few interesting things. First of all, the johns were coming from every part of the city, except the neighborhood of the stroll itself. Proportionally, they were coming from every neighborhood of the city: there was no distinction between high-income, middle-class, and poor neighborhoods. Which surprised us, we had figured the rich guys would patronize escorts, and poor guys wouldn’t have the cash. But it turns out that a desire to slum with a street-hooker crosses class and income lines. Which is I suppose bad news.

(And what probably helped in shutting us down was that a few of plates turned out to belong to fairly prominent/well-connected people in the community, hmm.)

The second thing that the data showed was that there weren’t all that many johns. What there was were high-repeat johns; the majority of the traffic were the same guys coming back again and again. Which I would take as good news; maybe I am right and most men are not in fact actual, and hopefully not potential, johns.

What we were starting to discover, when they shut us down, was that over half of the johns appeared to be married (and a significant number of the cars had baby or child seats in the back, ick). Hiring a hooker, it seemed, was not so much about seeking a source of sexual outlet, but a hobby or vocation or pastime of its own. Some men seem to like being johns, like hiring street workers for its own sake. Which seems rather strange to me. But perhaps some of the radfems are right about at least some men: they seem to like exploitative, power-imbalanced sex.

But please, they ain’t most of us.

I Guess You Always Wanted the Pretty Unattainable Mean Girl to Be Getting into Your Car for Sex

It's strange that I remember the first time, because it's been 15 years now and I really haven't thought about it in ages. Everyone in town knew where the main hooker drag was and my friends and I had driven by a few times and even hooted at the girls, but these girls seemed as unattainable as any others. These were beautiful girls, girls who looked like what I imagined strippers and dancers to look like, done up in the classic slutty boots, halter tops and other accoutrements of the classic hooker. We never stopped to ask how much they charged because we knew we couldn't afford it, and now that I think about it, I never saw someone pull over and pick a girl off, or drop one off. It was almost like they were advertising a service available elsewhere, and not really on offer themselves.

Once, years later when I was back in town visiting, I pulled over on a whim and asked how much. "$250 for a blow, $350 for a lay and $400 for a half and half." I naively asked what a half and half was and she curtly explained that it meant she started with a blow and then followed through with sex. Even the basics were out of my price range and I drove off. I never did pick up one of those goddesses, but in the long run it probably wasn't worth it.

I worked in a warehouse not more than a mile from the docks, and occasionally in the mornings I would notice used condoms in our parking lot or our loading dock. I asked my boss about it, and he said that at night there were lots of hookers in the area since it's all warehouses, no one really complains. He would just wash the condoms into the gutter, and said he really didn't care if they used the parking lot to turn tricks at night. Intrigued, I headed down there that night.

At first I couldn't find anyone, looking right around where I worked proved useless, but after driving around in circles for a while, I started noticing a couple of areas where girls would step out of shadows or alleyways as people drove by. They certainly didn't make too much of a show of themselves, but once you knew where to look, it seemed like there was a few dozen here and there. Some were old, fat, ugly or had that used up look that junkies get, but some just looked like normal girls. I think I cruised around there for a couple of nights before I finally got the nerve to stop for a girl.

Now, I was 19 at the time, and although I wasn't a virgin, I wasn't very experienced either, and I'd certainly never done anything like this. I wasn't ready in any sense of the word, I didn't have any cash on me, I was nervous and shaking a little and generally more committed to the voyeurism than I was to the act. Then I saw her.

She was not a goddess by any means, but she was really pretty. She had blonde hair, a nice figure with perky, medium sized breasts and was wearing a black cocktail dress. She actually looked a little out of place, a little less trampy than the other girls I'd seen that night.

I pulled over and asked how much. "$60 for a blow, $140 for sex." Get in, I told her. I had to go to the bank machine, but she didn't seem to mind. Up close she looked to me like a pretty girl from a small town, there was something fashionably dated about her hairstyle that made me think that. She didn't look like anyone I knew, but she had that look that a casting director would look for when casting a generic mean girl in high school. Pretty with just a hint of superiority seemed to be part of her natural look. There was something about that that I really liked, I guess you always wanted the pretty unattainable mean girl to be getting into your car for sex. I figured her to be maybe a couple of years older than me, but it could have just been her expression – jaded or a little hardened. I elected for blow job because it seemed like a better way to start and frankly, I really wanted a blow job.

She made me stop at a pay phone for a second, then we chit chatted as I looked for an ATM. She said she was from a small town not too far away and that she had a baby she was trying to support. She volunteered that she wasn't on drugs – I hadn't asked – and it occurred to me that I really didn't care if she was telling the truth. She was smiling when she told me these things, and I think it was obvious to her – by my age or by my demeanor – that I'd never done something like this before. I hit the bank machine, took out $80 and she directed me to a secluded spot where I pulled over. She wasn't rude, she had kind of a flirty way about her and she smiled a lot. I think she could tell I was nervous and she sort of took charge.

She told me to pull my pants down past my knees, I did. I was already hard and she started to put a condom on me. I realized suddenly that with a blow job, I wasn't going to get to see her naked, and suddenly that bothered me. "Wait, I want to play with your tits a little." She told me it would be an extra $40. I offered her the other $20 that I had and without a word she lowered the straps of her dress. I clearly remember her breasts, they were great. Perky, firm, not a hint of sag, big areolas with nipples the size of the tips of one of my fingers. I played with them a little, sucked on one, then the other and then let her get on with her work.

One note on the condom, when she took it out, and I realized that I was getting a blow job while wearing a condom, I didn't complain but I did feel a mix of relief and disappointment. I knew it wasn't going to be as nice as it would be without one, but at the same time, I knew it was as much for my protection as it was for hers.

I've always used condoms when with pros, with a few occasions where a girl surprised me taking my cock into her mouth. Even then, with what they call a bare back blow job, I've never been too comfortable with the idea. I don't want a disease, and if she takes care of herself, she's making it safer for me. Anyway…

She said one thing before going down on me. "Ya got a big dick. You should do porno movies." As she blew me I thought about that. Was that something that hookers were supposed to say? Was it true? I was pretty sure it wasn't. Anyway, in a couple of seconds it all became academic and I leaned back and let her do her work while I half heartedly fondled her breasts.

I didn't last long, she straightened herself out, took the condom off, wrapped it in a tissue and threw it out of the car. She offered me another tissue to wipe up, I did and drove her back to her spot. I cruised that area looking for her again, but never found her. Maybe she moved to a new area, maybe she quit or maybe something happened to her. I never even got a pretend name.

I Was on the Verge of Losing It

I'm 28, a moderately successful and over-educated white guy and I've been seeing prostitutes for about 2 years now.

It started after a really horrible break-up, a death in my family and a job loss all occurred within the same 3 month period. I was dealing with things that were just awful and horrid (wakes, unemployment, depression, relationship dramatics) all the time and I was on the verge of losing it. I did have an inheritance so money wasn't tight at least.

I was on Craigslist one night, bored, lonely and horny. So I wandered to the Erotic Services section. I was pretty put off by most of the ads. I consider myself very liberal and think of the sex industry as generally pretty exploitive and cruel. Seeing all the ads that were clearly put up by very desperate women was anti-arousing really.

Then I saw B's posting. She was a curvy artist who described herself as a 'courtesan'. She posted a Jean-Leon Gerome painting of a reclining Harem girl instead of a face picture. I was curious, called her and booked a session.

She came to my place and was absolutely wonderful. We talked about art, music sex-positive porn, genderfucking, queer theory and BDSM. I've always had kink in my heart but hearing someone so open, so free in expressing it was wonderful. She was an amazing lover and I enjoyed her company as much as the sex. I felt free to experiment, to play and because it was a professional exchange I didn't feel as shy. Not that I was disrespectful of her, but asking your girlfriend to us a strap-on has a lot more nuances to it than asking your 'courtesan'.

I started seeing her once or twice a month and have kept on doing so even though I've been in relationships. I won't lie and say I don't think of it as cheating, it is. I finally stopped when I met a woman who, to be honest, shared a lot of similarities with B. I told B about this and she wished me nothing but happiness. We've spoken a few times since and seen each other socially. It's a bit like work friends after one person has moved to a different job.

B was an eye-opener in a lot of ways. Most of all, she showed me what I really wanted in a partner. My girlfriends before had been very much the type of women I thought my family or friends would approve of. After B I knew I wanted someone who shared not only my kinks but my passions as well. I'm really grateful to her. I've had friends comment on how I've changed and how I've become so much more confident and assured. In no small measure, B is responsible for that.