kissing, the memory, and the aftermath

Another dirty and decidedly deleterious post in the eyes of the right from surgeon today.

It’s a diary day, por supesto.

To begin.

I’d like to talk about kissing. I enjoy kissing. Even with clients, when they have an aesthetic I can manage. I have often been told I’m a great kisser, which means nothing, but that I am a chameleon, a basset hound, and can judge taste and type with my lips. I am interested in the myriad of expressions one can find in a kiss. But I have one question. Why lead with the tongue? It happens far too often. Who really thinks it’s sexy to come at someone tongue first? Is it that the tongue represents the cock, and you feel called to demonstrate your manhood by emulating your erection with your tongue? It’s not hot. No, really. It’s not.

Second.

Yesterday, I have this call. Someone I’ve seen once before, who I cannot remember. I remember his voice, vaguely, but his name is common, and his words are nondescript. I am occasionally put in a position where I do not recall the type of session I had with someone. I remember them, perhaps, but not their proclivities. Which puts me on the spot. “Would you like to have a massage today? or…?” He responds with a, “yes, last time you gave me a massage, it was great!” Not enough details. Did I fuck this man, trample this man, tie this man up, tantric massage? Or what? I can’t figure it out. I hint, I suggest, I insinuate. Nothing. No clues, no answers, and then he arrives at my door.

I’m primarily concerned because of the price difference. If I give him something he didn’t pay for, I’ll be irritated. But if I don’t take it there, and he’s left the full fare in the envelope…I’ll have to do damage control, and I hate that.

He says, “Oh yeah, when you asked me if you’d seen me before I realized I should have said that I’m the guy who thinks you’re the perfect woman, ha. ha. ha.”

“Ha. ha. ha. You’re soooo funny!” Because that’s such an original line, I recall…still nothing.

So I throw him on the table and start massaging, hoping body contact will call up some memories. But no. I investigate his hands, his calves, his shoulderblades. Work out his kinks/make conversation/guide his breath/recall nothing/I am staring at a body I have stared at before/one month/maybe more/I can’t remember/I imagine fucking you/kissing you/putting on a condom/offering you a shower/sucking on your earlobe/it is not familiar/you are not familiar/

in spite of/

sex/

or not sex/

or odd sex/

or this.

vanilla/

day.

I am shocked by my own brain.

I retain the useful information/more

or less/

But did I kiss you/fuck you/kick you/suck you/

apparently not the kind of information I have subconsciously deemed necessary. I am fascinated by my capacity for subconscious triage. File and refile. Dredge up when necessary. I can smell danger a mile away, the pattern of a phone number is enough to set off alarm bells. But the pleasantries disappear/with time/and money/and personality.

I remember every detail of a lover/how many hangnails/the cuntcocklipssockswhatever. But work is work, and he is a perfect client. Respectful, unmemorable, untraceable in the annals of my mind. So I fuck him anyway, just in case. Because he represents something, something I appreciate. Because I can, and I might as well.

We’re here for the hour, it’s been a long day, my hands are getting tired.

thinking of you,

Surgeon

One Response

  1. I’d like to compliment you on how descriptive your story is. Also how articulate you are. I felt as if I were re-living your experience. I myself have entertained those same thoughts, had those same feelings and questioned myself. Thank you for giving me something to reflect on. Britt.

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