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[EDITOR’S NOTE — This is Chapter One of the Fungasm Press title, HUMAN FURNITURE (AND THE SEARCH FOR THE PERFECT WOMAN). Reprinted here as part of the Indiegogo campaign, now entering its second and final week!]

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A Typical Session

The Beginning is the End is the Beginning”

~Smashing Pumpkins

Time to get up. I can’t sleep when the sun starts poking its business through the Roman shade. In the morning, I’m all business and it’s time to check emails before the rest of my day as an entrepreneur commences. There’s a promise of a nap if I have a session past 2 AM. Night is the time for deviant thoughts and quiet fantasies when I’m too tired to judge their stability. Darkness has always been a blanket and a friend, warm and intimate with plenty of false promises told extravagantly well.

What is a sessionist, a session wrestler? Let’s take a look at the sexual provider world.

On one end, you have the prostitution business, a land in which you can find almost anyone to do almost anything, regardless of how much the provider despises what’s she’s being asked to do. On the other side, what the BDSM world calls a Mistress, in which you can find almost anyone not to care how much you suffer at her expense. Loosely translated, escorts are paid to say “yes.” Dominas are paid to say “no.”

In the very center where gravity has its most settling effect lay the land of session wrestlers or women who care what you’d like to do as long as it doesn’t exceed their own boundaries. Don’t get me wrong, you can mix n’ match. The ambiguity is thick like pea soup, but for now, trust me when I say it’s all about the intention.

This gray area holds wrestling, domination, sexuality, fantasy, you name it. That’s where I am. I have swung to both sides of the extreme, like an enormous pendulum in a grandfather clock, digging away the seconds one scoop at a time.

It begins with a simple email. I’ve had a professional website going over six years. At one time it was very odd to broadcast one’s own dimensions, attributes, and talents in hopes of finding likable partners looking for the same. Now it’s commonplace to view myself or rather Scarlett as a marketable commodity. A gallery, contact page, erotica, nothing but cyber postcards really. The blush has faded from the rose.

I don’t post my phone number because I don’t want potential harassers, poor kids stuck in the basement diddling for phone sex, religious nut jobs, or stalkers. My disclaimer on my site is typical legal limbo:

By entering, you agree to the following:

1. That you are a minimum of at least 18 years of age.

2. Viewing of adult material is legal within your community and state.

3. You are not offended by adult material.

4. You are not employed by, or an agent of, law enforcement.

5. You will not allow the contents of this site to be viewed by anyone under the age of 18.

6. You will not copy, or use, alter, or steal any part of this website for use elsewhere.

7. You understand that money exchanged for services is simply for time and companionship only. Anything that may or may not occur is a matter of personal choice between two or more consenting adults of legal age and is not contract for, requested to be contracted for or compensated for in any manner. Any offer of prostitution, though understandable if you’re just sharing a fantasy, will more than likely piss me off. I’m a lady. Treat me as such and we’ll be fast confidantes.

This is posted for the same reason coffee cups, department stores, rental cars, hotels, restaurants, and public pools have some sort of tiny script stating the obvious; the establishment is not liable for injury. I’m fairly certain that one guest out of a hundred actually reads this.

It’s time to change up the website. It’s been the same layout, same header, same message for over a year. I view the Scarlett site like I view shoes, hairstyles, costuming, make-up, and all other fancy wrappings of commercialism. In the age of instant gratification, the “newness” factor is what attracts and keeps the green enthusiasts, whereas the hardcore fans are those that want to see I equal their passion for the sport.

From the feedback I’ve received, there are a number of reasons my clientele is attracted to Scarlett. The writing is a big part and confirms my belief that most men who are intelligent look for extra curricular activities that are as discerning as their fantasies. More than a picture, a story, a cookie-cutter greeting, they desire a conversation. The sexy pictures of one’s self in provocative display doesn’t hurt, either.

To generalize, the perfect woman is forever evolving but at her core she is everything a man could wish for: beautiful face, athletic but feminine body, and a rapier mind capable of turning his life upside down. This is a woman who can reflect everything a man wants to believe about himself.

One out of ten emails sounds like this:

Hey, you’re really hot! I wanna wrestle you in a school girl outfit like Britney Spears.”

Once perhaps, this ideal woman made a man feel ten feet tall and that was her job. I want to dress the unknown offender like a Barbie doll and throw him to the G.I. Joes. I don’t. Even if that bi-line is weak, there is a human beneath it, and even if I’m not the right outlet, I can at least direct him to a more adequate route. Times are changing.

It takes serious balls to actively seek out something considered against the norm, and super balls to invest hard-earned money and time in an earnest hope that it happens with the same person advertised.

When you add the risk level, the fact that you never really know exactly who you’re talking to, the possibilities of mishap are endless. Might as well sign up for an experimental drug or take a desert drive in a pimped out Cadillac sandwiched between two dime-slinging G’s.

When it comes down to the bare bones of why some women succeed at desirability and others don’t, I’d say the Beauty Pageant is 90% responsible at first sight.

After catching a man’s attention, the real skill is in communicating a level of competence and invitation without coming across as desperate for work. I have to check the mirror for comparisons, I have to define what is beautiful and what is real, I have to be the fantasy. Research, society, and my own ideals of how a dominant, self-assured woman walks her talk pave the way in boring details that become vital in a really cool story. Or not.

Some folks like the natural look, face scrubbed and youthful starry-eyed ambivalence of a swinging ponytail. Others, they aren’t getting much glamor at home and a red-lipsticked coiffed pedigree rings their bell for all its lethal feminism. The perfect balance in this niche is a mix of both. Either way, you’re going to wrestle and you’re going to sweat that make-up off. Best not to gild the lily when it will surely wilt layers of plaster.

I don’t remember my real hair color. Have no clue. When my days are done and they are roasting me in a furnace somewhere, I will still have colorful hair. This isn’t without work and a healthy wad of dough. Dye jobs fade quickly and I like hot showers. The same goes with nails, which reminds me, it’s time for a manicure. These puppies are more addictive than peanut M&Ms. I love changing the length, the color, the shape. I’ve played with them so long I never worry about scratching my playmates.

I have to find a nurse uniform for later this week. I take costume requests. Villains, secretaries, 1980’s GLOW girl, fitness instructor, pin-up femme fatale, Roman Goddess, the list goes on. Halloween is never a problem. Playing dress up gets me in the mood. The more tools I have, the more I will embody the fantasy.

At any rate I don’t have time to attend to rituals today. I have an early appointment. 11 AM. These aren’t so bad. They always make me feel like I’m going to the gym for personal trainer abuse.

The client in question, I’ve put him off two separate times in the last three days. Scheduling conflicts. I hate when this happens, I feel bad about it. Everyone’s time is as important as mine. If I’m completely honest, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to go to this one. He’s staying Downtown and I hate Downtown hotels. The casinos are caves, low mirrored ceilings that reflect dingy carpets, dingy lights, dingy slot machines. The cocktail waitresses are grand-mothered in and they wear that fact on their faces. The patrons of these hotels could be beaten down retirees spending their pension or youngsters busing their way across the desert. Downtown is getting a makeover. Downtown is the best place to score drugs without trying.

Because my guy is so amendable to my hectic schedule, I feel indebted. It’s also his story, or the short nibble that he gave me in email, that encourages me to pull up the bootstraps and be my word. A Vegas trip was a yearly staple for him and his wife. Ten years running, his girl had loved to wrestle and yet he was here alone, a fact I vaguely catalogued as important.

Walking into any hotel/casino has become forever branded in my mind as going to work even when I’m not there for work. A discreet dress, a business suit, sunglasses, hair up, I try to look executive and unapproachable. From the parking garage to the guest elevators, my stride eats up the distance like I’m late for a corporate luncheon. Not that my kind are targeted by the city in a wrestling ring crack-down, it’s the principle. I am not flashy. Flashy means attention. Neither my guy nor I need or want the extra attention.

I breathe through my mouth in halls that look and smell like bleach, beer, and spilled bong-water. I find his door and shove a piece of gum into my mouth. Half of my day feels like used chewing gum. He has already displaced furniture, stripping the top sheet of the Queen-sized bed and laid it on a 10 x 10 square where we will throw down.

A is quiet and resigned. He smiles but doesn’t engage. Once upon a time I thought men like this opened the door and were disappointed at what they found. Conspiracy theory would take over. The language of The Assumption. I’m not thin enough, buff enough, pretty enough, skilled enough. None of that was true but it gave me the opportunity to prove myself, to myself, over and over, which stuck as empowering over time. What doesn’t kill you and all.

To look and feel his energy now, his reticence isn’t about me. It’s never about me but every woman he’s experienced in his life. Put them all together, ideally, that’s his perfect woman. He’s quiet because he’s a private person, his generation doesn’t spill the beans to those they don’t know.

Probably in his mid-40’s, this is my range. From the 21-year-old burgeoning alcoholics to the 72 year-old veterans that play, most are middle-aged and have the same story with varying details.

Imagine that you are young, very young and at the cusp of sexual awakening. Puberty isn’t discussed, it’s dealt with under flannel sheets and quaking wet dreams of unknown origin. Before this, before sex mattered and took over, you are innocent and free to play with nothing more than the sun as a dinner-time guardian. There’s a girl down the street. She’s just a girl and nothing more yet. The idea of dating and mating hasn’t been introduced outside of the unspoken glances your folks sometimes share over coffee. She is a Cop and you are the Robber. She is the Indian, you are the Cowboy. You share things with her, bugs, cartoons, secrets and then you forget what you tell her because there’s no such thing as stress and it’s time to play tag.

You live on a block where people don’t speed, where everyone knows each other, and kids that disrespect their elders, their mothers, it’s the belt when Dad gets home. You live in a world where Dad comes home.

The little girl down the street, she’s bigger than you. It’s a growth spurt thing but you don’t know this. All you know is that she’s bigger than you and that makes her the boss. You like this. It feels good. She’s a fun version of your mom, if you could picture your mom as a kid.

When you find her in the grass field at the end of the street, this is how you will define feeling happy for the rest of your life. With the sun in her hair, she’s a chameleon in the tall grass and you, dumb as stump, race after her.

This is where it all starts, the altering of your adult fantasies, your DNA, your mate-finding criteria. She’s a blur of color you lose behind a crop of trees and while you’re looking for her, she hits you from behind. This will continue to happen to you for the rest of your life.

When she takes you to the ground, when her weight knocks the breath out of you and you inhale dirt and grass and twigs, the sweet tang of summer sticky skin, and that subtle fragrance, something you know nothing about, her pheromones, this becomes your Heaven on Earth.

Because you’re a male, because you’ve watched men and been programmed for years already, you know you’re supposed to resist. You’re supposed to dominate.

“Hey! Get off me.” You somewhat mean this.

She bounces on your tough, tender body and pins your arms down. Helplessness is now in your vocabulary.

This scenario and thousands like it, from this impressionable age of youth before you’re jaded and hardened by all the things you’re supposed to do and feel as a man or woman, gay or straight, cross-dresser or transgender, tall or short, you get my drift, will be forever implanted as what you need and want and crave. No matter what you do in life, who you screw in all the ways you’ll screw them or be screwed by them, this will be your ultimate button, the launch pad to which all orgasms will stem.

That’s not such a bad life.

A and I have been wrestling a good twenty minutes. It’s old school, respectful, considerate athleticism. He’s trying to pin me, I’m trying to avoid carpet burns. Both to no avail. At intermission, we wipe sweat from our faces and let the heart rate calm between sips of water. This is the appropriate time to chat.

It’s always the same for me, the inevitable prying. I like the wrestling, the domination, but what I love is the story. No matter how many times I hear it, I never get tired of hearing someone unravel themselves. A’s story is similar to the one above with a little adjustment.

I’ve forgotten why A is here, too busy, too much on my mind, too many other thoughts crowding for attention. He sits red-faced on a worn blanket seen by thousands of parched and used bodies. His voice is factual, almost pleasant.

Every year for ten years he and his girl would come to Vegas. It was their time off for good behavior. This girl, she was special. He taught her how to wrestle and she loved it. She loved controlling him, driving him crazy, and he loved her loving that power. He was a blessed man. This open-mindedness led to a flexible relationship free of jealousy and possession in which excitement and passion could be shared with an extra playmate. There wasn’t a need for cheating, deception, or lies. Guilt and shame didn’t have a place in their home.

Until one day his wife meets a different kind of girlfriend that offers her a line of blow. Maybe it was crack, he’ll never know, he never heard the same version twice. In the parking lot of a bar, this was the beginning of the end.

Not one to bail, he stuck around as she did rehab and worked the steps. Eleven months clean and he believes they may have cleared the speed bump to greener pastures. A month before their anniversary, she’s gone off to work and there’s a knock at the door. It’s her mom.

My bikini is sticking to me. Wet with sweat, it rides my crack without mercy. Half of my life is a wedgie and I don’t notice. He’s got my full attention. I’ve heard worse, much worse. Some of my sessions, the child-men I play with have been through tortures that make this look like a tea party.

It’s not the details of his story, it’s the way he says it. He could be giving me the stats of the last Phillies double-hitter. He couldn’t possibly be talking about how the love of his life drowned their future in a guest bathroom he’d helped paint.

This is a man resigned. No victim here. No depression-laden black circles under his eyes, no use taking responsibility for something that wasn’t his to own. Just acceptance for what was and what is.

It’s this that got me. This makes me come back for more. This happens to me all the time.

We wrestle again, rolling around on a sheet smelling of chemicals and dead skin. I’m pinning him and laughing because he’s not here to feel sorry for himself or impress me with his bad luck.

What I feel, the geyser-style leaks breaking the dam of my composure, isn’t what he wants or needs. My job is very, very simple and it’s why he waited so patiently for me to make time.

He has a hard-on. For one second, two seconds, I consider, really consider giving his pecker a conciliatory hand job. A pity wank. If he’d been less of a man, if I’d respected him less, I might have done it to make us both feel better.

But that’s not why I’m here.

I’m here to take him away from that, to when he was a child and this kind of heartache didn’t exist. I’m here to remind him that he was once happy because it was easy. His choice, his to remember. I wouldn’t be here otherwise and here is that young kid running through the grass, never knowing when he’s going to get blindsided.

When I am dressed, having left my filters on the blanket of a room I almost didn’t make it to, we hug. I kiss his cheek and tell him I’m really glad we met. He lets me hold him longer than expected. I squeeze him even as I feel him pull back into himself. He might not have pinned me, but right now I want to leave him with something, some kernel of my love and admiration, even if it’s in the form of an embrace.

Driving home, I’m left to myself again. I’m more humbled than when I came, more compassionate, more understanding about everyone that finds me. There’s every chance I’ll never see A again and that’s fine. Whether it was for a moment, an hour, I can’t help but feel I got lucky. I could have missed this.

It’s like this every time I step outside long enough to see a story other than my own. It’s the jacket lining of a soul, a heart turned inside out, the vulnerability of a newborn, and the surrender of the old.

It’s why I session.

And it’s just another day.

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