A regular client for me is someone who has been seeing me for years; there are too many to name, too many to remember in one sitting, there indeed are a select few who have been seeing two or three times a month, every month for years. Men who have transcended the status of client and landed firmly between my legs like a lover. Men who still pay because money keeps sex civilised, bounded. Respectable. Men who occasionally forget to pay and pay me next time because a blissful just fucked state makes me absent-minded. Some men who no longer pay but gift me thousands of pounds here and there. Men, I imagine illicit affairs with. Men whose cum I want dripping out of me. Men who know everything about me, and I know everything about them, names, lives, travel schedules, where they got their last tan from. Men who set up appointments through their work e-mails and e-mail me when I'm away asking when I am back.
Men who have watched me have a crymax post fucking as I settle and crumble under the pressure of being a whore and an academic. Men who know how to fuck, the men I authentically fuck. The real wetness and orgasms, the boundary exploring, the intimate connection that hobbyists try to haggle for but never get. The sore knees and displaced hips. The Battersea set I call them. Educated, smart, intelligent, tall, trustworthy men. Well travelled, accomplished, come complete with a family and a Battersea mortgage. Handsome. So fucking attractive, really bloody handsome with majestic cocks and astonishing abilities to fuck and drip sweat onto me.
Our lives are intertwined, whether we like it or not. Sexually and on social media, so it came as no surprises that one of my weekly husband's wife popped up and followed me on Instagram. I'm not worried, these things happen, and with the interconnectivity between our offline and online selves I am genuinely not surprised at all. Why would I be? I've been looking at her timeline, admiring her constructed visual marriage. We frequent the same places. Dine at the same eateries, fuck the same man, the children all swim at the same Clapham Common paddling pool which is opposite my apartment, where her husband comes to fuck me. Not sure it's jealousy, ambition to be the next Mrs or an inquisitive nature that makes me keep looking at her photos. We travel in the same universe; we exist on different planes that intersect through her husbands' nakedness.
What is interesting though, are the dates on the photos. Two weeks ago a certain Battersea set gent asked if I'd mind flying to Sicily for a quick 24 hours of sun, fucking and passport control. Paid, of course, I did not doubt the genuine nature of his offer, and I liked the idea very much of taking off at Gatwick and having him wait for me. I suitably declined and rationalised it by prioritising PhD deadlines over a penis. The end of it, so I thought. No. He came to me, and I thought nothing of it. He left his holiday, flew back to London, fucked me for five hours and then flew back to Sicily. I know he did this, not because he told me he did, but because a photograph posted to her timeline that came with a comment that they were having a lovely time sans so & so who had to dash back to London for work.
Through her Instagram feed, I see him in his natural state. Adoring father, middle-class traveller, comfortable lifestyle, attentive husband. Quirky dresser. I know better though, know better to believe the visual lies and narratives we tell ourselves through Mediterranean filters, a tilt-shift blur and the hashtag of #happilymarried