She Makes Me Feel Special

15 Apr

One hundred dollars an hour. That is what it takes for her to listen to me. 

I march in. She tell no one I was there.

I sit on her couch. The springs poke into my back and I half-wonder why she hasn’t bought a new one. But the couch is not important. I don’t come here for the couch. I come here, like so many others. I come here for her.

In her presence it is difficult not to mislead myself, I know I’m not the only one. Her feelings for me are strictly professional.

I don’t care.

It never feels that way. For one hour I feel like I am all that matters to her. Sometimes we sit around and there is only small talk between us. All about the weather and celebrity gossip.

Other days I let her penetrate me. 

Sometime she goes so deep it awakens sensations I have never felt before. That I wasn’t even aware existed. It scares me.

When I cry, she keeps pushing. I like it.

At the end. I feel more at peace. As if all the parts of me, fragmented by the constant pounding of everyday life, have melted and reformed in a smooth circle.

One hundred dollars an hour feels like a bargain. 

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