I am not proud of this, but here goes ...
My wonderful significant other, man of my dreams, my most precious, ubertalented Lionstar, was engaged to a Sewercide Girl. Oops, Suicide Girl.
There. Feels better now that I've gotten it out in the open.
Suicide Girls, for those of you not in the know, comprised one of the first all-girl porn sites that made a heavy-handed effort to go mainstream. It was also the first of its kind to use terms like "female empowerment" in conjunction with semi-styled photos of heavily-inked, multi-pierced young women licking each other's privates. The Suicide Girl rally cry is, "We're smart! We're sexy! We have something important to say!" Which of course, as anyone knows, is horseshit. There are no Suicide Girls who are definitively ugly, but let's be honest here; without the frank nudity, these poor kids wouldn't be featured on any type of fetish site for love or money. (Just look below the neck, boys.) And secondly, if a woman does have a gem of wisdom to impart to the world at large, chances are that she won't have to flash her tits while she says it.
But I digress.
The creature who captured by beloved's heart was named "Debra Jean." I'd tell you her porn name, but it's so over the top, it gives me nervous giggles. I remember the first time I emailed a friend in New York City that I was dating a wonderful guy named (Lionstar). Her response came back immediately: "OMFG! CALL. ME. NOW." I did, and she flew into an uncomely story of how she'd brushed cheeks with Miss D in NYC during her stint as a ... (oh God, please help me say it ...) ... a pole dancer (::shudder::). Friend seemed to know a lot about Miss D, not too much of which was flattering. Friend then gave me a detailed description of certain very unique body parts on Miss D that I really didn't wanna know about. Let's take a step back for a moment. When total strangers are hearing about the unique appearance of your privates, despite the fact that they have never seen them, it might be time to think about a fresh start. In another country. Where there is no Internet access. Or at least hope for entry into the Witness Protection Program.
What went on between my guy and her is unarguably none of anybody's business except their own; I'm not about to blog about what he's told me in detail. Suffice it to say that predictably, the relationship ended badly, and that predictably, there was cheating involved, and that predictably, the one doing the cheating did it on the bankroll of the other. Not too hard to figure that one out, kids, was it? To this day, he confesses a deep-seated fear of being used and/or cheated on, a sentiment expressed by most males who've been rolled by women in the sex industry. "Why the fuck -? I mean, why the fuck!" I ranted at him on a couple of occasions. It's hard to be temperate about this issue. How can an intelligent man of above-average looks and success fall for the age-old siren song of the sex worker? Maybe it does have something to do with not having a father when growing up. I know his mom, and let's just say that she's also the intelligent sort. I doubt it ever occurred to her to counsel him on the appropriate use of titty bars, which is for bachelor parties and the night you decide to eat a bullet. Or that someone whose privates have been complimented by milions probably isn't going to make the best wife material.
Confession. I've never dated a man who's had a relationship with a sex worker. I would have never considered it before I met this particular guy. I suspect, with some of the guys I've gone out with, that they've frequented sex workers and have gotten their jollies (safely, we hope), but they're not about to talk about it. It's a tough row to hoe from my end of things. Part of me fears that people will assume that I've flogged my skin at some point in time. An innate instinct to prove to others that I am *not* like my guy's ex causes me to act out in uniquely desperate ways when I meet new people: "Hi, I study law, and there is not one naked picture of me in existence, especially not on the Internet." And despite my guy's admission that the relationship was a mistake that he would not repeat, I still ask myself certain questions. If he's had shit taste in women in the past, does that mean that I'm the most recent embodiment of that as well? Is there something in him that is inherently attracted to sex workers? Is this going to be an ongoing problem in our relationship? These questions keep me in a state of indecisiveness and prevent me from making a final commitment to this wonderful man who I know doesn't deserve to be penalized for his past.
I also know that my justified criticism of his choice in women is somewhat negated by the fact that I'm a hypocrite. A long time ago in an Austin far, far away, I dated a couple of men who were, quite honestly, puddle slime. One was a multi-tattooed alcoholic who was as slutty as they come. His reputation around town was such that my roommate at the time refused to let him into our apartment. She had the right idea; he tried to engage me to pierce his privates, at which point I fled. The other was a weekend gigolo. I suspected something of the sort, due to his pervasive narcissism and fondness for tossing his hair over his shoulders like a girl. When I found out the naughty truth, we were in Dallas. I left his overtly soliciting ass on a corner in Deep Ellum for a much-older, wealthy client to pick up, and I don't regret it. If I ran into either of them on the street, I'd walk the other way. I would not speak their names in polite company, and I thank God that neither met my mother. I am ashamed, utterly and entirely, that these men had anything to do with me.
I have no excuses. I can only say that during these brief, tacky sojourns, my self-esteem was in the crapper (that's why they didn't last more than a few weeks). I can't speak for my fella. I know that this particular relationship lingers in his mind the most. I sometimes feel that he blames himself for falling in love with her. I suspect that he's sometimes ashamed. I know that he's torn. You're not supposed to fall in love with a person like this one - one who is reviled in polite society. And yet it happens. A raging case of the hormones has the same effect as beer goggles, only we have less impunity and fewer excuses. As for me, I find that it matters to me less and less over time that he once loved a sex worker. Something about the experience of it must have been slightly dangerous and as over the top as she is. Something about it must have been magic and new, filled with excitement and rash promises ...
... at least until the money ran out.