My heart was pounding, and my hands were clammy. I had never been with a man while dressed as a female. The knock at the door came after what seemed an eternity, and upon opening it, I was greeted by a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing a very expensive suit. I invited him in and welcomed him, introducing myself as Mona. He told me a little about himself, not taking his eyes off of me. He was a business executive in town for a client meeting. I guessed he was in his mid-forties with black hair, mustache, dark complexion, and stout build. Clearly of mid-Eastern descent. The first move is always awkward, so I walked by him, over to the bed, gently touching his crotch as I passed. Once on the bed, I lay back, assumed a seductive pose and suggested he get more comfortable. He began removing his coat and tie, then unbuttoned his shirt. As he was doing so, I sat up on the bed in front of him and unbuckled his trousers and fly, dropping his pants to the floor. I was very pleased at. Desolation rolled over me like a cold black wave, consuming me in the darkness of its depths and then spitting me out—bare, raw and shivering. Brutal. Complete. The despair of my own emptiness was merciless and amazing. I wanted it. I needed the pain with the same desperation that a beached fish needed water. But if the self-contempt I embraced that night taught me anything, it taught me that we don’t always get what we need. That everybody has problems. That we adapt. That either we suck it up and move on or we shrivel up and blow away. So as I always do, I did the right thing. But I did the right thing knowing that without water, no one sucks or blows anything for very long.Lucky for me I was alone the entire day following that fiasco and Jason-free for six more days after that. I couldn’t sleep and didn’t feel like doing anything else, so I had a lot of time to lie around, wallow and imagine creative ways to hurt myself. If nobody else wanted that fun I would at least fantasize.
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