Message-ID: <54889asstr$1163509801@assm.asstr.org>
From: "Jack C. Lipton" <cupasoup@pele.cx>
Subject: {ASSM} Lip Service (MF oral rom)
Lines: 475
Date: Tue, 14 Nov 2006 08:10:01 -0500
Path: assm.asstr.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Author: Jack C Lipton
Title: Lip Service
Part: 
Universe: Family Values
Summary: If I have to explain sex, you wouldn't understand.
Keywords: MF oral rom
Revision: $Revision: 1.4 $
Archive: /~CupaSoup/
Mailing List: 
FAQ: 
RCS: $Id: lipService.x,v 1.4 2006/11/14 04:05:02 jcl Exp $



			Lip Service

		      by Jack C Lipton

Stepping out on one's relationship to find something you
feel is missing is usually frowned upon, especially when
"what you are missing" is sexual.  In so many other needs we
seldom have the emotional conflict with our partner.

But, then, I'm not talking about eating lunch with my
co-workers, or chatting with an on-line friend, or getting a
lawn service to do the yard, or going to a football game
with a friend, either, since none of those things are as
fraught with peril as exchanging bodily fluids with someone
who enjoys doing so with you.

My story is actually pretty common--  a wife with priorities
that didn't include my base, animalistic drives, leaving me
feeling, well, neglected.

You know, the kind of relationship that, whenever you hear
your spouse say "I love you", you echo it, then ask "what's
wrong?" or "what's on your mind?", all because you usually
find out she wants you to do some work for her.

This is the kind of relationship where I wonder why I bother
to take my next breath.  The kind of relationship where I
actively avoid being around her.  The kind of life that does
not seem worth living, too.

There are times when I wished I didn't have a "Y" chromosome
and could be as sexless as my wife, but, then, I never did
find cleaning the house, or having someone clean the house
for me, or being able to complain about the behavior of my
adult children a replacement for sex, much less a _good_
replacement for sex.  It must be very different for someone
who has a mind capable of ignoring the call of the gonads,
so different I cannot imagine or empathize.

In hindsight, it's likely that I *can't* understand.

But, then, my wife can't empathize with *my* feelings on the
matter... and suspect she's given up trying.

Assuming she's ever tried.

But, then, I'm probably editing my memories again, since I'm
so seldom right in my recall.

There is a point beyond which self-doubt becomes far more
destructive than merely keeping one humble.  The point where
you'd doubt that anyone could ever want you, that, if you
left your spouse, you would be alone.  For the rest of your
life.

Oh, I spent some time using porn to keep my right hand in
motion, making myself feel better, waiting for my wife to
wake up and smell the semen.  It wasn't that effective in
keeping my urges at bay, however, since I craved connecting
with a lover on an emotional level.  Just the mechanical
action, as good as it felt to keep my prostate drained, was
not sustainable much longer.

The point where you are certain that the only way to get a
woman to look at you is by paying her to do so.

So I decided to pay for some action.

I did decide to go cheap, however.  I limited the services I
would pay for to oral sex.

You know, blow jobs.  I found them affordable.

I'll tell you now that the first time is, well...

It's hard to talk about this, but I felt like shit, after
that first time.  It was exciting, yes, but the post-blow
letdown was difficult on me because I felt like all of the
sexual contact I'd ever get for the rest of my life would
have to be via a direct commercial transaction.

The really odd thing is that I was ready the next week to do
it again.  So I did.  The post-sexual letdown didn't go as
deep as the first time.  I thanked the girl better this time
around.

You know, it isn't easy being a part of the problem of
prostitution rather than a part of the solution, but, hell,
I had needs that my wife didn't see as important for her to
pay attention to, which meant, by extension, that *I* wasn't
worthy enough of her attentions.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm trying to justify my decision.  Mind
you, I wasn't alone.  I wonder how my wife justified some of
her choices, too, though that's just my excuse... which, to
be honest, doesn't really excuse anything.

If this was what it took for me to feel good, though, at
least now some of my paycheck would directly benefit me.
The rest of the money my wife handled didn't seem to be
benefitting me excepting for the times I got the fall-out
where she'd make a meal for a guest, friends, or her church
group, and I'd get a serving.

So, for once, I could now follow the money in this little
commercial transaction and see where it did something for
*me* and *my* feelings.

My wife would call me selfish.  Maybe she'd be right, but I
was tired of feeling selfless.  I suspect that there was
some kind of balance here.

I'd love to claim that there was some justice in this, too.

But, then, I'm not sure I wouldn't be lying.

Over time, and a desire to not visit the same area, I found
different places and even tried out a club.  What I didn't
pay attention to was how close this club was to the local
University.

It was my third time in the club that I met Jan.

Jan was different from the hookers I'd used before.  For one
thing, she was older, I figured somewhere in her early to
mid twenties.  We hit it off and went out to my minivan...

I'd had somewhat more skilled hookers before Jan, though she
seemed to adapt to me, and, by the time she had me spew my
load into her mouth, none of the others were even in the
ball park any more.

I think the post blow-job letdown didn't happen because of
how she looked at me when I came as our eyes met.  Add to
this how we talked a bit before we went back into the club
and shared a drink and continued to talk.

Before I left I made sure to get her pager number.

The good news is that my wife doesn't pay much attention to
me when I walk in, especially if she's in the middle-- or,
worse, near the end-- of a TV program or movie.  If she had
I think the fact that I had a real bounce in my step for the
first time in years would have been suspicious.

Jan and I got together on a regular basis which, even though
it was a commercial relationship, did wonders for me.  In
hindsight, she did more for me than my shrink ever did.

Between her talking to me like a desirable human being *and*
the way she looked into my eyes, I think I was falling for
her.  I saw all kinds of wonderful things reflected in her
eyes.

It is not easy to feel good about yourself when your sexual
contact is directly paid for.  Hell, even in marriage, sex
may be a commercial transaction even though the currency is
less recognizable by being laundered through non-monetary
forms.

But, something in Jan's eyes...

Only she knew what she saw in *my* eyes.  I'd be afraid to
ask.  All I could do is look at her face, my hard-on in her
mouth, her lips curved around it, looking like she was happy
and smiling, with me stroking her hair, cupping her cheek...
and resisting the urge to pull her mouth down onto it.

Well, time to change the subject a bit...

I have spent a lot of my time avoiding depression.  Work got
more over-time from me, you see, even though I never saw a
dime of it, being a salaried employee.  Work got such a big
share of my time because it was a good excuse to avoid
spending too much time home with my wife.

Yeah, I know, "too much time" is relative.  Sometimes, even
five minutes was too much time.  I'll admit, though, there
were times that twelve hours wasn't ENOUGH time to spend
with her, but I'd find myself paying for it emotionally.

Mind you, she blamed *me* for _her_ depression.

Hell, I might *be* a part of her depression, after all, it
felt like I wasn't good enough for her!

So there I was, getting flashbacks of Jan's face looking, if
not happy, somewhat pleased with her performance.  This did
put a quite a spring into my step.

As a regular customer of Jan's, I enjoyed the times we got
together.  Many times it was a chance to talk to someone who
seemed to be asking me useful questions to get me to talk
about myself.

I'm an idiot, right?

I wasn't paying attention to the fact that talking was an
anomalous behavior for a sex-worker.  I ignored my prior
experiences given how I met Jan and that she seemed to be
more of an escort than street walker.  Her rates were also
higher, but, given how I felt after spending time with her,
it was a vast improvement.

When I first started looking for hookers it was on Friday
afternoons.  Before meeting Jan I'd switched to Mondays,
when my wife would usually have her church group meeting.
Jan and I started to have a light dinner together, talk, she
would bring up the blow job, we'd do that, then wind back
down by sitting and talking some more.

Again, there were oddities that I was blind to.  She was a
bright young woman, actually older than her looks by five
years, being almost thirty, but she didn't talk much about
herself.

Now realize that, at over 50, I am *no* Adonis.  If I ever
wore a speedo to the beach, the manufacturer would have me
shot on sight, simply for showing how evil an eyesore the
suit could enable.  Likewise, Jan was a bit of an odd duck,
body wise, with a pretty enough face, an almost flat chest
and wide hips with a tiny butt and well muscled legs.

I have to admit Jan's legs were attractive.  Someday, I did
dream, I'd have my face between 'em.

So Jan's bodily accouterments weren't going to drag guys in
like droves, but, when you got to talk to her, and look in
her eyes...

Her eyes were beautiful.  When she is happy, or even
pleased, they seemed to glow.

I also didn't realize how much pleasure her mouth could give
me, especially when it was only being used to talk to me.  I
got hooked on having conversations with her, a kind of aural
sex that more than occasionally left me feeling better *not*
being deep-throated.

She was wonderful.  Even when we didn't have sex...

Clinton claimed that oral attention isn't sex.

And, yeah, in some ways, he's right, but, in other ways, he
was *way* wrong.  Sometime talk is *better* than sex.

In any case, Jan left me feeling better about myself than I
had *ever* felt.  As I've said before, she was better than a
shrink, even though I couldn't charge her time against the
insurance company, simply because she could help me find a
semblance of balance and other things to feel good about.

My wife isn't the only person who is blind to others, you
know.  I was blind, too.  I didn't realize...

Jan was a grad student, going for a Masters in Social Work.

I was, I learned, one of her projects.  One of four.  And I
had been so easily flattered that the idea of sharing her
with other men never occurred to me.

So I learned more of her history, being told that she'd been
married, had a child, gotten divorced, then went back to
school, so that she could get her degree, then a Masters, to
get a good job to support herself and her child.

She'd finally opened up to me about *her* life, right after
she graduated.  She did not need the extra money renting her
mouth to any of us any longer... and I was suddenly lost.

After seeing her for seven months I'd become dependant upon
her smile, her happy eyes...

I spent some time suffering in hell, feeling lost.  I had no
energy left over to even wonder if my wife noticed my
distress.

There is no doubt in my mind that God smiled on me while I 
was in the depths of despair, for, the next week she called
*me* while I was at work.

"Dinner?"  I echoed, surprised at her suggestion.  It was a
shock since I felt the warmth run all the way through my
body hearing her voice.  I couldn't believe I could hurt by
missing someone so terribly.

"Yes," replied a voice that populated my dreams and
fantasies.

"The regular place?  And time?"  I asked, salivating.

"No, take down this address..." and I was scribbling quickly
to get an address.  And a phone number, too.

My feet didn't hurt that afternoon.  I think I was floating
several inches above the floor.  I have no idea if any of my
co-workers noticed or not... or cared.

The address was an apartment.  Her apartment.  I damn near
came in my pants to find her answering the door.  It was a
*huge* expression of trust that she'd let me know where she
and her seven year old daughter lived.

We spent time putting dinner together and amusing Kimmy, who
had a much lighter color to her skin than her mom did, and I
felt comfortable surrounded by both of them.  I couldn't
stay for long, of course, but ... I didn't want to leave.

Before I got out the door Jan asked me "Next Monday?"

I nodded.  Damn right I'd be there.

With Kimmy around there was no sex but the relief of seeing
Jan again made any kind of sexual contact superfluous.  Over
the next two months, time flew by like a whirlwind.  Kimmy
got used to me and would cuddle on my lap and go to sleep.

One evening changed everything.  Kimmy was asleep in my lap
and Jan sat next to me on the couch, her hand in mine, the
CD player running in the background, when Jan told me that
she wished we could have more.

I smiled and pointed to Kimmy "I'd sure like to make some of
these with you, you make wonderful children."

Yeah, yeah, my paternal feelings had already kicked in.  I'd
raised two children from my wife's ex-husband and had given
her one of my own, and, having come from a large family, I
really had wanted more children.

An odd impulse, no?  Children aren't good for a marriage
because one of the parents is likely to consider children
far more important than the part of the relationship that
made them possible.  Unless both in a marriage have the same
mind-set, one will resent the other for their divided
loyalties.

Even with my children as adults, my wife put more of her
mind in being an active grandmother.

It was while this ran through my head that Jan's phone rang.

The look on her face when she answered it could have been
used on a poster for a horror movie and she was shaky when
she finally hung it back up, never speaking a word.

If she'd had less color in her skin I think she would have
turned white.  The color faded enough that she didn't look
comfortable.

"Jack, that was your wife.  She identified herself... and
said that you need not bother coming home, especially since
she changed all of the locks."

It was my turn.  Unlike Jan, I *could* turn white.

You know, I'm not the suspicious sort, but my wife later
made it clear that she'd hunted down the phone numbers that
had called me in my cell phone and figured enough out... and
had even followed me one Monday afternoon, to confirm that I
was seeing someone else.  Jan's female voice on the phone
was the final confirmation, but, by that time, my wife Helen
had gotten everything in motion.

The irony of it all arose in the divorce process.  Helen's
attorney had apparently started out as sympathetic-- after
all, *she* was a divorced woman, too-- but, in meetings, and
the psych evaluations to prove that the marriage was
irretrievably broken, pointed out that my wife "had better
things to do" than to be there for her husband.

It did not hurt me that our child together was an adult.  Or
that I had supported her and the older two children, putting
them through school when her ex-husband did his damndest to
not have two dimes to rub together.

Dissolution of marriage proceedings aren't instant;  there's
a time period involved, and the main thrust is to ensure
legal and financial disconnection of the parties in an
equitable fashion.

As husband and wife we had been emotionally disconnected for
so long that there was less stress on me than I would have
believed possible.  If anything, it was a sense of relief.

Oddly enough, I made out like a bandit, all by trying to be
as reasonable as possible.

Divorce law, I was told, doesn't exist to "punish" either
partner.  The judge we started out with, once he'd seen the
paperwork, decided to pass us to a female judge, especially
with the urging of my wife's attorney.

Helen ended up getting only half of my income for two years,
considered enough time for her to find a job that was self
supporting.  I was to keep her covered by my health
insurance for that time period.  She could petition for
extensions.

Oh, sure, she got half of the proceeds from the house.  She
came out ahead in the investments and savings, which I was
not going to begrudge her.  I kept the car that still had
payments on it.

Jan and I set up house-keeping together.  Her work was going
well as she was worked at the hospital associated with the
University.  When she had to work nights, I took care of
Kimmy.

By the time my divorce was finalized, Jan and I were fully
involved as lovers and I even got to go down on her,
finally.  She tasted *wonderful*.  Sixty-Nining was great,
too, and we tried out all kinds of positions for "regular"
sex.

Jan was, if possible, my perfect partner.  She was so easy
to please, too.  It was like my wife Helen wasn't even the
same species.

Don't let anyone kid you.  Some emotional scars do not fade
quickly.  I was fortunate in that Jan made sure I didn't see
her as another version of Helen.

The nightmares faded.  I got good cuddling.  Jan was always
a fragrant armful that just snuggling made me feel good.

About a month after the divorce was final, Jan came home
on a Friday from work and told me, as we cuddled on the
couch, "I saw Helen today, at the hospital.  She was pretty
banged up, it looks like a case of domestic violence to me."

That electrified me.  Despite the divorce, Jan, Kimmy, I was
still conditioned to try to protect Helen.  Jan, surprising
me, understood the feeling I had, and we went to visit her
in the hospital, bringing Kimmy along, and I got to talk to
her.

I really can't laugh, of course, for that would enable *me*
to suffer from uncomfortable ironies, but, it seemed, her
new boyfriend had gotten upset with her disinterest in sex,
taking it as direct rejection of *him*.  He was locked up
pending charges of attempted murder.

Helen still didn't understand why the problem occurred.

Jan tried to explain that there was substance to this and
that there is no non-sexual prince who can kiss her and live
happily ever after.

When we left the hospital I told Jan:  "When it comes to a
sexually-based relationship, if you *have* to explain it,
they won't understand."

And I'm glad that Jan and I understand each other well
enough.  Sometimes she's not as hot as me, other times I'm
not as hot as her... but the dry spells for either of us
seldom last more than a couple of days.

Heck, even when I'm at low ebb sexually, her lips...

...and my lips can be magic when _she_ is at low ebb.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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