From Chapter 7 of Aching: Memoirs of an Unrequited Sex Addict

If you’ve been following my posts in recent weeks, you’ve likely noticed a theme underscoring my sexual experiences. Over the years, I’ve paid for most of them. This week’s post will detail an evening during which I decided to spend slightly beyond my means for a supposedly exclusive service. I visited a spa (brothel) called Illana’s, which claimed to offer unforgettable VIP treatment for a hefty premium. It certainly was memorable, but perhaps not for the right reasons.

From Chapter 7:

The place was lush inside. Warm colors, soft fabrics, delicate music. A woman in her late thirties greeted me. She wore a silk blouse and pleated skirt, maintaining a business casual look. Already knowing who I was, she led me to a drawing room and immediately introduced me to the waiting Asriel. This was more abrupt than I’d expected. How long had she been sitting and waiting for me? I was punctual, but still I hoped she wasn’t annoyed. That wouldn’t be the right way to start this. At most spas I’d have to wait a solid five minutes before meeting any of the attendants. Illana’s wasn’t most spas. Illana’s didn’t mess around.

Asriel was nothing less than radiant. Her lipstick was fresh, deep, and dark. She appeared to have rushed to apply her rouge. This made me wonder how long ago her last appointment had been. The thought of it ending less than an hour before aroused me. Through her makeup, I could see how genuinely pretty she was. As she stood up, I felt pleased that the site’s description of her height was accurate. I stood a full two inches taller than her. Perfect. The best part? She wasn’t wearing shoes. I felt less out of my league because of this.

After we exchanged hellos, Asriel hugged me and gave me a gingerly kiss on the cheek. Wonderful touch. She took each of my hands and invited me to her room. I followed her, possibly panting. Her peach dress was a thin jersey fabric that clung to her body like light. I watched her ass bounce beneath it. I didn’t feel like I was doing anything wrong.

In her room, we dealt with price. Formal, but necessary. She seemed slightly disappointed by my tip, which started to change the tone in a way that bothered me. I contemplated how little difference another $100 would have made in the scope of my life, and how important this experience was going to be for me. Doubt encroached.

Her room—or the room she was using­­—was opulent. With velvet and floral prints everywhere, it looked like the setting for an underwear advertisement. This was meant to feel welcoming and relaxing. It didn’t have that effect on me. Being more used to the utilitarian settings in other spas, I felt out-classed. After counting my money, Asriel offered me some champagne. Another nice touch, but not one I needed to pay for. I declined politely, which seemed to bother her. A wall was building. I wondered if I’d made the wrong choice by paying up for the VIP experience. Maybe my tone was changing, not hers.

We sat together on her bed for several minutes. A pile of decorative pillows separated us. Small talk punctuated the long pauses. The conversation felt strained and unnecessary. It also ate time off the clock. She was a professional indeed. I wanted to get talking about the meat of the session, but I felt genuinely intimidated by this woman. It wasn’t her beauty, though she was stunning. It was her attitude. I didn’t know how to get through it. At last, she made it easy for me, just like a professional should.

Continued later this week.


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