The Stripper Whisperer

My girlfriend was warned against hiring this woman once, because said woman was a ‘slut’.
My girlfriend responded “I love the all the sluts”. I chuckled at the sentiment. I love them too, they are my people.

That particular slut turned out to be a bad hire, I don’t love her, she’s pretty creepy.
There is a difference between home-wrecking ravenous vaginas that consume everything in their path without morals or prejudice and a woman who simply, wantonly loves sex.

Addendum. I love sluts with soul.

The working title for this was “I have fucked more strippers than you”.

The One Guy who has fucked more strippers than I, pops into my inbox to protest.

I laughed, conceding immediately. This post was always about him.

You see dear readers, someone got me thinking recently on thanking my exes.
I missed a few.

Ahem (cough)

Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce the Stripper Whisperer (SW).

SW:  “I used to think I had a way with strippers, then I realized they had a way with me.”

(It was both beautiful boy, can’t play a violin without a bow)

I’m not saying he slept with hundreds of strippers, but it could have been hundreds.

He is also one of my 4 Horsemen.

I openly admit to my penchant for sluttiness in that blog post, he read it and responded…

“…some would say I was the slut, not you. The truth is unconditional passion, acceptance and friendship without conditions or judgments is what we shared…Moments can be shared with complete passion and not be hindered or darkened by conventional constructions…”

This one has soul.

He saved me you see. He held my hand and led me gently away from the shitty situation I was in. Fed me, loved me, wanted me. I remember being up all night fucking and talking. Gave me something safe and good, as much as he could. I am forever grateful.

There is a group of women aged 30-40 who have a very specific tattoo. Stripper Whisperer is named after the stars and these girls marked themselves with his constellation.
I am not one of them, I already had prominent freckles on my back that line up just so. I was laying on my stomach, sated, his fingers tracing the line of my spine, writing things there. I mentioned it, he jumped up and turned the light on and rewarded me with an extra wicked grin and of course more sex.

He hasn’t laid a hand on me since the year of our lord 1999. Oh those hands. Good god.

The problem with the way we communicate using mostly the written word is I cannot spell that noise I just made, it sounded quite like I had just tasted something wonderful. Mmmmmmmmm, ouf.

Where was I before my mind wandered? Oh yes, that man.

Friends 16 years later. To be remembered among the masses at all is incredible. I am #7 of 9 that made it. I am honoured, truly. That sentiment is mirrored back by me. As much as I adore other lovers. He is what I remember when I transport myself back to that apartment. He is a jumping off point for all of the sex I have had since, the bar is high…clear it.

He told me a story not long ago, he was at a club, one of his friends noticed a girl and thought she was hot, SW walks up to her, lifts her shirt a bit, his buddies think he is going to get slapped and there it is, the tattoo. She squealed and hugged him. We all still adore him, no one has a bad thing to say about him. He never lied. He never pretended he was going to stay. He made it very clear, his game and his rules. Thou shall not covet a Libra. Remember that and win the prize.

He was my 2^nd Libra. (Everyone gets 3.)
The Kings of ‘Come here, Go away’. It’s like Snakes and Ladders, but more confusing, sometimes they take the board and go home without warning.

All things considered, I did well. I had no delusions of locking him down, I think he may have been my first lesson in men meaning the words that are coming out of their mouths, he speaks without subtext.

He was the reason I was honest and continue to be, led by example. He made me brave.

I enjoyed his attention when I got it. And I got it, more than most.
Still do. He is a first responder when the bat signal (aka Sarah got her feeling hurt) lights up the sky/net.
I still find myself squirming happily under his praise, attention and affection.
And I still do not covet. I am so much smarter than that. I just answer the phone when he calls.