|
PeonForHer -> RE: Why not offer a Young girl, an Arrangement? (6/24/2016 4:30:28 PM)
|
quote:
ORIGINAL: HoneyBears
quote:
ORIGINAL: PeonForHer
I mean, I *would* have been very appreciative, that one time, many years ago, when I visited a prostitute, in Amsterdam. She looked at me like I was a disturbed lunatic of some sort, when I asked, 'Could I ....?' But then I took one glance at her face and quickly said, 'No, it's OK, forget it'.
Between you and me, you dodged a bullet. Around base, stories circulate like wildfire when one of the soldiers is foolish enough to catch clap of the mouth from eating hooker pussy.
The husband of a relative was a Vietnam vet who told me about an Army buddy's buddy who had to get treated in the infirmary for that with a German hooker. Still a laughing stock more than 40 years later.
It is usually some green 18-year-old recruit who does not know any better, could be stateside, overseas, anywhere. There is protection nowadays for eating strange pussy, but I do not see the point of just smelling pussy and licking over a latex barrier, but not being able to taste the real thing, much less any bloke paying for the privilege.
-- Cub
Oh god, clap of the mouth ... I know a man who had that. Genital herpes in the gob, to be precise. I heard that he was literally crying with the pain of it. *Shudder*.
At the time I saw this prostitute, I was a mere callow youth - I think just two years older than your greenhorn recruit. Every bloke who visited Amsterdam from England kind of *had* to visit a prostitute, just to say he'd done it.
But, gawd, was it a let-down. Actually, I don't think I was unusual in the way I felt afterwards: I saw lots of British-looking men coming out of the prostitute-booths (whatever the hell they call those weird shop windows that resemble bedrooms) looking baffled, disappointed and somewhat embarrassed ... as though they were all thinking, just like me, 'Eh? Was that all it was about?'
But as to health and hygiene, regarding my classically-beautiful professional lady: I had no doubt that she held to the highest standards. At the time, I was still smoking. I went in with a cig in my mouth. She said, in a crisp and business-like tone and with a *very* assertive Dutch accent, 'Please put out your cigarette. I do not smoke'. When I opted for the BJ rather than the bonk, I was dumbfounded to see her produce a condom and put it on me. A condom, for a BJ? I'd never had *that* before. But of course it made hygienic sense. AIDS was newly discovered; people were terrified. I couldn't argue with that. But, hell, it threw me.
I ramble. In short: visiting that prostitute actually felt quite like seeing a doctor. It was clinical - almost intimidatingly so.
Jesus on a giraffe ... I could *never* do that again. I thought, afterwards, for the price that I paid, I could have bought fifty porny mags. The ladies in said porny mags would never express any qualms about my smoking habits - or indeed any of my hygiene related habits. Most of all, they would never, ever, require me to put on a condom.
And I could always lick them out, for as long as I wanted, and they would always love it. And demand it ... with a shout, a quiet command, or just by opening their legs and taking it for granted. Or, with a smile, as though they were rewarding me. Yup, porno mags and my febrile imagination were my way forward thereafter. [:)]
Well, OK, occasionally, real-life women, and partnerships. Yes, there were those intervals, too. They were OK. Certainly worth a mention.
|
|
|
|
