Janessa

Janessa is the reason this document exists. I met her through an ad in Backpage, “beautiful, green-eyed, down to earth,” with several modest but attractive photos which obscured her face but resonated with me. For various reasons I couldn’t arrange a meeting that night. I screen-shotted the ad so I’d remember the phone number. A couple of nights later the ad appeared again, and I called immediately and arranged for her to come to my house that night.

Janessa proved to be delightful company. She arrived quite a bit later than arranged, then had been dropped off at the driveway next door, and had to walk across the side lawn in her high heeled sandals, while I watched her from the deck under the nearly full moon. When she first arrived, we talked for awhile, quietly outside on the deck, shared a cigarette. I learned she thought she was obliged as a good provider to wear heels to her engagements, as well as nice clothes. I was pleased she didn’t injure herself, walking across the lawn in those heels, patting herself on the back with all this self-congratulation.

I brought her in from the deck and showed her around a bit, so she’d know how the house was laid out, to show her we were alone. She asked if I was a cop, and I said, “No, are you?” I remember we stopped at the big side-by-side refrigerator in the kitchen, peered in to find drinks. Due mainly to recent shopping expeditions, I had a broad selection of refreshments, juice, sodas, water: bottled or filtered, fizzy or flat. Coffee, tea, milk, San Pellegrino soda, ice cubes. She said if I had Pinot then all her dreams had come true. I didn’t have Pinot, though I asked her for clarification later. I think this doll drank Pepsi, non-diet, and for some reason I had that. The Pinot she referenced was actually some plonk she used to decant into pitchers at the restaurant job she’d held twelve years ago, and we were never able to find the exact label again. Oh, the places we would go.

I didn’t try and get her to drop her price (for dropping her knickers, right?)

Janessa was very easy to look at—at the time, I felt she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, or at least one I might ever hope to touch and interact with physically, one who might find me interesting. She had straight, slightly frizzed hair (it had been ironed I learned later), cut just long enough to tie back securely with an elastic hair tie into a thick ponytail, which she pulled out and retied multiple times every hour, depending on how restless she felt.

Janessa spoke in a breathy feminine, slightly rough, whisper. Her conversations could sound like songs. I had to tip my head to hear sometimes, had to lean in, but the effect of her voice was sultry and oh-la-la sexy. Her breathy whispered speaking voice is how some people remember her, how they’d reference her, “you know, the chick with that whisper voice?”

Her ad mentioned she was 420 friendly, so I offered her weed. She perfunctorily declined, proving the statement in her ad meant she was stoner friendly. I then asked if she wanted to smoke anything else. “Like what?” she asked with a questioning half-smile, and I said, “Like this cocaine?” and her eyes lit up and she got wiggly and skeptical. “Wait, show me you’re not a cop again?” she asked, knowing that involved me grabbing her tits down the front of her shirt, and her reaching down my pants, a ritual we had accomplished 10 minutes before, after which I’d announced I very much liked that test. I laughed and reached over to the desk drawer to pull out the drugs. She excitedly announced she had a stem, a horrible trumpet shaped thing that was broken at the tip and needed chore, but she wanted to prove she was prepared, nonplussed, up to the task. I had my own stem, just the tip broken off, and smooth enough to hit from either end. We made do.

I paid her $200 in cash immediately–I dropped ten twenties onto the nightstand, beside where she’d placed her purse. We got high, we conversed, and after some procrastination (she was known later on to call it “procrackination” and all of us were victims of the malaise) Janessa finally started her “show.” She blessed me with one fine BBBJ (bare-backed blowjob, and yes I know), relaxed, skillful, and quietly fulfilling with graceful movements and perfect suction, the quiet sound of her breathing through her nose, small murmurs of assent and encouragement, attuned precisely to my level of attention and intensity, I leaned back flat on the mattress with my legs hanging over the side as she grasped my knees, one in each hand, and her lips held me with the advanced precision of her deep pneumatic grip. Janessa showed me exactly what I wanted, taught me new things to dare to desire.

That first night may have been the best first-engagement ever for me. It was among the most enjoyable [spoiler: of many] engagements I had with Janessa, certainly in the top 5. Good God, this marvelous crack courtesan had gotten high with me, sucked me off (“You sure you came?” she queried, grinning) with most of her clothes off, and we had spent two and a half hours engaged in one non-stop conversation, gentle, quiet, inquisitive, probing, almost unbearably empathetic. We could have talked much later. I puffed a bunch with her just before I sent her off with her ride. I told her I’d like to see her again, she said she usually charged $250/hour for services, I said I usually paid $200. We looked at each other like we’d just laid down a challenge and come to a half-grinning stalemate, and then she left.

I felt the universe begin to rumble and hum, joyously acknowledging my having met and spent time with this lovely, intriguing, and charismatic woman. How could I have missed the hints, that the sound I heard was my space-shot life re-entering the atmosphere, just beginning to burn up in a glorious fireball? Wait! Don’t lose that babe’s phone number. Whooosh.

I called her again two nights later and arranged for her to come over, only earlier this time. She was pleased to hear from me, agreed to my time, then showed up hours late, even later than before, at maybe 2:30 am. We would explore this trait in her, her penchant for being ridiculously late, many times over the next year. For now, I had a new friend, for me a dazzling beauty, born in 1980, who is a junkie (I had little understanding of that term at the time, though I was a quick-study) crack ho, who seemed to know all the dealers of all the drugs. And she liked me! She arrived, and we puffed and began talking like crazy. She told me how the night of our previous meeting, she was impressed, and touched really, by the fact I didn’t try and use the drugs to change the terms of the provider agreement. I didn’t try and get her to drop her price (for dropping her knickers, right?), and I told her my experience is if there’s rock to smoke, the price doesn’t change but the time limits get looser. Two hundred bucks an hour, but the second hour, spent geeking and puffing and flirting, was free. Sometimes, with Janessa, the provision of services that motivated the meeting were forgotten in our bullet-train-momentum. She still wanted to charge me the full $250/hour. I toughed it out, held my price.

Janessa moved in with me the afternoon following our second meeting. Whooosh.

Many adventures, ensued, e.g.: Janessa Goes to the the Roller Rink