Rhonda

Rhonda was one of the women I considered “real pros” who advertise on Backpage. She had an elaborate mechanism to make appointments, required exchanging emails, and more than 24 hours advance notice. I was motivated to engage her (I almost said “attracted to her”) because so many of the regular hos on BP were unreliable and sleazy. We did the email exchange thing, and she agreed to come over to see me in an outcall two nights later. I had to confirm the engagement the morning of our date. I had emailed the night before, but the next day I completely forgot Rhonda. This was a time when I was smoking a lot of crack and was incapacitated a lot of the time. Mornings were often rough, and frankly optional. That evening, when I figured out I’d missed the confirmation step and so screwed up our meeting, I emailed my abject apology, begged her to re-schedule with me, and promised I’d pay her extra for the inconvenience of standing her up, to which she agreed, and thanked me, because that showed I understood it was a money loser when a client missed an appointment. I liked her, respected her, empathized with her, and she understood that. We re-scheduled, and then the winter turned into a series of blizzards, every few days, and whenever we made a date, we got snowed out. We had to reschedule three times before we finally met.

I got a good feeling when she drove into the driveway and parked rationally (something beyond the abilities of many providers who drove) entered the door I had opened for her when she arrived. Rhonda is the only woman I met on Backpage who did not smoke cocaine. I even offered, and she demurred. I had already, in accordance with her rules, sealed my “donation” of $300 in crisp twenties into an envelope left on my nightstand with Rhonda’s name scrawled on it.

Rhonda was very easy to be with, liked being naked and didn’t mind being explored, didn’t mind if I said the word slut as she fellated me, and let me climb up and perform intercourse with her mouth, while our momentum built, as she hummed a murmuring assent when I asked if she wanted me to cum. I let her lovely energetic suction get me off quickly, wasn’t wasting time because we had arranged a ‘double cup,’ where she’d get me off again later, before she left. Also, I didn’t waste time, because I wasn’t puffing. I finished in her mouth, Rhonda already knew I would be dry, and I got up completely nude, walked to the kitchen and poured Rhonda a glass of wine. I played music from a playlist I’d hand-chosen over the previous couple of nights when we hadn’t hooked up because we’d been snowed in, feminine R&B and soft country, and we talked naked, reclining in my bed mostly, letting my knuckles and fingertips slide over the mounds and crevices in her substantial body. She had big tits, perky and bouncy for a forty-two-year-old, which I believe is her age. She didn’t hesitate to express her own pleasure when relevant, and her company was aù point and well worth the cash I’d spent. I felt happy, buoyant, and optimistic– enjoying the fruit of some earlier investment– as if I’d earned this happiness, and now I wanted to share.

Before she left she granted me a second patient, affectionate, and good faith attempt at bringing me once again to oral satisfaction, but by now I felt I’d used up all the services I’d paid for. I was ridiculously happy, relaxed, and contented, turned my head and pulled her up to kiss her, boldly, told her it was so I could taste the cock on her lips, at which  Rhonda murmured a little hiccupped sniffle of appreciation and pleasure as we grin-kissed, just before I got up, we dressed, and then she left. Rhonda was a consummate pro in the best way. I only met with her that one time, though I tried once or twice to hook up again. No matter. Rhonda was lovely.