Purity and Vagina Dententa

So…how did I get into abstinence?  I was 18 in my first year of uni and I bought a DVD from HMV called “Teeth”, a horror movie about a girl who has a vagina with teeth that only bite when she is angry (like when she is raped). I was disappointed at the complete lack of horror in this film, but something else blew my mind: the idea of abstinence and the scene where she gives out abstinence rings and attempts to brainwash children into copying her lifestyle without offering reasons why they should. The idea seemed too kinky and demented even for a horror movie, but I was hooked! I was awed at the scriptwriters’ creativity. The second time I watched the film, I wanked to the scene where she spreads Abstinence, and every time since. A few weeks or months later, I discovered that everything in the film was true (abstinence, not vagina dententa) and not in the Middle East as you would think, but in America! (Where the movie was made and takes place). After that I felt guilty about getting pleasure from a real problem and promised to myself that if such a thing should ever threaten Britain, I would do something against it. I’ve never been able to watch Teeth again, but I am grateful for the love of abstinence it has given me. (This was not the last time that something I wanked to turned out to be true, but I’ll get on to that in another post.)

Some lovely quotes from Teeth:

“If you use your hand on yourself, is that pure?”

“Save it for the mother of your children”

“Last week I was pure”

[12 year old kids chanting at the protagonist for losing virginity and thus “purity”] “The serpent in the Garden of Eden”

“[the diagrams of the uterus in a biology textbook are covered because] women have a natural modesty”

“you know the damage [sex] can do”

and my favourite “gift of virginity” “we all have a precious gift to give”

What is the message of the movie anyway – that abstinent girls are dangerous to men? That rape destroys abstinence? That Christians see rape as being the victim’s fault? That abstinence is self-defeating, impossible, perverted, or a form of self-harm? Maybe there’s no message…Hollywood garbage…or maybe there is…I dunno.

The whole concept of wearing an abstinence ring on your ring finger until the day you exchange it for a wedding ring is divine…the thought of this alone is enough to make me hyperventilate…oh great God in Heaven let me seduce an abstinent boy! Let me tie him up and sit on his cock and ravage him over and over until he faints. I want to rape that beautiful innocent virgin and take away his precious gift of virginity.

Virginity: Gift, to be given only on a wedding night and not even one night before, to your true love, as the writers of Teeth would have it? Or non-existent entity, a social construction made by our culture? Or commodity, to be traded? Or a different thing to everyone? I tend to see guys’ virginities as something valuable to be taken, and girls’ virginities as worthless/non-existent, and my own as valuable in material terms, as non-existent, as erotic, as something to be discarded or thrown away as quickly as possible, as a stigma/brand of shame, as a defining characteristic, as rare, as a tool.

 

Why abstinence is sexy

I am a virgin.

To me, what I just typed was erotic. Now, imagine abstinence – well, first it might help to explain the type of abstinence I’m talking about. I’m not talking about freely chosen abstinence, as is possible for those who were not brought up by religious households or have a religion, nor the kind of religious abstinence that allows exploration of non-penetrative pleasure, as is quite beautifully and humourously told in Ella’s post here http://ellayourbella.wordpress.com/2012/02/14/resisting-temptation/ .

 

Nope, the kind of abstinence I’m talking about is the kind that doesn’t allow anything beyond kissing, equates casual sex with premarital sex, perpetuates the double standard and the virgin-whore dichotomy. The kind I’ve been reasearching -daddy-daughter purity balls where the daughter vows to stay a virgin until her wedding night and her father vows to protect his daughter’s virginity, virginity pledges at school, and state-funded abstinence “education”/indoctrination for innocent teens (and adults, under Bush).

An offensive pro-abstinence image.

 

Of course you’re all (except for you Americans) probably thinking what on earth I’m talking about and that I’m crazy; well, just ask your American friends! And remember MP Nadine Dorries’ Abstinence education for girls Bill in January that was aimed at stopping child abuse and rape by teaching girls (not boys) to ‘just say no’. I swear, we get more and more like the American South every day. (Though abstinence-only “education” is actually slowly disappearing from America because it leads to STDs and unplanned pregnancy. The programs are being replaced with comprehensive sex ed, which is normal sex ed but still includes abstinence “education” and disurbingly it is sometimes openly admitted that they are trying to stop teens having sex. (Yes, you did read that right. To stop them having sex. As if their bodies aren’t their own.And this is the federal or State government, and government-funded programs we’re talking about. In Georgia, the State government asked a pastor to create a comprehensive program, which promotes abstinence until marriage.) This isn’t a conspiracy theory – they admit it, and even dare to evaluate success based on whether teens were repressed enough to not explore their sexuality!! All of this is very similar to Dorries’ Bill. Except Dorries’ Bill was a thousand times worse than anything the right-wing freedom-haters in the U.S. have spawned, because Dorries was blaming rape/abuse victims for being raped – even child victims. She also failed to acknowledge the existence of male rape/abuse victims and the fact that rape crisis centres and helplines are usually not directed at teenage or adult male victims so the consequences for males may be even worse. And society’s concept of masculinity as being invulnerable or the sexual iniator may further stigmatise male victims or make their trauma worse than that of female victims).

 

Well, rant over for today, but as Schwarzenegger said, I will be back! With more Tales of Terror from the freedom-hating nutjobs of Britain (and possibly America, because whatever happens there is a portent for what could happen here, such as the 90’s stigma against lone mothers, abstinence education, the Silver Ring Thing, etc., all of which were ‘exported’ here.)

 

 

 

So, why is abstinence sexy?

The forbidden fruit angle – it’s baaaaad, and that’s why it’s delicious

The pure abstinent virgin becoming a rabid whore on her wedding night as she finally releases the desires, kinks and urges that the years of repression and waiting have created

The beautiful language of abstinence: sin, fornication, purity, chastity, immorality, morals, devil, etc

The concept that sex angers God – it’s wonderfully archaic and superstitious. Our far ancestors must have feared the Sun as it flamed above the African savannah and known it could see them, even when they mated. These thoughts survive today, especially in Islam, Catholicism and Evangelical Christianity.

Purity rings – the symbol of abstinence, proudly worn to declare one’s sexual state

The emphasis placed on female virginity but not male virginity (e.g. purity balls are only for females, and it is the male parent who guards her virginity and guides her, not the female parent)

Abstinence is the greatest perversion

Yes, I am abstinent; though not until marriage. I am abstinent until either a man will give me the deflowering I want (I’ll post on this later) or until a man buys my virginity. Obv, because Roland has bought me, it will be the latter.

For both men and women:

ABSTINENCE IS SEXY! VIRGINITY IS SEXY!

 

The flogger

So there I was, tied over the bench. As he listed out my naughty deeds, he smacked me with the flogger-it stung and the sting radiated out all over my bum. After two whacks, he swung harder , pausing after each stroke to take in the effect it had on my bottom. I tried not to make a sound but I squealed almost every time I felt the hot sting, and it felt almost solid not like felt strips cascading onto my skin. Sometimes the bench rocked a little. His eyes were shining with that purest delight, the joy that is only found in the flesh of others. I knew what he felt because I felt it too; I couldn’t stop staring at him (in between each stroke) and I wished he would take his clothes off and be naked so I could see him..I was watching all the time so see if he was getting hard from spanking me, but I couldn’t tell. There should be a law that all men must wear tiny little shorts that are nice and tight. Except the fat or ugly ones. I just remembered that when I was 13 and started a petition not to have to wear school uniform, my friend who was in my class said that I should make the petition say that all boys should wear a thong, except the ugly ones. As it happened, I stuck with the idea of just petitioning against school uniforms. (I gave it to the headteacher, because it was the headteacher who convened and chaired the Pupil Council. Everyone whose name was on it got called to her office the next day and asked why they had signed it and who had asked them to sign – despite the fact I already told her it was my idea and had started with my friends, which was why I was the one who was handing it in to her. Some signatories’ parents were called and told thert kids had signed a petition.That was the last we heard of it. I think the questioning/calling parents of signatories is discouraging free speech.And petitioning the pupil council or school was not against the school rules; it was done in a non-disruptive, nonviolent way at break time and lunchtime and not in class time.)

Anyway, that was one massive digression, but lying over that bench I wanted to see if he was hard or not. It was amusing seeing how a professional businessman could become controlled by physical drives, with only one goal in mind and a lust that must be satisfied. Are we all instinctual, animals, at heart? I know that, when I spank him, it will feel even better than being spanked.

Roland flogged hard, questioning me about lying that I was about to commit suicide. (I did it because the guy I lied to (who lives in America) has a habit of telling me the most ridiculous lies, which he gets me to believe, then mocks me for being gullible. I’ve tried to get him to believe lies back, but  never been able to get him back for it until I told him I was going to kill myself, which he believed and called the Dept. of Health, Scottish Government and finally the Lothian and Borders police, who, with the help of a lecturer I knew who lured me to where they were waiting under the pretext of a conversation, ambushed me in a University building just after my last exam. I told them it was a joke and apologised for wasting police time. Luckily, they believed me.Five minutes later I met Roland at the restaurant.)

Roland, after briefly flogging me for offering pornography for sale, now brought up the subject of my fake suicide.

“You caused him to worry,” he stated, scraping the flogger’s warm tails over my bum. He whacked me and I jumpd slightly, yelping.

“And he worried so much, he called the police,” Roland continued, rubbing the flogger over my skin, then swatting me hard. I burst out laughing at how funny it was that the guy who had laughed time and time again at my gullibility had finally believed my lie. And called the police, creating a huge drama! How funny and interesting my life was! Roland stood there for a while, totally nonplussed and watching me carefully. (He told me later that at first, he didn’t know whether it was laughing or crying. Then he thought ‘I’ve got to stop her laughing’.) And he did. He slapped the flogger into my bottom hard and I squealed in pain as stinging fire raged across my cheeks; then he did it again, and again until I was screaming.

Then the blows fell lighter, and he stopped and said, “Where did you go for lunch today?”

“The Tower,” I murmured.

“And what did you discuss?” he pressed, looking towards the camera.

“…Stuff.”

He bent closer to me. “What kind of stuff?”

“Selling stuff.”

“And what was it you agreed to sell? Was it…yourself?”

“Yeah.”

 

 

Some musings

Okay, I know I’m supposed to be posting a coherent account of this event, but I can’t. (Well, not right now, but I will try.) There was a rush of conflicting feelings in me, and also some of it was blurry…I was so thrilled, excited, delighted, yet wonderfully fearful also. And Roland is the first guy to see me naked, so it was so much fun parading in front of him and showing off my body to him, just happy being myself. And nlot worrying about blemishes or hyperpigmentation because I mentioned this to him, and he doesn’t even notice. Men! I guess some of the gender myths are true. Usually I have what has been described as a “photographic” memory (although of course this is a huge exaggeration, and I actually have less memory for details; what I’m best at remembering is poems or paragraphs which I sometimes remember by heart accidentally and can therefore recite at any time, which prompts people to get all excited. But if my memory were truly “photographic” I would not be able to recite what I read, but only able to write/copy what I read.So obviously it’s not.) Where was I? Oh, that in this instance, my memory isn’t that good and I can’t call up the little deatils or even the correct sequence of events that easily. I think that when he caned me, as Queen Tut, it was too pleasurable for my brain to cope with, and ultimately too painful. I refused to say the safeword but when he asked if I wanted to stop, there was an inner battle before I finally admitted that I did. Interestingly, I was crying from pain and this is the first time I cried so hard as an adult, and also the first time in my life that I cried without feeling shame about crying. Absolutely liberating. Also, I knew for the first time what it’s like to fear physical pain/punishment (apart from ordinary pain such as falling, bullies, fights, etc that most people experience at least falling at some point.)

It’s kinda weirdhow I go from being scared before the spanking to immediately enjoying it as soon as it begins. I like it when Roland uses his hand the best – the feel of his skin on mine. And he seems able to vary the force he uses better when using his hand. And he can look so cruel and happy, grinning like a hungry, salivating shark as he gazes down at me strapped helplessly over the bench. I remember his voice when I sobbed, pleading “No don’t! Don’t do it-stop!” and he regarded me coolly, saying “Do I hear ‘lemon sherbet’ [the safeword]?” and when I said no, he proclaimed, in the lordly tone of my ‘Roland’ figure, “Well then I shall take no notice then,” smiling like a cruel prince, and continued.

 

Tied over a carpentry bench

I rubbed my bum for a while and then Roland dressed me in a black and gold corset, sliding sheer black over-the-knee tights up my legs. My toenails were bright red like my fingernails and underwear so it looked pretty good. Roland tied a pink strap around my wrists so my hands were tied behind my back. I felt completely restrained and helpless, and even a little panicky because I thought that if I had to run (e.g. if there was a fire, or someone was in the building) then I wouldn’t be able to move.

“If you really want to, you can get out of that,” he told me, and I felt calmer as I surreptitiously tried my bonds and realised this was true and my hands were much freer than it appeared. Roland had me kneel on the sofa, my hands bound and knickers pulled down so that my freshly spanked behind was displayed. He took lots of photographs of me bound and bent over. He tried to put bunny ears on me but they kept falling off; I was able to readjust them sometimes, though with difficulty, even with my hands bound (if I contorted myself). He took photos of me kneeling over the arm of the sofa and kneeling on the carpet with my front on the sofa. I think he took around 200 photos.

Then he removed the door handle and said “You can get out but nobody can get inside, because the only way in is with this.” He put it on the windowsill. Roland went out into the large space outside the door which was empty apart from debris and stuff from the renovation. He came back, knocked and I opened the door; he was dragging what he called a “carpentry bench” that the workmen had left behind. It was about 60cm long and 50cm wide, with four sturdy black metal legs.

I felt intriuged as I looked at it, and a tad apprehensive, but mostly just impatient to be tied over it. Roland configured his video camera.

I walked over to the carpentry bench and he bent me over it; “All the way over,” he said, and my hands were nearly touching the ground. He started pulling out snaking lentghs and loops of bright pink and purple rope from his bag of goodies. “It’s bondage rope,” he said. “I got it in a shop in Soho.” He tied my legs, and I eased my arms into a position so they wereroughly symmetrically positioned and easier to be restrained. I was a little nervous because I’d never been tied up or even handcuffed before. Although I wasn’t deliberately paying attention, it was obvious to me that Roland was tying very loose, easily untied knots, using big loops instead of single strands. (I know nothing of knot-tying, but I rather suspect that my instincts lead me to observe details when they percieve a potentially threatening situation, especially as regards freedom of movement.)

Roland pulled something else out of his goodie-bag and it was a flogger/cat o’ nine-tails. Its pink and blue stripey design, and its tails, reminded me of the flail in my story (“Kemet”). I said so.

Roland moved behind me.

“Why am I being spanked?” I asked, grinning.

“Do you want a list?” he said, savouring the words.

“Yes. List it to the camera.”

“You are being spanked,” he declared, “For offering to post pornographic drawings, for lying to that guy through emails that you were going to commit suicide, and he was worried and called the police, and for agreeing to sell me your virginity. Your first time.”

 

The spanking begins

I knelt there, my bum sticking up and bare, and felt kind of vulnerable. He smacked it a few times, then showed me his black flexible paddle, which marks the word ‘slut’ on your skin. He thwacked the middle of my butt with it.

“Is that sore?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said truthfully. I was pretty nervous about what was to come, though. He’d bought me and now I was his commodity, he could do anything.In my pseudo-reality he was the cruel sadist, the despotic lord or oportunistic bachelor, my Roland, who appears in different incarnations. I found him once in Sade’s Justine, by this name, which was a wild coincidence. (I suppose that’s why I chose the pseudonym ‘Roland’ for this guy).

He paddled me with it, the sound of the slaps ringing out loudly as each one left a stinging imprint on my bum. It hurt a lot, especially when he repeatedly struck the same spot near the centre of my butt. I felt tears in my eyes which shocked me as I so rarely cry. I was yelping or squealing each time he hit me, though occassionally I managed not to cry out or move at all. He askedif I wanted a break and I said no, and he continued paddling me. After a bit, he went to fiddle with his camera and so I did get a short break. He wandered bak over and smacked my rear again. I said, “You should draw a target.”

He drew a circle in with a red office board marker, then 3 more circles. “And then the bullseye,” he said, pulling my cheeks apart, and I yelped when he did that because it hurt a bit. He thought it was funny. “And the numbers,” I reminded him. Roland marked in the numbers – 10 to 50 points, and said “fifty is the bullseye,” and I wondered if he was going to stick the pen inside me again but he laughed and said “but it’s too small, isn’t it? I can’t – The bulleye is too small.” Which was really funny.

Roland hefted his ‘slut’ paddle and said, “okay, we’ll aim for some 10 points, shall we.” He cracked me two near my sit spot. “Shall we say, five ten points?” He continued in this way until he’d got ten that were worth 25 points and had gotten every score except 50.

He picked up the wooden dog brush and rolled it around in his fingers. He set it down on the sofa next to me.

“This is a brush, isn’t it?” he said, “A dog brush. Turn to the camera, and tell the camera what this dog brush is for.”

“For…brushing dogs?” I whimpered, with tears in my eyes. My bottom hurt quite a bit.

“No. Why is it here, today?”

This was very humiliating for me. “…To…spank me.” I whispered.

“Say it louder. Say it to the camera,” Roland ordered.

“To spank me,” I said slowly.

“Yes,” said Roland, and he moved behind me and smacked me over and over with it. I wriggled and yelped the whole time. Then he let me rest. I knew the flogger and cane were still to come, though.

 

“The UK Government Torture Act” A sociopolitical BDSM story

Before I go on to describe what happened in Roland’s office, I thought it might be good to share this story I wrote in late April 2012, which he has read, and which we talked about briefly in the Tower restaurant and also at the photoshoot. (Because I intend to show the societal and personal backdrop to this deal, -rather than simply boast about my sexual adventures – I will not only post about the sex work itself on this blog. If I’m not lazy I’m going to post stuff about feminism, stigmatisation of lone mothers, lies told by the media and politicians about increasing rates of, and negative consequences of teenage pregnancy – it’s been steadily declining since the late 70’s – representations in psychology, literature, film etc. And probably more stuff about me as well which is unrelated to prostitution.)This story has content of an adult nature, more so than the rest of this blog and **contains humour and/or glorification of police brutality/state violence** It may also be offensive to fans of Ann Widdecombe and /or Rick Santorum. All characters are mine except the obvious real-life people.

The story is here on my other page: https://diaryofavirginwhore.wordpress.com/the-uk-government-torture-act-a-sociopolitical-bdsm-satire-mm-mf-mm-xmm-xff/

or you can just click on the title at the top of this page, if you haven’t alreadydone so and read the story. It’s 16 pages long, so you might want to grab a coffee or something whilst you read it. (I never got the hang of making short stories short.)

 

The fun begins…

Roland drove us to his company, Luxor, in the central Scotland region. The entire building was empty. We were in an office and he joked about making me his secretary, a position that he and his partner were looking to fill. He asked me if I can draw up contracts because maybe I could actually apply. I told him that it was two years ago that I’d studied contract law so I might have forgotten lots of it so might not be right for the job. I said it’d be cool if I was his secretary, and it’d be more convenient for doing the film; I’d just do a lot of overtime. Or I could be a cleaner or something if I wasn’t qualified enough to be a secretary. “And having sex with employees isn’t illegal,” I added.

He chuckled. “It is, actually. And it’d look bad for me; I’d be taking advantage of the poor secretary.”

He took me into another office, set up his camcorder and I gave him the dog brush I’d brought. He liked how hard it was. He had his ‘slut’ paddle from last time, and then he reached over to the desk and drew forth a cane; it was really long and I thought it would really hurt. I tried it out, swishing it through the air a few times. It felt great; it really called to my domme side.

“You like that, don’t you?” he grinned. He made me kneel on the carpet with my front resting on a grey sofa next to a desk. this is where the fun began 😀

 

Preying on a young student

“Anyway, a contract wouldn’t be a good idea, because it’d be evidence. If we got found out. And you’d have more to lose than me,” I added smugly, “Cos nobody cares what a student does. Even if I was famous in future, they’d be just like, ‘oh, she was a student, she was just doing it for the money. But you’re a businessman. That’s a scandal.” I let the word drip with luscious shame and it hung in the air between us.

“Oh yes, I would be the bad guy,” he smirked, “Corrupting an innocent young student. A pervert preying on a helpless young girl.” (Or something like that – I make no guarantee that I remember every word correctly in this scene, or in the rest of this blog; I also omit conversations which repeat themes, facts or content, as my conversations with Roland were occassionally repetitive, probably because of the nature of the situation.)

This made me smile.

We stopped at Roland’s studio so he could get his photography equipment to shoot me in his office. While we were in the studio, I sat on the tiny sofa where he had given me my first spanking around two weeks before. We chatted a bit about the spanking and I admitted that I’d felt a bit confused and mixed-up immediately afterwards because I hadn’t realised that something so pleasurable could be free and so easy to do. I had been unprepared for how satisfying and wonderful it felt. He had finally given me what I’d fantasised, written and drawn about since I was 9 years and 2 months old. And it had been better than that time I’d spanked a guy. Roland laughed when I told him that.

“You want to spank me now?” I asked, and he went out into the corridor to check and said people would hear it. He came back in and made me strip like a dirty little prostitute. He grabbed me around the waist, his hands rubbing and feeling my whole body; I must’ve looked stunning to him in my red lacy underwear so I’m not surprised he did that. It was very tickly, and painful and delightful all at the same time. Roland squeezed, pinched and stroked me, saying “Is this what’s for sale? Let’s see this body then.” I wriggled as he examined me. It was so debasing and entertaining to be treated as a commodity, a mere product, like a red Ferrari or something. Something to be inspected, looked at from every angle, test driven. You might wonder how a feminist – I’ll post more on my views, research, and political beliefs later – could possibly be aroused and intellectually stimulated by a man treating her as a possession. Surely, any woman (and indeed regular man) with half a brain cell would be horrified at reading this blog. But I think the enjoyment was possible because I knew he didn’t really see me that way; he sees me as a person and he knows my thoughts and personality, interests, views and hobbies. It was also pretty funny because it was really tickly so I was giggling and squirming a lot.

He made me sit on the sofa, saying “look what the uni dragged in,” and set up his camcorder. He started filming me, interrogating me about selling my virginity to him. The special photography light was shining in my face as he gave me the third degree while filming my responses.

The light he used to make me ‘confess’

I said this must be how people in Saudi Arabia feel (before being hypothetically spanked by the police) and then said I knew this was inapproriate to joke about; I cut that fantasy short because I had a bad experience with discovering one of my BDSM torture fantasies to be actually true in a neighbouring country to Saudi Arabia.

Anyway, he made me confess to prostituting myself and then I asked him to stick the radio’s little plug in my butt, and it hurt quite a lot, it was uncomfortable but also very satisfying. Then we drove to his office.

 

Being a good prostitute

We drove through Edinburgh, and in response to something I said, Roland said “but you don’t have a husband,” which made me giggle because the thought of being married was incredulous to me. He said he would probably tell his wife (they have an open relationship among their friends) and I couldn’t stop imagining myself having a husband. I told him that although I’d always thought of myself as being a romantic as a teen, actually I’d just realised I wasn’t – since the age of 9 I had fantasised about having a husband. However, those fantasies consisted of me being caught cheating and spanked hard by my husband, or my lover being spanked by him. Of course, I also fantasised about spanking my husband (I am a switch). Though unlike Roland, I am polyamorous rather than favouring an open relationship. I don’t care for polyfidelity either. While I’m on the subject of my sexual preferences, I have never really wanted a boyfriend as I’m unable to be attracted to guys more than superfucially; I only want casual relationships and commitment scares me. It’s one of the reasons I wanted the installments – because continuing to see Roland aftrwards is way too much commitment for me to handle; I will need to lead myself up to it slowly. (I told Roland this in the Tower restaurant and he says I’m alternative sexuality). He seems to think my preferences rare. So do I, which is why I am proud of them.

However, there is one guy who I would consider moving in with, so this is an exception to my comitment phobia; he is poly too. Unlike with other guys, I don’t see him as merely attractive or just sex on legs; I see him as a person. Though of course I would never sleep with a guy who I didn’t see as a person; that’s just wrong and disrespectful. The reason I tend to see guys as just existing for my pleasure is that I never get to date the boys I like; the ones I like always aren’t interested or have girlfriends while the ones I don’t like follow me around like bitches in heat. So, basically, I never get to really know guys I would consider hooking up with so never get beyond superficial attraction. And none of my male friends are into spanking, enemas, diapers,pee/poop desperation, torture etc which are my kinks.

Anyway, we’re driving along under the Salisbury crags and Roland starts joking about making a legal contract,except that you can’t make contracts about illegal acts (or the contract is void) and I said “Well, prostitution’s not illegal, it’s just soliciting and kerb-crawling that’s illegal. So we could make a contract.” And he laughed and rubbed my leg and said “Well, there’s the whole ‘moral turpitude’ thing; and this, my dear, I think would count as moral turpitude.” Which was really funny, for some reason. The ducks and swans were flying off the pond when he said that.

“I’m your prostitute now,” I said. “I’m going to be a good whore for you.” We both laughed at that. It was kind of exhilarating – almost liberating? for me; I’m a feminist.

.

 

Afterwards

We talked some more – musing over how the film would be done, discussing ideas, and also chatting about other things like Creationism, the Epic of Gilgamesh and world stuff/current events. It was very much like talking online with him on the art site, where this whole Virgin/Whore dichotomy idea had been born through our messages about the double standard and its creation of the dichotomy, as expressed in many ancient religions and texts such as the Bible (and, more recently, in the works of de Sade: Juliet v Justine). Roland thinks that de Sade “places pleasure (philosophically) where Nietzsche places the will, and the rest follows inexorably both through feeling and through logic.”

Roland had said online that he wanted to do photographs of me in a brothel for his project “the Virgin in the Whorehouse” which we’ll probably do along with the virginity film, or after. When I told him about looking into selling my virginity on adultwork.com (a site which my friend had told me that his friend, a sex worker, used) he said a girl who wants to sell her virginity is surely “the perfect VirginWhore”  He also said “you are a piquant combination of a pure body and an impure mind; the fantasies and curiosities of the Virgin conspiring inevitably to bring about her own Fall of her own volition, and for her own pleasure. Whether that pleasure be physical, material, spiritual, artistic or all of these at once. If man-meal you would have yourself be, then these pleasures are the exquisite spices that make it worth paying for – and, indeed, consuming. It is a very human story, an old story”.

I wrote to him: “Oh to be a Victorian, to transform in an instant from angel in the house into fallen woman! The American Tragedy of the beautiful, intelligent young sluts the psychiatrists fled from in horror when they percieved the sexuality of the 1950s/60s woman. Maybe they knew, even then, that the repression was falling; maybe they glimpsed in their unmarried pregnant patients’ eyes the courage and adventurousness of their innocent daughters.”

I include snippets of these conversations because I believe they form a backdrop to our arrangement, and are perhaps the reasons for this deal – without any connection through writing I doubt the deal would have happened, because for Roland sex is all to do with the mind and the mind is the greatest sexual organ. And so it is with me as well, I think.

Anyway, we continued talking and I remember thinking that I probably look hot eating the icecream (not that I was attempting to do so in a hot way; just not shovelling it in as I would do if I was at home). I eat lots of icecream and 5-6 bars of chocolate per day as well as coffee, hot chocolate and crisps; I’ve never dieted in my life. I was feeling sort of mentally dizzy after he said £8000 because although I’ve always wanted to sell my virginity, I never truly imagined I’d succeed!  And I would have, if necessary, sold it for £4000 or even £3000; (but then since Roland would be seeing me after getting my virginity and giving me the rest then, you could say that the virginity itself was being sold for £4k). Before he paid the bill, I went to the toilet to jump up and down and go “YES!YES!YES!” in private and look at my beautiful self in the mirror. I’m not one of those squealing fashion-slave divas who spends an eternity getting ready. In fact, I’ve never had my nails done professionally or been waxed; I only go to the hairdressers if I want highlights and trim my hair myself. And I LOVE LOVE my style which, although it incorporates the trends, is not at all dependent on the latest look (though I usually will have one or two items of clothing that reflect the latest look.) But, despite only taking about 5-10 minutes each morning to get ready, I always look fabulous. I’ve had total strangers from teens to little old ladies and accountants come up to me in the street and compliment my cheapo outfits that I buy in Internacionale, Primark, New Look and at best Topshop, Bank, Dorothy Perkins, Next and Republic. Anyway, I jumped up and down for a while before actually using the toilet and then staring at myself in the mirror and my reflection looked radiant and golden. I thought, ‘I have to tell Lochlan’ (my best friend) but my phone, Fire, wasn’t with me or I would have right then. I may have said “8000! You did it! You did it! Yes! Yes! 8000” but I’m not sure; my memory is very fuzzy at this point because this was the best moment of my life, and the fact that I was experiencing the best moment of my life in a toilet cubicle didn’t bother me at all. After a bit more screaming, I went back outside and Roland and I walked to his car (it’s a BMW convertible and, as he says, it’s a boy car with muscles. I won’t describe it further though). We had the run the last hundred metres to beat the traffic warden, which we managed by one minute.

 

The Deal

Roland’s mention of his art quest reminded me of what he said online: “I see you also as a lovely muse, someone with whom to create or inspire art – erotic art. I see what happens sexually between us as part of that art. It is surely appropriate that an artist pays his muses. And this payment does not – alone – make them whores.” I had suggested we film it, and I knew this idea appealed to him.

“If I could film it,” he said now, looking at me steadily, “And take photographs – if I could make some art out of it – a work of art, not just a porn film…I would look at the sex as part of that art…”

“Yeah, anyone can make a porno,” I said, “Two 12 year old neds could make a good porn film. It would have a narrative. And,” I added, dispensing with the hushed voice “It would not be just that one second, the goods would be yours for a whole day. If you saw my second-last message…” Roland nodded. “Yeah, just no big permanent marks. Small ones are okay.”

He grinned at me, amused and a little surprised. “You want a reminder, don’t you!” he said.

“I don’t want a reminder, I just wouldn’t mind one,” I smiled. “And now there’s a deal you won’t get anywhere else.”

He nodded.

“So, how good are you at negotiation?” he asked, looking right at me.

I smiled instantly. “We-ell, I tricked the Chief of Police of the entire […] district into admitting he’d lied and that police on his force had been corrupt – that was to do with the local authority thing I told you about. I was 18 then. So that should tell you something about my skills.”

Roland frowned, and I knew he was thinking about the local authority in another town and how they had lied about my family.

“That was pretty impressive, right?” I said, grinning.

“What’s the first rule of negotiation?” he said suddenly.

I thought for a bit, a little smile on my face and looking hot while I was thinking (as I always do if I use this particular ‘thinking’ expression). I said, “I think it would be always to keep the end goal in your mind. Because as long as you don’t forget your goal, you will make a good negotiation.”

“That’s very true.”

“So what do you think is the first rule of negotiation?” I said.

He thought for a bit. “I would say, don’t be the first to name a price. Because then the other person can change it or lower it or debate it.”

That made me smile. “I already broke that one, didn’t I? Like I said I wasn’t after as much as those other girls got.[4k; 8k and 100k]”

“How much are your student debts?” he said.

“I think eight thousand, but it might be like twelve thousand now because they changed it.” [Actually now I know it would have been 10k if they had not changed it, but after changing it it is now 12k. Which doesn’t matter anyway because I doubt Roland would have given me 10k or 12k; or if he had, he might have asked for more stuff in return.And as this venture is not actually prompted by student debts, it doesn’t really matter.]

“I’ll give you eight thousand,” he said, “Provided that we film it; we’ll do some spanking, bondage and some shots to establish the narrative. So it might take three or four times before we actually consummate it And you continue seeing me after the consummation, for photographs and some more spanking and sex.”

I put my dessert spoon in my mouth and sucked off the icecream. It was the best raspberry ice cream I’d ever had.

I said, semi-truthfully, “I don’t know if I’d be here after we consummate it because I might go travelling. I’m not going to say I certainly will be here if I might not.”

“Well, let’s say four thousand for the virginity, and a further four thousand for if you want to continue,” he said.

“Yeah, I think that’d be easier,” I nodded.

We agreed that he’d pay me £1000 each time he saw me; I wanted this method of installments, rather than a lump sum, because it meant that if either of us wanted to back out, it would be easy to do so without negotiating how much was owed or how much of the deal had been fulfilled.

“And,” I said, “I would want something in advance; it doesn’t have to be much.”

“Like a deposit,” Roland smiled.

“Yeah – like I’m a Ferrari.”

 

 

The Tower: How it started

So, it’s 1:17 am, I’ve finished all my exams, the summer is unrolling itself in front of me. And I’m lying here looking at the screen and wondering how on earth I’m going to get all my thoughts, facts and, well, everything onto WordPress in chronological order. This is a fun experiment, blogging, but I want to get it right. I’m known for being able to write well; I’ve had stuff published. So I don’t want this attempt to be a major screw-up, do I? Anyway, does chronological order matter – the film scriptwriters don’t seem to think so with their love affair with flashbacks. But let’s try for a little chronology here. I suppose it all really started in the Tower.

The Tower is a restaurant on top of the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh (it’s a great museum, by the way, you should go if you’re ever in Edinburgh.) Anyway I’d never been in a restaurant that expensive (from the perspective of students) before; I’m pretty sure I saw food that was £70 and that was a main course, excluding the starter. But I digress.

The Tower restaurant where we made the deal.

I was nearly at the museum but had to turn and come all the way back around, to avoid being spotted (for reasons not connected to this.) Roland had booked a table for us and it was lovely being in this restaurant because I’d never had this before, and it’s nice being treated as you deserve, I suppose. I’m not trying to say I’m a good person, just that I’m a pretty young girl and should be treated like a lady. (Yeah, I’m a spoilt bitch, as you guessed.) I hadn’t had time to flick my hair or reapply lippy/apply lipgloss or eyeliner after my exam (because of an incident unconnected to this) but it didn’t bother me Roland seeing me this way because I’m beautiful, even though my so-called hair has a life of its own. We were sitting talking, and it was kind of flirty; it was fun talking about these things in code in this restaurant. I had chicken – it was delicious.

I was wearing a long floaty opaque top with an embellished collar over a tight gold vest top and grey Aztec-print leggings. Roland is above average in looks, though not what I go for, and I was looking at him and thinking to myself ‘How on earth can you do this, you’re not attracted to him even one percent??’ but then I thought, ‘Kalika, you can do anything for money.’ And besides, he had a PhD, wasn’t fat, was tall, and was definetly someone I could talk to and connect with – we’re actually very similar in some ways. Even though he had a receding hairline and could’ve lost a couple of pounds, he wasn’t unattractive or wrinkly. So it wasn’t like he was totally unworthy of me or anything like that – in fact I like him. So why did I feel disgusted at the thought of it, since I genuinely liked this guy in every way except a sexual way? I decided that I must be even more interesting than I thought I was. If only we could control who we were attracted to! But then that is not true prostitution, is it, if you do for money what you would willingly do for free? That’s unfair to the client. I smiled and relaxed as I realised this.

I told Roland this, and he wasn’t surprised that I wasn’t attracted to him. I think he was amused by me saying that if I was it would not be true prostitution.

And the more we talked, the less disgusted I felt, as I realised how alike we were and the weird thing is, there was not one awkward moment.

Think about it.

We’d met in real life once, two weeks ago, to do a nude photoshoot and afterwards he spanked me (as we’d discussed online, or I wouldn’t have agreed to it. And come to think of it, he wouldn’t have done it, probably.) After that, I’d asked him if he wanted to buy my virginity online. Well, I didn’t ask just like that; I have well-honed social, negotiation and manipulation skills, though I deployed only the barest fraction of these skills to ask him this. He said yes and I said, good (that is what those messages boil down to, if you take out all the crap and posturing). Then he says, basically, that since we’re doing lunch tommorrow before he drives me to his company, Luxor Engineering, to spank and video me, we could talk about this over lunch.

So here we are. I’m very happy because I know my negotiation skills ensure me a good deal, even if I’ll be going up against a businessman. (Though my default state is being very happy, so this may not account for much.)

And it’s great; it feels right; I’m happy being here with Roland. If I were hearing about someone else doing this, I’d expect a lot of pauses and wondering what to say next. But that didn’t happen. We talked about all kinds of stuff; art, relationships, the stupidity of conspiracy theories, spanking, my BDSM political satire story; my other spanking story; America; stuff. When he mentioned he had bunny ears for me to be photographed in in his office after lunch, this oldguy in a red jumper stares and glares at him; it was hilarious.

I leaned forward and whispered that the oldyguy had given him a disgusted look; Roland said “I don’t really care what others think of me,” and sneaked a couple of glances over at him.

“So, what made you want to sell it?” he asked.

“I’ve always wanted to, since a couple years ago,” I said, looking directly at him. “Like, I think abstinence [the Christian ritual practice of not having sex until the night of marriage, similarly to Muslim and Middle Eastern/Asian cultural practice] is very erotic, but selling it is pretty sexy too…It’s just something I want to do.”

He said that he can understand why abstince can be sexy. “And of course, you’ve been doing something similar,” he pointed out. (Which is true; I am indeed sort of abstinent, but not until marriage. I am abstinent until either my virginity is sold or I find a guy who will “rape” me after a night of debasement, spanking, poop/pee desperation, enemas, diapers, babying, etc.) Being abstinent is, indeed, extremely sexual.

I told him about an abstinence indoctrination programme I saw once on a Christian channel and how very erotic it was (I disagree with its emphasis on female purity, its degradation of female sexuality and its perpetuating of the double standard, but abstinence as a concept is HOT!) and how Christian programs especially those which address fornication are wonderful to masturbate to; this made him laugh a lot.

Then we get onto dessert (icecream and sorbet, yum!) and start talking about selling virginity. Roland tells me, as he did online, that as an artist he’s interested in the art: making a film out of it and doing photography. The sex is only a part of the art, and it is the latter that he would pay for.

 

Selling virginity: an attempt at documenting the experience

I started this blog because I am selling my virginity, and I wanted to document this wonderful adventure I’m having – not out of vanity or celebration, but as an accurate portrayal of our society at this precise moment – the human experience of pleasure, ideas, our social world, which led to this exquisite transaction and which will ultimately shape it – whether we are aware of it or not.

Obviously, all names will be changed. This is my first attempt at blogging so I cannot promise you an earth-shatteringly good blog which will blow your mind/provide a startling social commentary/whatever. All I can deliver is the truth; or rather the truth from my point of view, as I see it.

I hope you enjoy reading what I write – whether it amuses, entertains or surprises you.