I operate on auto-pilot as I make my way into the hotel, what I’m doing never fully sinking in. Jeremy told me last night that the sex worker agreed to meet me today and I haven’t been able to fully process what it means yet.
I walk through the lobby of the hotel, into the bar connected to it, and take my seat on one of the leather bar stools that line the long bar. There are a few tables surrounding the bar, but something about sitting at the bar itself draws me in.
As I’m sitting there, it occurs to me that this may not be the best idea. I have never been one to get extremely nervous, I can’t shake the nerves running through my body. I felt more confident about this idea when it was a discussion over drinks with Jeremy, but now that I’m here, it doesn’t seem as rational.
I try my best to remember why I am doing this. I try to remember the feeling of lacking in bed so much that someone feels the need to leave in the middle of sex. This can’t be more humiliating than that. It only goes up from there.
I order a drink, longing for something to numb my senses, just a little, and feel for the cash in my pocket. I think I have checked if it was there almost ten times already. I can’t imagine the embarrassment if I was in front of her when I realized I forgot my money at home.
The bartender passes me my drink, just a shot of vodka, and I down it quickly, needing the sting of alcohol to ground me. God, I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous in my entire fucking life.
I look around the room, hoping someone stands out as her. No one would tell me her name, but she knows mine so that she can find me. She knows what I look like too, while I know nothing. She could be here already, just watching me, and I wouldn’t even know.
I keep telling myself to picture this as a one-night stand, but I can’t, mostly because I know that the point of this is to learn how to fuck a woman correctly, and that is what is making me the most nervous. To learn, I know she is going to need to tell me what I’m doing right, but also explain to me what I’m doing wrong. The thought of someone telling me what I’m doing wrong while I am naked in front of them makes my nerves dance on my skin.
I usually bank on the fact that women aren’t super vocal about my skills. They’re more likely to smile at me and pretend it was good, and then go tell the entire group chat that I sucked. Emma was the outlier. She was bold enough to tell me how bad it was, and as much as I appreciate it, I was really hoping to avoid that my entire life.
Now I’m going into a situation asking someone to critique me. I’m asking someone to tell me what I’m doing wrong and how I can do it better. I’m hopeful that I will be able to figure it out, but that happiness is clouded by the fact that I know I am going to get critiqued soon.
I know that avoiding it is what got me here, so I know that isn’t an option anymore, but god, part of me wants to go back into the hole I was in and just pretend none of this is even happening.
