When we started my escort visits, Kevin established a few basic rules:
I am never to cook dinner. Or anything else.
I am never to ask him, “How was work?”
I am not to dress like a “housewife.”
Clearly he does not want to think of me as his wife.
I don’t think that is a really danger, knowing what I am and who he is, but it’s a boundary for him. And I respect that.
One good thing: For Kevin, the instruction that I am not to cook him dinner could be a simple matter of self-preservation, as I am a terrible cook capable of great harm.
So in that at least, we have avoided disaster.
These past two days he has been at work until six. He comes home mentally fried from meetings and spreadsheets and people conflicts. He flops into his recliner and closes his eyes.
Without speaking a word, I pour him a bourbon, Blanton’s, neat, with three drops of water, and set it on the side table next to his chair.
I have learned he needs time to come up for air. He will find his moment with me later. I will not ask him how work was.
“Not dressing like a housewife,” is of course a definition in Kevin’s own mind, a bit hard to decode.
I think he means that he prefers me in outfits that are contemporary and flirty, skirts that are shorter and flared, tops that are either sleeveless V-neck tees or camisoles with spaghetti straps. The look is younger, showing more skin.
This, of course, is what any woman, married or single, might wear. Being married is no respecter of persons, or fashions. But the only point here that matters is Kevin’s perception and preference, and this look seems to suit Kevin well enough, distancing me from whatever housewife demons that haunt him.
My other fashion choice with Kevin is lingerie. If he had no reason to take me out on excursions or to dinner at night with his friends, Kevin would be perfectly happy for me to wear nothing but chemises and skirted babydolls my whole time with him. It’s not that he needs this to turn him on — I could wear army fatigues and he would still fuck me silly. Rather, my being in lingerie is the constant visual suggestion I am ready to be taken to bed, to be used for sex, at any time. This distinguishes (funny word to use here) me from any mental image of being his wife or girlfriend.
He much prefers to think of me as his whore.
When I disappear from the living room, I decide to change out of my skirt and top and into my ruby red chemise. I think it’s a bit more whorish.
He opens his eyes from a quick snooze and, seeing me, opens his eyes wider.
“What?” I ask.
“Haven’t seen that before. Shows you off nicely.”
I take his glass to the bar to refresh it. He always has a second. “Thank you,” I say from across the room. “Amanda got It for me. She liked the color.”
“It’s short,” Kevin says, stating the obvious.
“Yes, it is. It’s not a dress, you know.” Of course he knows. He’s just playing. “It’s some newfangled thing they call lingerie.”
“What will they think of next?”
“I know, right?”
“It’s just comfortable,” I say. “Cooler in the heat.” I return to him, setting his glass on the side table. As I lean over, I whisper in his ear, “I’m really not trying to seduce you.”
He chuckles, sips his Blanton’s. “Funny way of not trying.”
I sit at the end of the sofa, facing him. I have my own glass of bourbon, and take a sip. Smooth, it tastes of vanilla and oak. “Kevin,” I say, “I could be dressed in a cardboard box, and you would find me seductive.”
“This just shows off a lot of you.” Kevin says with a playful smile. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“You’ve seen me, all of me, before.”
“It’s been a while.”
“It was just this morning,” I point out.
“Like I say, it’s been a while.”