Pleasure Poots

Let's face it, unexpected things happen; especially during "sexy time". As a professional, I must be ready to engage any intimate mishap with a gracious demeanor. Sometimes it's difficult to maintain one's composure, but losing control could eliminate any future opportunities for rehire. I remember one such incident early on in my "love for hire" career. She was a very  popular R&B singer who was extremely shy around people she did not know. Because of the image her label wanted to portray, she was never seen in public with a date. I was hired by her management team to provide discreet male companionship on various occasions, wherever she happened to be in the country. As time passed we became close friends and she decided one night to "take it there". I was terribly attracted to her, but had learned that sex was a weapon that should be brandished with care. After a romantic dinner we went back to her hotel for a nightcap. One thing led to another and soon we found ourselves lost in the throes of passion. Before long, a curious aroma started to fill the room.
"What's that awful smell?" I thought to myself.
There I was, holding this sex symbol in my arms, about to pass out from the horrid vapors of this invisible demon that had suddenly invaded the bedroom and possessed my nostrils while my partner was laying there moaning and thrashing about beneath me. It didn't take me long to discover the source of the funk. It was my lover! She was so enraptured by the sensations of our love making session that she was emitting "pleasure poots" underneath the covers. Both our eyes were rolled back in our heads, hers from extreme pleasure, mine from the threat of suffocation.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" she finally screamed while digging her nails into my back.
Let me tell you... that orgasm came in the nick of time, because I immediately collapsed on my side beside her  feverishly panting into my pillowcase. We never again made love after that night. A few weeks later we bumped into each other at the Grammy Awards. She playfully hugged my neck and seductively whispered into my ear,
"You're afraid of me. Do you remember how my good loving "knocked you out"?
 I smiled and told her how vividly I remembered that encounter. I just have never found the heart to tell her that it wasn't her skills as a lover that knocked me out, but the lack of oxygen going to my brain from holding my breath.

Pamper Pants

"I'm sick and tired of being disrespected. No matter how much I lay down the law, she basically ignores me!"
Augusta was one of my favorite courses to play. I bent down to survey the slope of the green. This was going to be a tricky shot.
"Would you be afraid of a snaggletoothed lion with no claws? I asked my friend as I placed my golfball on the tee.
"No."
"Why not? He would still be "King" of the jungle".
"Sure, he'd still be the king of the jungle, but without those teeth and claws he might as well be a big house cat."
My friend was a model who had been featured in several major international publications. He was used to the finer things in life and, like myself, earned his living off of his looks, charm and charisma. His problems began when he allowed himself  to fall in love with his benefactress.
"Would it be fair to say you were a "pampered" man?" I asked.
"That would be fair."
"And how would you describe this "Life of Riley"?
"Well, she makes sure that I keep money in my pocket. I don't have to pay any rent because she lets me stay in her house and she pays the note and insurance on the Benz."
"What about your food and clothes?"
"We have a personal chef that cooks during the week and she keeps me looking good."
"Then why are you complaining? It sounds like you have it made."
"I'm complaining because she doesn't ask my opinion on anything!" he yelled.
"Whenever I offer a suggestion, she just brushes me off and calls me cute."
"So, basically, you want to wear the pants."
"Yes, I want my voice to be heard in my relationship!"
Judging from the annoyed stares we were attracting due to his loud outbursts I was certain his voice was not the problem.
"It's hard to demand the pants when you're wearing a pamper. You're a Pamper Pants"
"A what? What on Earth is a pamper pants, Vincent?"
I wanted to be tactful, but I had to be direct.
"A pamper pants is a man who enjoys being pampered by a woman, but wears a pamper when it comes to influencing her decision making process."
"But that's not fair,  he retorted. "A woman is supposed to support and take care of her man!"
"Not like she's his mama. Let me ask you a question. How serious would the world have taken Hitler if he was walking around in a pamper?"
After a moment of silence, he responded.
"Wow..."
"Exactly."
I selected a five iron from my bag and lined up my swing.
"Four!" I yelled as I looked down the green way and blasted the ball towards the white flag.