Naked Noodles and Other Stories

Like I’ve said before - and will probably say again - everyone has fantasies and fetishes, and everyone’s idea of what is sexy or a turn on is different. Some of them I totally understand and share myself, others I can see why it’s a turn on but they personally do nothing for me, and then there are the ones that either gross me out a bit or completely mystify me.

I’ve encountered so many different fantasies and fetishes since I started working - indulging in (and enjoying) quite a few - and it’s rare that I ever come across something that I haven’t at least heard of. In saying that, though, there are so many variations and different aspects to sexual fantasy that each one is as individual as the person who desires it.

Some are more of the visual sort; watching porn, dressing up, putting on a show, mirrors and things like that.

Like I remember I used to see this guy, Dan, who loved watching me play with a vibrator. Of course, that isn’t a rare request at all, but Dan was the first person I’d ever met that wanted to watch me do it on the kitchen table while he made pasta. Always pasta. I never found out why.

There are fantasies about specific body parts like toes, arses, belly buttons and nipples – One guy I met would come by getting me to squeeze on his earlobes as he fucked me, another loved me to tickle his feet with my hair.

For some people there needs to be pain and/or control involved; hot wax, fingernails, bondage and discipline, and other people get off on adrenaline and risk – fucking in public, taboo partners (like your wife’s sister, or your daughters piano teacher) and other elicit affairs.

Laura and Max, a couple I once saw, had an appetite for make-up sex. You know, the passion-filled and anger-fuelled fuck you have after an argument. But, because they hardly ever fought for real, they would have these pretend bust-ups about trivial things – the toilet seat being left up, what to watch on TV etc – and sometimes, usually when on holiday, they would have these loud, melodramatic arguments in public full of accusations of betrayal, name calling and lots of crying and flouncing off, before heading back to the hotel for crazy, hardcore make-up sex. In the booking I had with them, Laura “caught” Max and me in the act, resulting in a huge “fight” and some very hot threesome sex. I must admit it felt very strange, sitting naked in the bed while these two went off at each other. It was quite full on. If I hadn't known it was all an act I would have been terrified! She really laid into him!

I have to admit, though, some of them can make me laugh more than anything, and I there have even been a few times when I’ve felt downright silly. Like this guy I (privately) nicknamed Dick Chasey because whenever I’d go to see him the job always started with us getting naked and me chasing him around his house trying to catch him by his dick. Harmless, yes. Embarrassing, very. I don't like to run at the best of times, let alone naked with my boobs bouncing around and my butt all wobbly. But he loved it and I really did enjoy satisfying his itch. Which was always proof to me I was in the right job.

I honestly think, when it comes right down to it, if it’s not hurting anyone (unless of course that’s the fantasy) then there really isn’t anything wrong with a little naked pasta making. Noodle anyone?

Breaking the Mould

Stereotypes are interesting things. On one hand they can be a way to define certain groups and types of people, but on the other hand (and most commonly), when you delve deeper into it, they are usually completely wrong and are often quite damaging to the person being defined.

Like for example, all Asians excel at the violin or all blondes are stupid or, one of my favourites, all hookers are skanky, heroin addicts who hate the world, hate men and, most of all, hate themselves.

It just isn’t true. I mean, yeah, in every situation you’re going to get some people that match the stereotype (that's how stereotypes are formed), but you’ll also find a lot of people who couldn’t fit into the mould you set, no matter how hard you try to squeeze them in.

We are all guilty of doing it. Assuming things because of what someone looks like or where they come from, and one thing this job has taught me (apart from really useful things like how to use a strap-on and which angles and lights I look hottest in) is to never do that, no matter how obvious it may seem.

The first thing I needed to learn was to not judge clients as a whole. Before I started working in the sex industry I pretty much assumed that most guys who called for the service of an escort were desperate, unattractive, pervy old men. You know the ones, they ogle you at the bus stop and make lewd comments when you walk past them but I have to say, to date, I haven’t come across many guys like that at all.

Yeah, okay, so I’ve seen old guys, desperate guys, sleazy guys and unattractive guys, but all that unsexy goodness rolled into one? Not that many at all.

After switching my thinking about the people who use the services of sex workers, came the learning curve of not judging individual clients by what they looked like or where they were from. It didn't take long at all, but there were some interesting experiences along the way that instantly taught me to never judge a book by its cover.

The first of these experiences was with Karl.

Karl was a bald headed but bushranger bearded, super-scary looking bikie. He had tattoos of skulls and guns all over his arms and back and a well-known biker’s club patch on the back of his jacket. His voice was raw and husky from too many cigarettes, his body gnarled and covered in scars from things like knife attacks and fist fights and he even had a shotgun hanging up in the wall of his bedroom. I’ve gotta tell you, I was a little freaked out. In fact, if I didn't already have all his credit card details and my awesome burly driver waiting outside in the car I may well have made some excuse and left.

I was really glad I didn't. Not only was he was polite, gentle and funny. He was so much fun! He kicked my arse in strip scrabble and played me some beautiful music on his guitar. That first night I spent about three hours with him, laughing and mucking about and fucking and generally having a really good time. He became a regular client and a friend too. In fact the only reason I stopped seeing him was because he moved interstate.

Then there was Billy. A middle-aged, bespectacled accountant who was wearing (no shit) a brown suit with too-short legs and white tennis shoes when I met him. I expected missionary sex and to be shown his stamp collection. I was completely wrong.

After a few hours of wild sex, in which we enjoyed many different positions and toys and which had me shaking and panting all over from multiple orgasms, we sat on the couch and went through pictures of his last mountaineering expedition in the Himalayas . He went every couple of years and was even hoping to one day conquer Everest. He showed me a video of his first solo sky dive and told me all about the base-jumping holiday he was going be taking in Canada the following month.

Not all black guys have humongous cocks, not all Asians have little ones, Indian men don’t always smell like curry and I have yet to come across an Englishman who never showers. And, one of the most important and totally surprising things I learnt in my first few months of working was, not every booking involves sex. There's dinner and events and cuddles and conversation. Sometimes I don't even take my shoes off let alone my clothes. There is such an amazing array of people and situations I have found in my working life that sometimes the anticipation of a new client and an unknown hour or so is even more exciting than the jobs where I know I'm going to have fabulous sex.

In fact, just about the only thing I can guarantee on a job is, if you do end up booking me we are going to have a bloody great time and if you do use some of that time to fuck me, you’re gonna have the ride of your life.

Condom Conundrum

In response to a reader's comment last night about the fact that I don't mention condoms in my blog...

There's actually a reason for this and I wrote about it a few years ago for People Mag... This is taken straight from the archives of my old People Mag file. I haven't edited it or re-written it, it's pretty much exactly how it was in the magazine...
Hope this explains things!
xxDB 

  Someone pointed out to me the other day that I don’t talk too much about condoms in my stories. That even though they are full of fucking and sucking and various positions and parties, the guys never seem to be sheathed.

Well, let me assure you all that I never work without a rubber. Ever. It’s just bloody common sense really.

I have, on some nights, fucked up to six or seven guys and, as much as I enjoy losing myself in tingling ripples of pure pleasure, there is no way I would ever get so lost I’d forget something as important as that.

I suppose the main reason I don’t mention them very often is that, even though they are a necessary part of my job, it just isn’t the sexiest thing to slot into an erotic tale. I just don’t think it’d work. Like this…

John sat beside me and watched hungrily as I lay back, naked and smooth, against the pillows.

My skin buzzed as he nibbled at my neck and teased my throat with his fingertips before moving to linger at my nipples, teasing them til they were standing up hard.

He continued down, running his hands and tongue all over me until, cupping my arse firmly in one hand, he pulled me up off the bed towards him and pushed a couple of fingers from his other hand deep inside me. He rocked me back and forth and I couldn’t help but make little noises and move my hips in rhythm with him.

Then, pushing deeper still, he raised me even higher off the bed and began to pull me slowly towards his mouth where he began to lap ever so gently against my soft folds and my eagerly swelling clit. The soft sliding of his tongue blended together with the hard fucking of his hand was an amazing combination and my body tensed and shuddered as the two extremes took over.

His cock throbbed next to me and I reached over, holding it in my fist, feeling each pulse run through my body like an electric shock ending at my pussy, which ached to be filled by him...

I rolled away for just a second and reached over to my bag, where I rummaged around for a little bit, finally pulling out the little square packet, tearing it open and pulling out the lubricated condom. I held it over the head of his cock and, squeezing the tip gently, rolled it down over his shaft, trying hard not to catch the pubic hairs in the tight sleeve…

See what I mean? Something in the telling just takes away from the story and, as much as nearly everything I have ever written about in this column is true, I don’t think there’s that much harm in omitting certain details. Of course, I can’t omit them when I’m at work so I just try and incorporate it into the fun. In fact, I can put a condom on better with my mouth than I’ve ever been able to with my hands… But that’s another story. 

Added Comment about oral sex on me (which I used in my response to reader's comment):
Oral sex is a tricky one, there are dams but I find them to be quite useless to be honest. I use my own discretion when it comes to allowing natural oral on me. Over the years one becomes quite good at subtly looking for anything that could be detrimental to my health.

No Bang For Your Buck

It’s almost inevitable that a Buck’s party will end up at a strip club, it’s like an unwritten law, but Paul wanted something different for his best mate, Brian, something kind of extravagant.

The receptionist at the agency told me that this guy wanted something a bit left of centre and wanted to know if he could speak to me directly as it was a bit long-winded. Always up for a new experience and curious as to what left of centre could mean, I got his number and gave him a call.

In that first phone call he was a little bit evasive. Not in a bad or sneaky way, I could just tell he wasn't to comfortable trying to ask me all the questions he wanted to over the phone, so he asked if we could meet up before the night in question so that he could explain his idea to me properly.

About a week before the job was going to happen I went along to a small cafe in the city to meet him. He was a really good looking, young guy. Probably in his mid twenties. He looked very professional in an expensive suit and was very well spoken and polite. He told me that his mate, Brian, was going to be the last of their group to be married and, for the last hoo-hah, Paul and their other friends had decided to organise a show Brian would never forget; a live sex show, performed by me and a male escort, Sam, who worked for the same agency as me. I thought it sounded like fun and agreed to do the job. Sam had already been briefed by the receptionists at the office about it but, as our paths had never crossed before, we arranged a time to meet before the job so we could plan out the what's and where's and all the details.

The basic idea was this: Sam was going to be Paul’s “cousin”, and a last minute addition to the party. He was going to join them on their night out, and then later, they were all going to come back to the office where most of them worked where they would meet me. I was going to be the “stripper”, hired for the night to perform my routine but, as a twist during the show, I’d pick a member of the group to have sex with in front of the rest… Sam. Easy! And not only that, it sounded like fun too!

Sam and I instantly warmed to each other. He was funny, smart and really, really cute with dark, wavy hair, big brown eyes and a gorgeous body. He seemed as excited about the night as me, and it really did seem to be the perfect job. The guys were friendly, the venue spectacular (a top floor office in a tall city skyscraper), and the money was also going to be amazing. Team that with the fact that Sam was a total hottie with a great personality to boot, and I was sure nothing could possibly go wrong.

Paul was right. It was going to be a show his mates would never forget…

The night started out fine. It was around 11 pm when I got to the party and met the guys. They were all very nice, Sam had fitted in well and no-one had doubted the story of him being an out-of-town cousin. We all shared a drink and chatted for a bit and then Paul put on a CD of sexy music and the show began.

On a night where nothing could go wrong, things started to go wrong.

I probably should have thought about it a bit more beforehand, because it's something I know very well about myself: Although I’m one hell of a fuck, I’m not a great dancer. That whole line of being able to tell how good someone is in bed by the way they move on a dance floor is, in my opinion, total bullshit!

So there I was, in front of a group of guys, with slow, sexy music playing on the CD player, trying to move all sensual and snake-like while wearing these ridiculous spike heels that I could hardly walk in, let alone keep a beat with. And it was only then I realised with horror that not only was I supposed to dance in them, I had to undress in them too. All while keeping this seductive dance going! Concentrating hard I sort of wiggled my hips a bit and tried to take off my shirt.

Salome I was not.

I think If I’d unbuttoned it properly it probably would have worked better, and it took me almost a full minute to untangle myself, completely stuffing up my hair, smearing eyeliner down the sleeve and losing my balance a couple of times in the process. But, just as it all seemed lost I managed to regain composure, fling my shirt across the room in a haphazard but totally sexy way and find the beat in the music again.

Relief was short lived. I now know why strippers wear things made with easy-pull-apart velcro sides. As I delicately shimmied out of my skirt one of the stupidly high spike heels got caught in the bottom of it and I stumbled again, falling onto my hands and knees as a heel got caught in my skirt. I cleverly disguised the fall as a sexy move and slipped the offending skirt off the heel. There was a nasty ripping sound as it caught on the hem, but I soldiered on and luckily the guys hadn't seemed to notice.

Feeling awkward and clumsy I got back up, now just in my bra, knickers and stupid shoes and beckoned to Sam, pulling him out of the circle and into the middle with me, telling the boys that this show was going to be a little bit different.

Sam smiled as he let me undress him. It was definitely easier getting his shirt and pants off than it had been getting my own clothes off. I smiled to the boys as I slid down his boxer shorts, and then I knelt down in front of him, licking my lips.

There I encountered the next problem in the “perfect job”. Sam was as soft and limp as cooked spaghetti and no matter what I did I could not get him to grow. I tried everything. Long slow licks, delicate kisses, tender hands and fingers running up his legs. I ran my hands over his chest. I put him (soft and limp) into my mouth (so not a sexy thing, really.) But still nothing. Not even a twitch. It was something I had never encountered before in my life! Sure, there have been guys with beer droop and drug slug and guys with other erection issues, but never had I come across someone so unresponsive to me in every way. When I did sneak a glance up at his face he looked bored.

After about five or so minutes of my futile attempts to get him hard I stood up and whispered in his ear that maybe he could try going down on me. At least then we could give the guys who were paying us a shit-load of money to be there something to watch to give them their money's worth. Sam shook his head, replying that he didn’t really like doing that and maybe we should just give up.

I was pissed off! Not only was I feeling about as sexy as a lump of wood, I was really mad at Sam, who was getting paid the same as me but was putting in absolutely no effort whatsoever to make this job work.

In the end I gave up and apologised to the guys. They were surprisingly fine with it. They laughed and said it had been a great show and a fun experience and that they were all massively turned on by me and my dance routine and would I mind if they called me again for private jobs with them. I said I'd be happy to, and then, after getting dressed back into my ripped skirt, and make-up smeared shirt, left the party and got my driver to drive me back to the office where I told the receptionist everything. Her response totally shocked me, but at the same time explained everything.

“What do you expect?” She laughed. “Sam’s gay! He only ever works with other men! I can’t believe he didn’t tell you that. I guess he thought in a room full of blokes it’d be easy to get hard.”

It wasn't too long after that night that Sam called me to apologise. He even offered to give me the money he made that night. When I refused, he made me promise to at least take half, which I did, and now have some awesome new boots to show for it. And I have also regained my sexiness (and ego) with a few regular bookings with Paul, and other members of the group where I had absolutely no problems getting them to respond in the way I wanted.

So, in the end, I guess we were right. It was a night to remember… I just kind of wish I could forget.

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Video: What do Women Want in the Bedroom?

Chantelle Austin and I discuss what it is women are really after in the bedroom. And what men can do to help them achieve it...

Video: More Advice For Men

Another of mine and Chantelle Austin's video blogs in our "For Men" series...

What To Do Outside The Bedroom To Get What You Want Inside the Bedroom

Video: Men! Don't be Afraid of Sex Toys!

Another video of the gorgeous Chantelle Austin and I talking about sex toys and what it really means if she wants to bring one into the bedroom

Enjoy!

Video: Earth Shattering Orgasms...

(Oops! Totally posted the wrong video for this one! Haha. Let's try that again...)

One of mine and Chantelle Austin's Video Blog series for men on how to have better sex. This one has over 15,000 views!!

Lotta people wanna know how to orgasm properly! Enjoy!

The Ups and Downs of Deliciously Bad

So, as many of you know, this year has been rather a journey on the ol' roller coaster of life for me. My husband, the beautiful man of the mountain bike, Jman, decided after much soul-searching and a few bouts of “I fucking hate everything cos it all sucks” to leave his job.

It's a job he really loved and a profession he is very, very (did I say very) good at. The world of bikes has been his whole life for as long as I've known him (have I mentioned before I was about 11 years old when I met him?) and so this decision was a huge step. Massive!

As a good wife and his best friend I have supported this decision 100%. I've seen what the stress has been doing to him. As a good wife and his best friend I have stressed with him, cried with him, panicked with him and together we decided that it really was the best thing.

Actually he's been wanting to do it for a couple of years now. To be able to spend more time at home with me and our girl, to be able to spend more time seeing our friends and living life and to spend more time on his bike. The whole reason he's been working so long in the same area is his love of mountain bikes. His passion for building them and making them work perfectly. His love of racing them top speed down a crazy hill. The satisfaction of creating a fantastic track for other riders to enjoy.
But instead he has been stuck in a workshop, surrounded by people who don't seem to know what they're doing, and getting caught up in store politics, customer relations and retail. Definitely not his forte.

Like I said, he's wanted to quit for years but because of me, my uni studies, my head down-bums up writing of my book and the crazy inconsistency of freelance writing gigs and even regular sex work, he stuck at it. He stuck at it until he couldn't take it any more and wondered if the stress would kill him.

This kills me inside. I know that if it wasn't for me and my lack of income he would be less stressed, less unhappy, and more content. Our relationship, our love, our togetherness does not suffer which is one small mercy, but our stress levels about money, rent, the future, are always there. It's hard.
I honestly thought I would have something a bit more regular by now. Another column like I did in People Mag, or something like that. I believed that my book would have been picked up and published (it really is very interesting and good) by now and that I would be a valuable contributor to our household finances. It hasn't happened.

There's still time, sure, but time is something I don't really have.

I have very few regrets in life, I think they (like grudges) are unnecessary and hindering, but one that has bubbled to the surface recently is the one where, before I even knew if it would happen or not, I walked away from an amazing opportunity.

I did it because, at the time, it was the right thing to do. I did it because I have standards, morals and boundaries and someone pushed them and spat on them and made it so that I could either throw out everything I had always believed about myself to maybe get ahead, or walk away. I chose the latter.

To me (and the people who knew what was happening) it was the only thing I could do. To everyone else it probably seemed stupid and unprofessional. I wasted people's time who were investing a lot in me and I threw away an opportunity most people (myself included) would do practically anything for. Practically... But not anything.

I don't know if that opportunity will ever arise again. I'm trying very hard to build bridges and prove that I am someone to invest in, but I understand previous behaviour shows otherwise. This is something I have to deal with and admit to myself. And it sucks. It really, really sucks.
But there is a light. It's not a very bright one, and it won't solve all our issues, but it's there, glowing in the middle of this long gloomy tunnel and showing me it's not all bad and that there should, one day, be a super-bright one at the end where hopefully all our dreams will come true... Or at least we won't have to dip into our house deposit savings to pay rent.

Until then I shall keep scribbling away at my blog and various other writing gigs, sending my manuscript to publishers and hoping that one day Aussie TV decides to spice up their morning couches and the other guys decide to give another chance...

Diary of an Aussie Call Girl

A few years ago, when Belle Du Jour's book and then the Billie Piper's TV show "True Confessions of a London Call Girl" came out, People Mag asked me to write my own version of a diary... So I chose one of the weekends that I am often the busiest and documented it...

Thursday 9am.

Wake up with loud buzzing in my ears. Don’t know what it is, but it’s bloody annoying! Pillow over my head works, but now I can’t breath properly.

Fuck it. May as well get up.

Open the window and the whining hum infiltrates my kitchen.

It hits me. I must have been living in a bubble this past month to forget what the date was.

That one time of year when the city becomes the ultimate bloke’s Mecca, and I get to spend the whole time in swanky, high-class hotels…

Grand Prix.

Call the agency. Am pretty much booked solid for the entire weekend, starting at 7pm tomorrow.

Friday 5pm

First client wants me to wear stockings and boots and bring toys.

Easy

Mirror check. Dressed and made up. Smooth and smelling gorgeous. I look fun and sexy, but definitely not trampy.

Perfect.

Lights off, Lock up, double check I have all I need, and I’m out.

7pm

Get to hotel, it’s one of my favourites, I don’t have to go to reception first.

Arrive at room and meet Roger. Business stuff out of the way I turn to him and smile.

“So, you like toys huh?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I love watching chick’s play with themselves.”

Awesome. I love these jobs.

I pull out my little black bag-o-tricks. “Would you like to choose one?”

He chooses the dolphin. They usually do.

A light purple vibrator with a thick shaft full of pearly beads that spin and twist inside it, and a small rubbery attachment shaped like a dolphin that buzzes and pulsates.

It’s a good choice.

Sitting on the bed facing him skirt pulled up, my stockings and boots still on, I start to play.

He’s watching intently. His hand wrapped around his own cock.

That turns me on a little more and I press at the buttons, making the beads spin faster and the little dolphin buzz. It feels fantastic and I push it deeper into me.

He’s pumping his cock nice and hard now, watching the slick vibe move in and out of me.

My body tenses up, and the delicious tingly orgasm waves over me.

I see him come too, moaning and shuddering in his armchair across the room.

Share a smoke and have a shower. Accept his thanks and a nice little tip.

Say goodbye. Sign out. Make way to lobby and car and to next job.

9pm

He’s an octopus. Hands all over me as I walk through the door.

“Just let me make this call,” I say through gritted teeth, swatting his hands away with what he thinks is a playful slap.

Sign in. Hardly hung up and he’s pulling me into the bedroom.

Okay fine. He wants it quick?

Clothes off, quick suck, straddle him, ride hard…

He comes.

He looks ready for sleep

Good.

Shower, dressed, sign out, say goodbye.

Oh, and look at the time! Still only 9:30pm, I’ve got time for a coffee.

10:30pm

A Bi-fantasy booking in a flash hotel, he musta been inspired by the Grid Girls at the GP.

Meet Veronica in the lobby and go up together.

Guy seems shy. Doesn’t know where to look. Poor thing.

Veronica calms him with a back massage.

He wants to watch us kiss, so we do.

I like working with Veronica, she seems to enjoy it as much as I do.

Her hands travel down my sides and the client moves over to watch us play.

Her breasts are small and firm and her nipples are hard in my mouth.

Her fingers are cool as she slides them into the warm wetness between my legs.

The client wants to fuck now, so Veronica obliges on all fours. Kissing me while he thrusts into her from behind.

They both come hard. I’m little envious.

Shower. Sign out. Say goodbye.

Veronica and I leave the lobby in opposite directions.

Midnight

On route to next booking the agency calls.

The client has cancelled but there’s another job waiting.

12:30am

Get to the hotel and go to reception. Hate that.

Client’s a normal looking guy in his 40s. He smells like car fumes, stale whiskey and cigarettes. 

He pours himself another drink, makes me a cup of tea and we sit on the sofa.

Grand Prix highlights on the telly. He’s really into it, telling me all about the race and his day at the track.

I relax back on the couch, my feet on his lap as he rubs them nicely.

Have been sitting on couch for almost 40 minutes. Explain to him our time is nearly over.

“Just call and extend,” he says. So I do.

Another whiskey, another cup of tea.

I offer a massage, he declines.

I offer to move into the bedroom, he declines.

“It’s not you,” he says. “I just want to hang out. Is that okay?”

“Absolutely,” I tell him, and settle back to watch Letterman.

3am

Why is it that the only thing to eat at this time of the morning is Maccas?

Finish my cheeseburger (leaving the pickles on the paper wrapping) and head off to next job.

3:30am

I think the guy is on coke or a pill or something. His eyes have that “I’ve been awake for three days look” and he can’t shut up about the damn Grand Prix.

The sex is awkward and jittery and he can’t really keep it up.

He doesn’t seem to notice though.

He finally comes through a hand job and, when I get back from the shower he’s fast asleep. I let myself out.

5am

Last job of the night, please, please let it be a good one.

Bill has just got back from a night out and is slightly wobbly on his feet.

In the bedroom he is having a hard time getting hard.

‘Can I go down on you?” He asks

His tongue is soft and warm and he laps at me eagerly. I lie back and enjoy it, letting the sensations wash over me.

I come nicely and he gives me a moment to recover while he gets himself a drink.

“Can I do it again?” He asks on his return.

I reply with a smile and lie back against the pillows.

What a perfect way to end the night.

7am

Finally home.

In my Jammies.

In my bed.

And of course, those bloody cars have just started up again.

Love Me, Love My Kink

This is a People Magazine piece that I've re-jigged and is part of a chapter in my book.

Do you have something sexual you're unable to discuss with your partner? How do you deal with it? What do you do?

 

Fantasies and fetishes, we all have them, it’s just the way sex is. Everyone has that special little something that helps them reach total sexual fulfilment. If you’re lucky you find a partner who shares your fantasies, or one who at least allows you to indulge, and you never have to worry about unsatisfying sex ever again... But, of course, things are rarely that easy.

Because of the way mainstream society makes the general public think about any kind of sex that isn't straight, hetero, missionary style sex - as in it is dirty, wrong and shameful - people are forced to keep these things inside, quite often to the detriment of their health and happiness

When it comes to marriages and partnerships and commitments it never ceases to amaze me just how many people are afraid to tell the person they love just what it is they need and desire. I always thought one of the best things about being in a relationship with someone was the sharing. The getting to know them. The working out what makes them tick. But, when it comes to sex and fetish, so many people tend keep it to themselves and find alternative ways to satisfy themselves, usually meaning they end up lying, cheating and generally being deceptive to the person they're committed to.

Take Clint for example. He was a guy I used to see almost fortnightly, who absolutely loved it when I'd wear cowboy boots and sit on his back pulling his hair and slapping his arse. Okay sure, to some people that might seem silly (and to be honest it did feel a little silly to do) but it gave him a fantastic orgasm and sense of satisfaction and, when you think about it, it’s totally harmless.

Clint was so afraid his wife would think he was a freak that he kept it to himself and spent hundreds of dollars for me to do it instead. To be totally honest, I think his wife would be better off yanking on his thinning locks and shouting “Yee-Ha” every couple of weeks rather than discovering their hard-earned superannuation was paying my school fees… But hey, maybe that’s just me.

Actually, from the number of people I see who keep similar secrets from their partners, I know it pretty much is just me, and it’s sad to think there are so many people out there lying and sneaking around because their (supposed) soul mates don’t understand or refuse to accept them.

Yes, of course in some instances there will be that moment when someone’s secret, kinky desire swerves off the “normal” tie-me-to-the-bed-and-spank-me path, and there may well be a moment where you do a double take and have to put on your very best poker face, but I honestly don’t know if that’s worth ridicule, contempt and in some cases divorce. I mean sure, if it's really something you're not into yourself and cannot possibly see yourself doing, there are other options and, as part of a committed relationship, these sort of things should be discussed together and then a solution worked out. But I'm an idealist, and I know when it comes to sex, that is rare.

Gary had a greying moustache, a beer belly and lots of tattoos. He looked like he'd have been most comfortable on the back of a Hog, tearing up the country side with a bikie group and pictures of him around the place proved that he was. He was really friendly and chatty when I arrived, offering me a beer and making sure I was okay and, when I was, he asked me if I minded him slipping into something more comfortable.

Since he was in baggy trackies, Ugg boots and a t-shirt I didn’t think he looked uncomfortable but I just smiled and said “Of course not.”

I used the phone to sign on at the agency I was working for at the time and then went into the bedroom where he said he'd be waiting.

I found him reclining against a stack of brightly coloured pink and purple pillows, wearing a beautiful red lace teddy, thigh-high fishnet stockings and suspenders, and a pair of fabulous red heels.

“Great shoes,” I said, sitting next to him on the bed.

“Aren’t they?” he exclaimed, lifting his foot and turning it around to show me every angle.

That evening we spent about three hours together. We painted each other’s nails and watched Pretty Woman, which, at the end, had him sobbing, “That could so be you one day, Babe.”

He told me, as I brushed his hair, that his wife had left him after he’d confided in her and revealed his secret. He said it had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to say but he felt he owed it to her. Felt they had been through enough. Felt that the time was right and together they could work through anything. Not so.

He had told her in the morning, had cried and confessed and begged her to understand. She said she needed some time to think so he had gone out to run some errands but when he'd come home a couple of hours later, she was gone. He had not seen her since and that had been two years ago.

She’d been the love of his life for nearly thirty years. They had seen the world together, raised a family and a bunch of dogs. They'd built their dream home together and had suffered through the loss of a child together. And then, after his confession, she’d gone, just like that. A lifetime of love and happiness demolished in the flutter of a false eyelash.

I couldn't help but wonder that perhaps if Gary (like Clint and so many other people I see) had snuck around, and lied, and cheated, he would still have the love, companionship and support of the woman he married for better or worse, in sickness and health… But apparently not in racy red heels.

Sad really. Just very, very sad.