NB there seems to be a flurry of “Jessies” in Soho right now - this one is not to be confused with the excellent “Jessie” I recently saw.
There are moments in this game of ours that cause us to ponder the deep questions. The meaning of life. Human rights. Justice. Perhaps even the existence of God. Jessie would provoke such deep soul searching from me today and not in a good
One of the most disturbing, menvolant aspects of this brutal contact sport we play is suffering a bad tackle from a girl who seems to have lost all humanity, whose cold stare leaves no doubt that she hates me and all I stand for. It is well documented that prostitutes suffer from much higher rates of psychological disorders than your average civilian. While one can only ever speculate what is going on behind those dead eyes, there is in my non-clinical opinion something very wrong with the Romanian “Jessie” who I saw at Lisle street one recent dank night in the capital.
Some context to this sexual clusterfuck. It was (genuinely) one of those days when I was out and about rushing between pointless engagements and felt the urge. No pretext, no need to lie to myself - it was one of those days when had the urge to fuck something that only men can understand. When you read those stories about cocks stuck in melons or some retard scalding his testicals with a Rustler burger this was one of those days when you understand humping inanimate objects. And frankly humping a packet of ALDI giblets would have been less degrading than the ten depressing minutes I spent with the not-so-delightful young Jessie.
I climbed the stairs of number 3 to the very top and a regular of mine, Italian Anna, swung open the door, slim cigarette aloft like a 1920’s film star. My crotch stiffened but my hopes were dashed - busy for two hours. I resented the lucky bastard that would get to sample her wares.
Back down and back up number 4, I doubted i would stay so I knocked on the door of the lower floor. A seemingly delightful young lady, beautiful blue eyes, black hair, delicate features and a banging natural bod flung open the creaky, grubby, damaged and badly repaired door (looks like it had been kicked in at some point) and looked me up and down. All the signs were there. Warning sign one - I was greated with rudeness even beyond a disinterested stare - it was more a hateful eye fucking i received as soon as she came into the room. Her admittedly beautiful blues eyes cut through me with a vicious contempt. It was unbridled hubris on my part to not walk at this point - but I had been horny and thought I was twenty again when you could knob the carcass of a week old christmas turkey and still cum like a train. And she was fucking hot - pretty face, curvy bum and knock out knockers with small lick able nipples. Admittedly it was difficult to reconcile the alluring body draped in seductive smalls with the hateful look in her eyes, but hindsight is always 20-20 once you have emptied your clip.
I opted for a £40+£2 slurp and smash Soho special. She rolled her eyes and disappeared to stash the cash. I was still buoyant.
I unrobed, placing my imaginary velvet smoking jacket carefully on the grubby chair in the corner of the room. Vintage 1980s Betty Boop pictures (worth a bundle to some neveau riche post-Soviet wanker in Knightsbridge no doubt) seveyed the scene as I lay on the well worn bed gently wanking myself as an ambivelant hardness came over my groin.
Jessie returned and flashed me warning signs numbers 2 and 3 - roughly putting the anorak on my cock with the suave of an annoyed council estate mother trying to get her reluctant child dressed and out the door to their failing inner city school. Keeping her ripe, firm and shapely milkers hidden under her bra made up the hat trick and I had to insist she liberated them for some pawing on my part and I was both aroused and disgusted at feeling like some lowlife old pervert begging for a grope of a pretty young womans tits.
Her “oral” technique was the pits - she essentially pinched my bellend with two fingers and held it with the disgust fit for a pair of soiled Y fronts and furiously tugged away - perhaps once or twice actually placing her plump lips on the tip.
I was hard but in danger of going numb from her abusive bishop bashing so I politely requested to copulate. She tutted, un popped the poppers concealing her meaty pleasure parts and lay back defeated but defiant. This was grim but I still thought I had enough in the tank to fuck home a victory.
Then came warning sign number 4 - she made no attempt to guide my cock into land and just stared up at me. Warning sign 5 - as I pushed into her she held one leg up so as to block my entry. This was fucking weird and getting way too rapey for me and i relented - requesting she satisfy me with her hand. Back to the pinching routine so i asked her to play with my balls and let me suck her boobs as I finished myself off. Warning sign number 6 she growls “I told you no kissing, even my boobs!” as she starts to roughly man handle my plums.
With one hand tugging away and another grouping her delicious firm natural chest I was in a race against both the clock and my conscience to eek out a nut. Fuck sake I barely managed to skeet in the dom and as soon as the first rope of phallic WHAT ejeculated she was up and away straight back to the maid slamming the door as she went. I continued to enjoy my climax inspire of her fucking rudeness and lay there enjoying every last spasm of pleasure flow through my body. I even allowed myself a breather and lay back looking at the grubby ceiling and examining the details of the Betty Boob prints. I was in no rush.
I was now flaccid and rolled the rubber off into a rough piece of cheap kitchen roll. I disposed of the evidence in the overflowing swing bin (shit attitude but still a busy girl) and washed my cock in the sink. Staring back at myself was difficult - this was clearly not my best moment.
However, it also was far from my worst and I comforted myself by reminding myself of all the great experiences punting has given me and reminded myself everyone has shit punts. By this time some other poor bastard was next door awaiting execution. Jessie cracked the door very slightly go make sure I was up and getting ready but slammed it once more as soon as she saw I was slipping on my crocodile skin Gucci loafers (I wish!).
I fiddled with the exit door to leave and she bolted back in to open it not a word to spoken. Keeping up standards I stopped to thank her (for the use of her body for my pleasure) and to ask her name. "Jessie" **bang** was all i got as the door was slammed on me once more.
In the words of Marlo Stanfield “the game is the game” and today was my day to get played, stuck up by Omar as I went for my re-up.
To qoute from Nik’s exceptional 21 Rules of punting (number 14 to be precise) “ Punters who tell you they have never had a bad punt are either easily satisfied or liars.”
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It is what it is, and as I trudged back down a soggy Lisle Street my mind was already made up that the only way forward is to get back on the horse, perhaps with a trusted regular, a strumpet that could restore my faith in pay-to-play sexual intercourse.
