From: [email protected]
Subject: Nurse Jones, lady of the night?
Date: 9 Jan 92 00:40:31 GMT
I apologize in advance for this. I don't even know if I've already
sent it in once. It's out of date, anyway. This business with "A" has
still got me discombobulated. I hope ".r" will send it. Here goes:
keywords: theraputic memory dump, hypnosis, Michael Feelyesque soul-
searching about limits
From Nurse Jones,
[Sorry folks: a personal note to Jay: DON'T READ THIS. THIS IS THE
ONE.]
The annual Trial By Inlaws ritual is finally over. I survived, barely.
Jay agreed that after the ordeal he owed me a holiday. I mean really.
Mother in law, father in law, uncles and aunts in law, kids in law,
dogs in law, house in law with uncomfortable beds in law, the whole
catastrophe. They are all nice people, but they bring the midwest with
them wherever they go.
A big holiday, I figured he owed me. BIG.
Something Nice. A Treat. For me. Well, it was, sort of. We never got
to the actual holiday, just the planning, which was enough.
So while we decided what we (I) wanted to do, we checked in for one
night at an extremely fancy (and expensive) hotel. I had never stayed
in one of those before. I thought this was a spur-of-the-moment thing,
staying in this posh hotel, but it seems that all along, Jay had had
another one of his little tricks planned.
Which I am going to write about. This time, instead of a typical NJ
memory dump I'll put in dialogue and stuff. See, I'm branching out.
Maybe some day I'll be a real writer. Now someone will try and tell me
I already am. Don't bother. I read over The List recently. It is very
badly written. It still gives me "That Feeling" (as Jay says) to
remember what we did, but it is not well written. And this is NOT
Nurse Jones fishing for compliments.
So anyway. To begin.
Ahem:
I _like_ posh hotels. I'd never stayed anywhere where they put a piece
of chocolate on your pillow. Hey, did you know the origin of the word
'posh?' I looked it up: Port Out, Starboard Home. It referred to the
best staterooms (read shady side of the ship) on the passage to India
through the Suez Canal. There are other theories as to the origin of
the word, but I like this one best.
So we checked into this posh hotel with suitcases full of a wardrobe
planned entirely around a visit to midwesterners. You've never seen so
much beige in your life. If you drive through the midwest, you will
notice that large parts of it are beige. That's the real reason they
grow wheat out there, because it's beige. A nice, neutral color. And
when we checked into the hotel, I _thought_ we had an entire wardrobe
of various shades of beige. I was wrong.
Jay had planted another one of his posthypnotic triggers, and I
suddenly find myself seated in one of the dining rooms of the hotel
without knowing how I got there. So I'm getting my bearings, figuring
something sexy is either about to happen, or has just happened, and I
go to put my napkin in my lap and I discover I'm damn near topless.
I've got on this microscopic little black knit dress that is obviously
not intended to contain all of Nurse Jones. I'm very nearly popping
out of it, and there is this underwired wild west bra that kind of
hitches 'em up and heads 'em out. Talk about yer cleavage. And it was
short. Way too short. In fact, there was so little of it in the middle
that I couldn't pull it up OR down. AND I was wearing sleazy fishnet
pantyhose. AND I smelled like I had a sandalwood tree growing in my
crotch. I know where that came from. Jay likes sandalwood. He's a
hippie at heart, I think.
The only thing I even _thought_ I recognized was the obscenely huge
blonde wig I was wearing. It was the one Jay had gotten for me last
Spring, but that's another story, one that some of you know already.
Anyway, as believable hair, it is just barely marginal as to whether
it is too good to be true. I have to be careful around ceiling fans.
The point is, I don't own ANY of this alleged attire. Or I didn't
think I did. I do now. Not that I would have refused to buy it, if Jay
had asked, or refused to wear it either. Eventually. You know how I
am. If it's "safe" (whatever that means) but kinky, I'll consider it.
This just caught me by surprise. That's the point. It was all new to
me. I was in someone else's clothing. Someone else's _life_, it
seemed.
But the first thing I saw was my, um, bosom. There was, as the french
say, a crowd on the balcony. My first reaction was to hold my hand
over the crowd and whisper fiercely at him:
"Jaaaaayyyy(!)"
"Mmmmmmmmmm?" Mocking my intonation.
"What the hell's going on? Where are we?" I hissed, "You _did_ it
again, didn't you? I mean a minute ago I was getting ready for dinner,
and now here I am dressed like ..."
"A hooker?"
But I was too busy to answer. I had just realized there was chewing
gum in my mouth. CHEWING GUM. I NEVER chew gum. But there it was. I
spit it out and looked at it in the palm of my hand as though a tiny
UFO had landed there. I poked at it with a finger and realized that I
was wearing long fake nails, and that they were fire engine red. I
don't use bright colors like that. Or fake nails, for that matter.
Well, I tried them a few times, but they aren't a habit.
"What the heck is going on here?!?" looking at my finger like it had
just grown there.
"You were saying you looked like a hooker?"
"Yes!" I was whispering fiercely and looking around to see if anyone
had noticed me. I was still trying to adjust to the chewing gum. And
the fingernails.
"And you're perfectly safe in the hotel dining room. Sexy, isn't it?"
"No," I said. "It's sneaky. I didn't say you could do this to me."
"Sure you did. Well. Sort of. It's on the List, remember?"
He was right, one of the things we had left undone. Except not with
hypnosis. I had expected to know what I was getting into when we made
up the List. Go to a posh restaraunt dressed like a hooker. It was
there, but when we made up the List, I had expected to have a bit more
control over the situation.
"Think about it. You're not going to be arrested. Your dress is legal.
You have already agreed in principle, and you would have agreed to
this anyway if I had asked. Wouldn't you?"
"No. Yes. Probably. I don't know. I would have liked to have known."
"Do you have That Feeling?"
"Yeah, but...." still looking around to see if I was being stared at.
"But?"
"I would have liked to have known, that's all."
"Okay. Next time, I'll make sure you know what's coming. We'll use
hypnosis again, and I'll fix it so you'll put on the same outfit,
makeup, everything, and you won't be able to stop. You'll know what's
coming, but you won't be able to stop getting yourself ready,
transforming yourself into a hooker. How's that? It works for me..."
I was thinking about that and trying to adjust the front of my dress
so that my nipples weren't so damned near the alleged neckline when
the waiter came with drinks that I didn't remember asking for and took
our order. I hadn't even looked at the menu yet, so he started with
Jay. I took a sip of my drink and left a bright smear of lipstick on
the rim of the glass.
I was staring at that and realizing I had no idea what my face looked
like when the waiter asked what I would like. I still hadn't opened
the menu and there I was tugging at my neckline and staring at the
lipstick- smeared drink like it was another UFO. I'm sure we were all
amused.
"Um," I said. God, I'm so witty.
"The chicken piccata looks good," Jay said, ever helpful.
"Yeah. Uh, yeah, okay." Still staring at the lipstick with one hand
over my chest. I could imagine them in the kitchen. Hey chef: one
chicken piccata for the big-haired lady. The one emerging from both
ends of her tube top.
Then I discover this microscopic purse on the table and decide to look
for a mirror. There's nothing in there but my driver's license, a slip
of paper, a little plastic token with a number on it, and three
condoms in decorator colors. Great.
The purse was tiny enough to hang by the strap from one of my shiny
new fingernails. I held it up and said, "And what's this?"
"You're a hooker, remember? Hookers travel light. I think."
"Three?" If I could have raised one eyebrow, I would have. I sat in
front of a mirror once, and tried to learn how, but I just can't do
it. They both go up. Whatever. Sorry. My memory keeps trying to dump.
First of all, we never use condoms, and besides, I thought three was a
bit ambitious.
"Maybe you're a good hooker."
"What about the other stuff?"
"More surprises."
"Oh great. Great."
"I expect you'll think so." Or words to that effect. It's hard to
reconstruct everything we said during that evening, but I do remember
he told me during dinner that I still had some posthypnotic
suggestions left to deal with. I was on pins and needles all during
the meal. Life is like an obstacle course, lately. In fact, my love
life would make a good board game if Parker Brothers would buy the
rights.
By the end of the meal, I had figured out that I also had on some
humongous false eyelashes, but by then I was focused on how the hell I
was going to get up to leave the restaraunt. Gracefully, I mean. By
the end of the meal, I was pretty sure I didn't have any panties on
under that microdress, and standing up while simultaneously pulling
the hem south and not having any accidents on the northern slopes was
going to be a challenge. It is a TINY goddam dress, people. I can also
report that fishnet pantyhose are not comfortable against unprotected
female anatomy.
When I finally got up, I turned around and there was a crowd of
kitchen help and busboys sticking their heads out of the kitchen like
the Marx Brothers. They all wanted to see the hooker. It figures that
they would put us near the kitchen, away from the more conventional
looking guests. Worst table in the house, I bet. I don't think the
head waiter wanted to encourage us.
By then I was getting into the part, so I asked Jay for some more
chewing gum and just stood there twirling my nannopurse and giving the
kitchen help an eyeful while he fished the gum out of his pocket.
I was chewing the gum and just about to throw the wadded up foil
wrapping at Moe and Larry over by the kitchen door when Jay grabbed my
arm and said "Let's go." Oh, he's so masterful. I wanted to crack my
gum at someone in the approved hooker manner, but it needs to be well-
chewed for that, so I just threw an elaborate wink back over my
shoulder at the kitchen help, and went teetering along beside Jay.
On the way out I caught sight of myself in a mirror for the first time
and stopped dead (and pigeon-toed) in my stilettos. I really looked
like a hooker. My makeup verged on garish: my eyeshadow was two shades
too dark and my lipstick too bright and too much. The main um,
shortcoming, was the dress. There was way way too little of it. It
barely reached my crotch even when it was tugged down to where it was
supposed to be, and it didn't seem to want to stay where I put it. And
when I pulled on it, I looked like I was trying to be deliberately
wiggly and provocative. Outrageous eyelashes. I cracked my gum
successfully and smiled at Jay. Well, if he was willing to be seen
with me, what the heck. Just don't leave me alone in the lobby or I'll
end up in the slammer.
"You'll want to pick up your coat," he said.
"Coat?" The only coat I had brought was a dirty down jacket.
"Coat. In your purse."
"In my purse. Coat."
We had stopped in front of a little door where people checked coats
and hats, and comprehension dawned: plastic token. Coat. Did this mean
he wanted me to go out on the street like this?
"I can't walk anywhere in these heels, I want you to know..." I
fished the little plastic token out of my purse and gave it to the
woman, half-expecting that to trigger a posthypnotic embarrassment of
some sort, but she just comes back with this really REALLY scrumptuous
soft black leather trenchcoat. It comes down to mid thigh, with a belt
and its just goooorgeous. It smelled new, like a department store.
"You'll want to stop by the front desk, too," he said. "Give them the
receipt."
"Receipt."
"In your purse."
Aha. Well, I felt like I could go anywhere in that coat. It covered a
multitude of sins.
"Leave the front of the coat open, though. For me. I'm the paying
customer, remember."
Ah. Well, I will admit that my legs look pretty good coming out of the
open front of that coat, even in sleazy fishnet. At least it could
have been tasteful charcoal, at least. Or something with a pattern.
The damn fishnet tugged on my new piercing. The ring kind of pulled.
Well, it's not a _new_ piercing, exactly, just the most recent. It is
healed, but still sensitive.
I hated going up to the front desk looking like that. I was still
expecting something to trigger another posthypnotic episode, and I
really didn't want it to happen in the lobby. Plus I was acutely aware
of my ring (I was dying to stick my hand under there and adjust it; it
felt like it had slipped through the mesh). I was trying very hard not
to look like an applicant for a job in the Ministry for Funny Walks,
and I don't think I succeeded. Thank God we were alone in the elevator
(ahem). And I _especially_ hated going to the front desk because the
clerk was a jerk. A Jerk Clerk. He looked like a televangelist. The
receipt brought back a big envelope that I had to sign for. Then he
asked my chest for my driver's license. I still hadn't found a trash
can for the wadded up foil from the chewing gum, so I dropped it in
his palm.
"I left my driver's license in our room, but this silver bullet should
identify me."
The desk clerk took his eyes off my northern exposure long enough to
glance at the wad of foil. Then he told my chest, "I'm sorry, but we
need proper identification." He was so preoccupied he didn't even get
the joke. I had been saving that for years, and I wasted it on him. A
hippie told me that joke when I was a kid, and this character didn't
even get it. It was the punchline of what may well be the funniest (if
apocryphal) '60's story ever told. I gave him the license. Humorless
twit. Yuppie scum. I cast a mental spell (Sssssst!) that turned him
into a suppository and transported him to Idi Amin's medicine cabinet.
The first part worked, but he was still there when I opened my eyes.
There was a gold bracelet and a matching necklace in there. Big,
heavy, chunky links of solid gold. He must have spent a fortune on me.
We had agreed not to get each other big Christmas presents, its such a
drag shopping. I hate the Hallmark philosophy anyway. And I really
hate the malls and the effing "Little (effing) Drummer Boy."
Even so, I was a little half-hearted when I reminded him of our
agreement to not get big Christmas presents. Maybe I'm a little too
materialistic to make a good hippie.
"This isn't a Christmas present. It's a payment," he said. "For
tonight. Miss."
The necklace is very short, almost a choker, but it doesn't lock on
like the bracelet does. The bracelet has a little gold padlock. I've
never had a piece of gold jewelery that was big enough that it felt
heavy before. I mean heavy like gold. You can feel it's not made of
steel or brass. Talk about Christmas loot. Okay, okay, but this is a
first for me, so I get to brag. Besides, I, um, kind of earned it.
I turned my back to the desk clerk (eat yer heart out, Swaggartoid
scum) and lowered the coat around my shoulders right there in the
lobby so he could put it on me. I still don't know if there is a key
for the bracelet. I don't care if it NEVER comes off.
Anyway, we went up to our room and I found out about those
posthypnotic suggestions.
I have to take a detour here.
You know I'm not shy about a lot of things. Netpeople have asked me
how I could talk about such personal things in such a public forum
like ASB. That's easy: I haven't met most of you. I know you're real
people, but there are only three actual ASB people that have had
real.world contact with me. Two, if you count Mr. Josan.
A number of people have actually thanked me for sharing the inside of
my head with them. Surely you have all caught on by now: posting on
ASB has become part of my sexuality. There is nothing to thank me for.
I get That Feeling when I peel back my own layers this way. There is a
lot of warmth here, and, well, there's just a lot of warmth here,
that's all.
Plus I don't know enough of you well enough to be psychologically
crippled by embarrassment the way I would if I could attach faces to
the names.
It's like having an intimate,
friendly, interactive,
Turing diary.
If you really knew me as a person, knew all my secrets, I would dry
up. If you knew me well enough to place what I tell you in a personal
(as opposed to intimate) context, I'd stop being able to write.
That's convoluted irony, I know: I can tell you about my inner self
because you don't know my inner self. Yes, I tell you a lot. Sometimes
more than I tell Jay. He has learned things about me from reading ASB.
But we all have limits. You know there are some things I could never
do voluntarily, or let anyone do to me involuntarily. You have the
same kinds of limits, I know. The ASB crowd knows more about limits
than any other group on the Net. I mean, that's the point, isn't it? I
came up against one that night. I'll try to tell you about it, but it
will require a fine distinction as to the nature of my limits. I don't
know if I have the skill to express that distinction clearly without
boring you. So if you bore easily, hit the "N" key now.
Still here, huh, Michael?
In an order that approaches my limit from one direction:
(1) There are things I can do and tell you about easily, even if it
embarrasses me.
(2) Then there are things I might want to try that I can agree to, say
by putting them on a shopping list (The List, if you read it), and
secretly enjoy if Jay makes me do them and I don't have to be
responsible for having done them. Eventually, I can even admit to you
that I liked these things.
(3) There are things I can hint at, but not discuss, and secretly hope
that Jay will figure them out and find a way to make them happen.
Things I will never admit to having wanted. I can even tell you about
them, even if I can't admit I am glad I did them.
(4) Still on the "safe" side of my limits: there are some things I
could never even hint at doing or wanting to do. Things that would
cause me to instantly use a safeword, not out of fear or pain, but
because I absolutely could not let anyone think I would do them. Call
it embarrassment, or just call it a limit. You probably have a rough
idea by now of what I _will_ do. I have to leave it to your
imagination what I won't do, but I did one of those things that night.
Somewhere in the next paragraphs you will find the precise location of
this a fine distinction: the boundary between what I absolutely cannot
be made to do and what I can be made to do even though I resist it
with everything I have got. Somehow, Jay walked that narrow edge. He
couldn't have done so without hypnosis.
They say that if you really really don't want to do something,
hypnosis can't make you do it. They say you can stop it. Well, there
is one thing that I would (and did) resist absolutely and without
reservation, resist using safewords, physical resistance, whatever,
and still hypnosis _made_ me do it. Sort of.
Jay knows me well enough to know that I would need at least the excuse
of a hypnotic compulsion if I were to do such a ... a thing. I was
hypnotized, he made me do it, and still I resisted and he could tell I
was resisting. I _had_ to put up genuine resistance. I had to. There
was no way I could accept what happened. He had fixed me so that I was
unable to speak, (you can do that; blindness too). And so that I
couldn't stop doing it, even though I tried.
I really tried.
There must be something inside me, some flaw somewhere, something I
don't know about that didn't want to stop. Because they say you can
stop. They all say you can stop, all the books.
He has had me do sexy stuff under hypnosis before, and there is
normally a part of me that is there, in a corner of my mind, watching.
An observer. A voluntary inner prisoner, secretly entertained by the
outer events that my body seems to be participating in, secretly
pleased to not be responsible.
This time that inner prisoner wasn't all that calm. It (funny how I
think of it as an 'it' and not a 'she') was jumping up and down
screaming "stop", but still didn't have the strength to make it
happen. I wasn't restrained at all. I wasn't tied down, I wasn't
gagged, there was nothing physical holding me. I was shaking and tears
were running down my face. I was covered with perspiration afterward.
I didn't stop, and I know I could have. I tried to stop, but that
inner observer knew, even at the time, that the effort wasn't total.
There is a flaw in me somewhere, that I would do such a thing.
I did it. To myself. Jay didn't even touch me.
He just talked to me.
I stripped off my clothing, got onto the bed, and with him watching, I
did it. To myself. I keep repeating that, but when you do something
you would normally never do, or ever even let anyone think you would
do, and then you do it to yourself and the one person whose respect
and love you want to keep is watching... well, it makes an impression.
Especially if they still love you after.
That was as close as Jay has ever come to making a mistake with me,
but I can't tell him that. I have to let him believe it WAS a mistake.
I felt degraded. Especially because I did it myself. Doing ... that in
a hotel just made it worse, more sleazy. My hands were shaking after
and I didn't want to talk. I was exhausted, too. I just stood in the
shower and scrubbed off the whore makeup for an hour. What I wanted
most my thick white terrycloth robe and cuddles. Miracle of miracles,
the hotel supplies robes. I got cuddles, too.
He knew not to ask me about it afterward. I would have had to tell him
I hated doing it, and I didn't want to have to tell him that, quite,
because it wasn't quite true. I asked him to please never do anything
like that to me again. I had to say that. Even though it wasn't really
a wrong thing that he did. I don't want to ever do it again. It was
the worst thing he ever did, because it was so close to my edge, but
it was also the rightest thing he has done to me, because it was so
close to my edge.
But I can't tell him that. In fact, I've put him on scouts honor to
promise not to read this post because he would connect these words
with the actual act and then he would know how I felt. This is
something I can't tell anyone. Not you, my Turing diary, not even Jay,
my, well, my everything.
He is an honorable person. He won't read this post and he won't make
the connection.
You will read the post, but I won't tell you what I did. I can't. So
you won't make the connection either, between what I did and how I
feel about it.
Somewhere between the two of you, there's therapy for me.
It's something I just can't talk about. Not that the denizens of ASB
would think it gross, or even unhygenic, or unworthy of me. You
preverts would probably think it was sexy. It was. I am just unable to
talk about it, I'm sorry. Now that I think about it, that inability
probably makes me a _real_ pervert. Doing strange exotic stuff that
you don't think is perverted, well that's just a problem with
society's intolerance. Doing something to yourself that you think is
perverted, by your own private and personal standards, that's
perverted.
I could discuss it in the abstract, and then lie and pretend I didn't
do it, or I can tell you I did it and not tell you what it was. I'm
sorry, but those are my only two choices.
Like I say, somewhere between the two of you, there's therapy for me.
I started this post wondering if I would have the courage when I came
to the end, but as you can tell, I don't. I actually wrote it down,
but I had to delete it. I tried, I really did. I approached it from
every angle I could think of, but when I thought of you reading it,
something just ... well... I deleted it, that's all.
It's funny: Jay shouldn't have known the inside of me well enough to
make that call, to know what side of the edge he was on. He shouldn't
have known. I NEVER gave him the slightest indication. I guess it's
good that he did, but he shouldn't have known. I will NEVER let anyone
inside there. I'm sorry. I don't want to make you feel locked out.
You're close enough standing outside the door. You don't know how
close you came to hearing about it. I'm sorry again. It's presumptious
of me to assume you would even _want_ to stand outside that door.
This is absurd. Last week I wrote twelve pages about a single stupid
kiss. Now, I've written nearly twelve pages about nothing at all, not
even a kiss. Sorry again. I've apologized for this depressing post
four times, now. I started out cheerful. It's probably the
progesterone. No- one left to flame. I should have saved this month's
wannafucks, just as a way to let off steam. I always feel better after
a good wannafuck.
So anyway.
An entire post without once revealing what my subject matter is.
Erotica with no subject matter. Hey: you know, I never thought about
it, but if I'm a writer at all, I am a writer of erotica. EROTICA! ME!
What a kick!
So anyway: is it possible to write erotica with no actual mention of
the subject matter? You tell me. _I_ have That Feeling (sort of) after
writing this, but then _I_ know what happened. Yes, I am ashamed of
what I did, still, even though I get That Feeling....
I don't expect I quite made it this time, erotica-wise. I can't get
this personal and have it work. I have my limits. But I thank you all
for the feedback that I got over my post about the Valdosta party. It
ranged from near-flames over my insensitivity to warm fuzzies over my
sensitivity. I feel like I'm floundering around out here, sometimes,
and I really get a warm feeling when I hear from you, really. Here I
am getting sentimental. I always get stupidly sentimental around Auld
Lang Syne time. It's those pesky hormones again. Or egg nog.
I just can't get over the idea that people on the Net are calling me a
writer of erotica. Me. From Indiana. The same me that threw up the
first time she lost her virginity. I handled it pretty well the second
time, though. Still ... erotica ... me....
Nurse Jones,
A young maid from the eastern seabord
Who could write such erotical e-words,
That the only sound
For miles around,
Was of fly buttons landing on keyboards.
Maybe next time.
On to the next posting
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