monthly column from
Veronica Monet

Carnal Care

Pussy Under Glass

As I closed the door behind me I found myself enclosed in a small, musty booth with one window. The window opened into a mysteriously lit and quiet world full of naked women and pantomimed lesbian sex. So this was the Ultra Room. What ultimate sexual fantasies would unfold here?

My face became flush and the palms of my hands began to sweat. I only dated men. I had fucked a couple women over the last ten years, but I was almost certain the alcohol was to blame. The only reason I was inside the Mitchell Brother's O'Farrell Theatre was to investigate a job opportunity. I was on my way out and stopping to view this nonsense was just a lark. Why was I feeling so tense and turned on?

One of the naked blondes behind the glass caught my eye and she rushed toward my window into her world. I tried to back away but the claustraphobic booth prevented much movement. Her face was wild with desire. Not necessarily desire for me. It was a sexual desire that seemed too large to be contained by a single moment or just one lover. I feared she could and would devour me if the glass were to somehow break. I fed dollar bills into the little space between the glass and a shelf built into the wall separating us. I had never done this before. I didn't even know how the game was suppose to be played. Yet I reached for my wallet as instinctively as if I had done this a hundred times before. Except for the fact that my hands were shaking.

The blonde backed her pussy into my window so I had an unobstructed view of all her glory. My initial shock was quickly overcome with sexual desire so deeply rooted into my body and soul I had no chance to intercept it with logic or "morals". I emptied by wallet into that window. My knees were knocking together and the pits of my dress were soaked. I felt humiliated by these overpowering sensations and drives. I ran from the strip club to my car and sobbed like a broken little girl all the way home to San Jose.

This incident really didn't happen in isolation as my perceptions led to me to believe. I had suffered from an incurable and unrequited crush on an ex-model with doe eyes and knock-knees for two years now. I was always available to help her move, take her to a dance club so she could pick up men and leave me stranded repeatedly, whatever she needed or wanted. She knew I was questioning my sexuality at times. No doubt because of that, she would make me endure things like watching her iron her dress while wearing nothing but her pantyhose. I would sit at the edge of her bed while she ironed topless and fidget with my hands and feet like a nervous and awkward little boy. I had it bad for her but I was really the last one to know it. Such was the shape and extent of my own denial. I wanted to pretend I was straight.

Shortly after the traumatic episode in the Ultra Room, I was out again with my ex-model friend supposedly trying to pick up guys with her, but really hanging on her every word and movement. A man who had been a guest on my television show happened to be at the same bar that night. He seemed to always show up where we were hanging out. He claimed to own a modeling agency and that is why I put him on my show, but I was beginning to think he was more of a con man. Every time I ran into him "accidentally" he would put the moves on me. I was not the least interested. So this night he tried a different approach. He had been watching my interactions with the ex-model when he approached me with this line: "I think I know what YOU like. Here is a phone number I want you to call. She is very beautiful and I think she likes the same things you do. If I'm right and you two hit it off, maybe you will invite me to join you sometime". Gross. But I couldn't fight my curiosity about the woman behind the phone number. I called her the next day.

Her name was Heather and she had a sweet voice. We agreed to meet at the Peppermill restaurant and lounge the next day. We both showed up for our blind date and waited in the lobby for someone that fit the descriptions we had exchanged. I saw this woman wearing a micro mini leather skirt with a matching leather jacket that seductively framed her more than ample cleavage. I scanned the room for someone else because I was certain this woman was too beautiful to be my date. The other people in the lobby waiting to be seated, were waiting together. There was no one else waiting alone. Our eyes finally met and we smiled. There was a look of relief on her face and I could barely catch my breath at my good fortune.

We took a seat in front of the fireplace in the lounge downstairs. The fire was hot and so were we. We made small talk and giggled like girls while we munched on smoked almonds. She had one glass of wine and I ordered a mineral water. We must have sat there talking for about two hours when she asked me if I wanted to have sex. I was floored. No games? No guessing? What the hell kind of woman was this? I think I may have fallen in lust with her at that very moment.

I had had a couple months to recover from my grief over being bisexual. I had made peace with the fact that I would never be straight no matter how sober or spiritual I got. I was ready to make friends with the pussy I so craved. It was time to make love to a woman without the aid of alcohol or the confusion of denial. I was ready to go for it!

We went back to her place, which was actually her "office". There were a couple flies in the ointment: this gorgeous woman who had won a California beauty pageant title and posed as a centerfold for a major men's magazine was also married and working as a prostitute. I was not about to be deterred by a couple of minor details like that. I couldn't think about anything but her beauty and unabashed sexuality.

As we ripped off each other's clothes and fell onto the bed with the lights on bright, I reveled in the intoxication of all that was her. Her long red hair brushed against my skin as she worked her magic on my body. I made a beeline for her massive breasts. I lost myself in them. I delighted in the delicate hairs at the nape of her softly scented neck. A surge of electricity went through me as we embraced. Her kisses were perfect. How could lips be so passionate and yet so subtle? Every inch of her set afire my sense of smell, taste and touch. She was the embodiment of every lesbian sexual fantasy I had ever harbored since the first Playboy centerfold I viewed at the age of fifteen. And when I kneeled before her tight, pink pussy, I knew I would never see one more beautiful.

We had been making love for about an hour when the phone rang. It was her husband. He wanted to know how her date had gone and when she was coming home to him and the kids. I continued to caress and kiss her body and she told him "not yet, we're busy" and hung up the phone. He called two more times that night, once every hour. We made love for a total of three hours our first night together and probably would have gone longer if her husband hadn't kept calling. Finally she thought it best if she went home to him. She told me he had a bad feeling about me because she had never spent this much time with her other girlfriends. He had reason to worry.

Veronica Monet spent over a decade in the sex industry as an escort, a prostitute, porn actress, and producer of porn. She has advocated for sex worker’s rights through her writings, public speaking, television appearances and daily life. Monet believes her experience in the sex industry has enriched and informed her feminist views. She is particularly interested in sharing her knowledge and experience with the public in a manner that will enrich and improve the lives of others.