Getting Topped By Mr. Robinson

Every day I wake up, look myself in the mirror, point at my reflection and shout, “YOU’RE A TOP, GODDAMN IT!” I slap my own face to make sure I really drive the point home. I sign my checks “Top Zaddy,” and my screen name is always “NumberOneTop4Lyfe,” and yet… I have recently bottomed. You may be asking, “Selena, how can you be a top when you’re a dick deposit box?” I’m glad you asked. While my sheath houses many swords, I believe topping is a matter of attitude and dominance. And in that way, I embody my TOP-est of TOP’s mentality every day. And yet…

Enter Mr. Robinson.

I met Mr. Robinson on WYP many moons ago. It was a serendipitous encounter because I just happened to remember giving him a dance at the strip club what feels like a decade ago (sometime 2019). Most of the time, dances were a blur and my white-man-face-blindness made it nearly impossible to differentiate between middle aged white men, but sometimes a personality quirk would stand out. I remembered Mr. Robinson because he had bragged to me about a few things: 1. His big dick, 2. His ability to please women, 3. An eight volume series of instructional manuals for how to be a successful real estate mogul, and 4. He bragged about his wealth and generosity only to under-tip me. Primarily the third and fourth points stuck out. It’s rare to meet someone who does technical writing, especially to that degree. While he seemed to be the kind of man who has no notion of social graces, there was at least an internal world that was more complex than the blow-hard-fingerbanger I was dealing with. But the crappy tip at the end was vexing. I'd trusted him to be generous and he demonstrated that he didn’t know what generosity was. While it was a difficult lesson to learn at the time, it was a useful one to have tucked away during our following encounter. I knew I would have to firmly set my prices ahead of time and not expect him to pay more than my minimum.

After an initial conversation that seemed to flow pretty easily, a series of unforeseeable circumstances prevented us from getting together. The first time we scheduled a meet up, he caught a 24hr bug I worried might be Covid. The second time, he sprained his ankle running. I’d begun to think he simply didn’t want to meet. I asked him plainly if he was making excuses to avoid a date, but he assured me it was simply a series of unfortunate events in rapid succession. I wasn’t going to hold my breath. If he happened to free up when I was also free, it would be lovely. If not, I wouldn’t hurt for it. Eventually, the stars aligned and Mr. Robinson texted to see if I was free on Tuesday, and I happened to be available. I’d seen GKM on Monday, which meant Tuesday was unclaimed. I was free to embark on a new adventure.

Mr. Robinson lives in a spacious, three-story condo in Marina Del Rey, decorated with the eye for detail one might expect from a man who prides himself in strong heterosexual values. Paintings of characters from the Godfather greet you as you enter his luxurious abode. His furniture choices scream “I came with the condo”. In his bathroom hangs a large Jordan Peterson poster, espousing values for a well-lived life. As if Jordan Peterson has anything useful to say about life that has not been said prior, or better by someone else with higher moral standing. The JP poster was a sticking point. After a quick run to the restroom, I came back irritated, knowing my client had monetarily supported someone who has actively worked to dismantle basic rights for trans people, among other things.

But I would not be deterred. I wanted to make a good second first impression. Admittedly, I was pretty fried. I’d stayed up late with Toby on Sunday watching a Christmas movie he’d written and produced. Then the following night I’d been up with GKM, drinking to celebrate his latest conquests in his journey to monopolize the world of Covid testing in the entertainment industry. Part of my recollection is tainted by the fatigue with which I arrived for our date. The other part is simply accurate reiteration of the details of what happened, which paints its own picture.

Mr. Robinson owns a midsized real estate company staffed largely by Black women.

Mr. Robinson: We’ve been doing Zoom meetings since the pandemic started, and I started noticing how everyone comes in with wigs. So, I decided I’d get myself my own wig. As a joke! I won’t tell them beforehand, I’ll just show up in my own wig, not a word. I think it’s gonna be hilarious.

Me: Ah. And you said they’re mostly Black women?

Mr. Robinson: It’s a mix. Wanna see my wig?

Me: Sure.

Mr. Robinson went to the kitchen to grab the wig. I was horrified on several levels. The man was clearly Microaggression City if he thought that wearing a wig to poke fun at the women wearing wigs was a fun, light-hearted joke.

Mr. Robinson: I haven’t even opened it yet, so we’ll get to check it out for the first time together.

He began opening the package. A chemical-ly odor wafted from the freshly opened wig bag. He pulled out a ratty 3c texture wig with an elastic headband front. The wig was so cheap there wasn’t even a proper front or bangs. Mr. Robinson looked at it disappointedly.

Mr. Robinson: That’s an ugly wig. I didn’t know what it would look like. I just ordered it. I’ve never done this before.

My face betrayed my disgust.

Mr. Robinson: Do you think this is a bad idea?

Me: Yes. Please don’t wear that wig.

Mr. Robinson: I didn’t know the wig would be like this.

Me: Yeah, it’s a bad wig. Don’t do it.

Mr. Robinson: Okay, I won’t. I’m glad you stopped me. I wouldn’t want to do anything insensitive.

Oh, the levels of education I would need to incorporate into my sessions with Mr. Robinson. The man needed a 101 course on How To Exist In 2020 Without Accidentally Being An Asshole. It wasn’t that he intended to be shitty. It was clear that he just didn’t know better. Which is his fault, but also, I’m a generous whore. I can educate and share my holes. I resolved to find him a digestible video on why Jordan Peterson is enabling right-wing fascists, and a video on the violent history of Black hair in the United States. I cringed imagining Mr. Robinson, who is as white as a jar of Hellman’s mayo, donning a 3c wig in front of Black women who have been socialized to know that they will be treated poorly, given access to fewer opportunities, and experience a slew of micro and macro aggressions for wearing their natural hair in a corporate setting. I would hate to be the person running his HR department. But let’s not get caught up in how judgmental I can be on a first pass. While it was clear Mr. Robinson had neither the gift of tact nor taste, he had his redeeming qualities.

He had Jordan Peterson in his bathroom because of his interest in philosophy. Before settling into the more lucrative field of real estate, Mr. Robinson had studied metaphysics. Clearly, metaphysics/philosophy at the time Mr. Robinson was in college, did not include the diverse array of thinkers who now form the bread and butter of any good liberal arts education. He was studying old white men, and maybe an old white woman here and there. Still, the basis of inquiry was there. I sensed that he was a man who likes to learn. While I did not agree with most of his beliefs, I liked something about the core of him. He couldn’t like me if he didn’t enjoy being challenged and contradicted. While I can coddle clients like GKM, I tend to lead with an aloof bitchiness. I encourage at the right moments so that the exchange isn’t exhausting, but I don’t coddle men. Especially the ones who I know can take it. There’s no bonding if I can’t be real, and I got the sense that Mr. Robinson and I could have a strong client-relationship given enough time.

But there’s no point in talking about an escorting relationship if we don’t include the sexual aspect.

Mr. Robinson: I like to take my time. I need at least three hours to feel like I’ve gotten my fill, otherwise I get wound up.

Me: Wow, that’s a long time.

Mr. Robinson: Is it more if we go for three hours?

Me: Yeah, I would need more for that.

I worried for my vulva. Three hours would definitely push my threshold, especially if he was as big as he claimed to be.

Mr. Robinson: So like, a thousand?

Me: Yeah, that works.

Mr. Robinson: How much will it cost for a threesome?

Me: Um, I have to think about it. I haven’t been paid for a threesome before, so I don’t have a price on hand.

Mr. Robinson: Well think about it. I want to have a threesome with you and one of my fuck buddies, or maybe you could bring a friend.

He was all gas, no breaks. I appreciated his ambitious spirit with our sexual economic relationship. It was clear money wasn’t a problem for him when it came down to getting something he wanted. I was pleasantly surprised he’d upsold me.

After he handed me the money, we went upstairs and got down to business.

Mr. Robinson: I like to be in charge. Is that okay with you?

Beginning with consent was a promising start.

Me: Yeah, that’s fine.

He pulled me to him and kissed me with a sensuality I didn’t expect, then reached into my panties as he popped my nipple into his mouth.

Mr. Robinson: Oh, you’re wet, aren’t you?

He plunged his fingers into me.

Mr. Robinson: Say, “I’m wet for you, daddy.”

Me: I’m wet for you, daddy.

I’m not going to lie, it was hot. I definitely have a daddy fetish and I love this particular genre of dirty talk. He led into it with the confidence and finesse of someone who has clearly done this before, which provided me with a sense of ease that for once, I wouldn’t have to command this ship.

Mr. Robinson: Tell me you want my big cock.

Me: I want your big cock, daddy.

Mr. Robinson: Tell me you’re gonna get my big cock nice and wet with your good little pussy.

Me: I’m gonna get your big cock nice and wet with my tight little pussy, daddy.

Dirty talk can be daunting when you don’t have the hang of it. It took my numerous calls with Lily to develop a flow. But there are a few tricks to get things going, and Mr. Robinson was intuitively employing a call and response method. I was impressed with his communication skills. His proficiency allowed me to add in my own creativity. I can daddy talk all day. The sweet spot for me is a finely tuned combination of daddy/baby and slut shaming dirty talk. Chef’s kiss whenever I find people who are able to go there with me. It is a taboo spot, and many sex workers refuse to go there because it is tinged with pedophilia, which nobody is behind, but I tend to view it as a simplification of an inherent power dynamic. But analysis aside, I enjoyed the back and forth.

He removed his pants and revealed his larger-than-average cock. It wasn’t a monster cock. I have had sex with a dick that I would liken to a baby arm, or mini baseball bat, and that was terrible. I stopped seeing the man shortly after we hooked up because I couldn’t put my body through that more than once, regardless of how nice he was. Some bodies are simply not meant to go together. Thankfully, Mr. Robinson was manageable.

Mr. Robinson: My ex used to call me Mr. Robinson in bed. She’d say, “Fuck me, Mr. Robinson.”

Me: That’s pretty hot.

Mr. Robinson: Say, “Fuck me, Mr. Robinson.”

Me: Fuck my pussy with you big cock, Mr. Robinson.

I’ve always been a straight-A student because I go above and beyond.

Mr. Robinson: Give it to me, baby.

Me: Fill me up with your big cock, Mr. Robinson.

While I was enjoying the ease of bottoming, I couldn’t help but start topping from the bottom. My yes-and-ing took on a life of its own. He gave me the central theme and I played my variations around his central notes. He came a few times. I came once, at his behest. He was very determined to see me coming as much as him, but settled for a single orgasm. And then we cuddled. I’d set an alarm for three hours, because I was sure as hell not going to continue getting fucked beyond the time we’d set. Luckily, we finished early. About an hour early, in fact. I didn’t know if he intended to go again after our cuddling session or if he was actually tapping out. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to stay for the entirety of the three hours we’d agreed upon or if I was free to go, but thankfully after the duration between yawns shortened, he gently shooed me out.

Mr. Robinson: I’ve been up since 5 am.

Me: You must be pretty tired.

Mr. Robinson: Yeah, I’m about ready to pass out.

Me: You should. I’m gonna grab my stuff.

I collected my clothes and checked myself in the mirror.

Me: God, my hair is really--

Mr. Robinson: Serving Sideshow Bob?

Again, very offensive, and to what end?

Me: Messy.

While he was a real trainwreck of a man, I was at least grateful for a change of pace. A new man project to handle. And, to end on a positive note, he watched the anti-Jordan Peterson video I sent. So maybe there is hope for the blunderful Mr. Robinson.