Another Danny Story

Time for another Danny Story.

Danny arrived during the one weekend I decided to set aside for myself and my partner, so we could attend a friend’s wedding. Danny had promised he would arrive days earlier, and that we would go on a little shopping trip to find me a proper strap-on so I could finally peg him. I was in it for the sport, to fulfill that core internal desire many of us vagina bearers have of penetrating some man’s asshole with a silicon penis. I hadn’t wanted a realistic penis dildo, because for our purposes, it wouldn’t have been practical. Danny isn’t an especially experienced anal receiver. He’s accustomed to the occasional manicured finger, nothing close to the size of even a small penis. I wanted to go for a decent buttplug about the circumference of my thumb with a flanged end that would fit into a proper strap-on belt. I’d been imagining pegging him since he brought it up during one of our sessions, but in the end it seemed to fall into that category of “fantasies we discuss but that never come to fruition” because Danny rings me late at night after most of the well-equipped sex stores are closed. This weekend was doubly inopportune because not only was he busy, but I was two hours south of LA in San Diego for the wedding. My partner wanted a weekend dedicated to us bonding and enjoying the event, which meant I couldn’t moonlight up to Danny.

In my stead, I offered him two of my closest friends. I sent him pictures of Clover and Cherry so that he could choose which girl he wanted me, Red Rover, to Send Over. He chose Clover, which was a mixed blessing for her. She had been up all night prior to the outcall and arrived at the hotel bleary eyed, yet determined. I asked for a full report back from the both of them. Danny enjoyed Clover, but wouldn’t go into too much detail because incest fantasies aren’t one of his kinks.

Him: If you went with my brother, I wouldn’t want to know the details. I mean, I’d listen if you were into it, but otherwise it’s not my thing.

Clover badgered him with questions and requests for anecdotes, which he obliged as he sniffed through a little baggie of blow I’d managed to save from a room with another client. He had Clover take off her clothes and then put them back on repeatedly, because as always, Danny loves a strip tease. I’d sent him clips from two of my favorite erotic thrillers: The Girl On A Motorcycle (a French/British film, known in the USA as Naked Under Leather), and Tokyo Decadence. He made me promise we would have a sexy movie night and watch the films together, another thing which has yet to materialize.

Danny showed Clover his penis, which he was proud of because he had somehow managed to foster an erection, even after consuming the remainder of the baggie.

Him: Look at it glisten!

Danny is uncircumsized. When he pulls back his foreskin you can see precum bedazzling his plump little head.

I made it back to LA on Sunday after what turned into a tumultuous weekend getaway. I wanted to see Danny, to get my mind off of the turmoil my partner and I were confronting in our relationship. I was on shaky emotional ground driving to The London while listening to the song, “Meet Me At The London”. Usually I change the names of the places I meet Danny, but it’s not often I end up at hotels mentioned in trap songs.

Actually, we met at a bar nearby that was another VIP spot pulled from a classic Hollywood Golden Era movie. I felt like at any moment Sinatra could walk by and take the stage, at that moment occupied by a jazz sextet. Except that only a handful of people were in formal wear, and the rest of us donned jeans and t-shirts. Lately, Danny’s been inviting me to the end of his business outings. I show up while he’s chatting with one of his mentees or other consultants and we dodge questions aimed toward explaining our relationship.

This time I talked to one of the new consultants on his team about my podcast and my views on the way Americans talk about sex versus the way we should talk about sex. It turned into a deep conversation where we covered marriage and the potential risks of having children in the midst of our impending climate catastrophe. Meanwhile, Danny courted the owner of the bar and coaxed each of us into dancing with him in a circle-- one of his many secret talents that I always say would make him an excellent cult leader.

Eventually the rest of his other co conspirators left, and I drove him back to The London. I was incredibly anxious yet simultaneously comfortable with Danny. I felt guilty because I’d lied to my partner to sneak to the outcall, but I didn’t want him to get upset and to conjure another argument when I needed to take advantage of Danny’s ample bank account. Still, I imagined his disapproval, and the thought weighed upon me.

I don’t recall which floor Danny took us up to, but the room we stepped into was perhaps the most luxurious of the hotels we’d met up in during our year-and-a-half relationship. The bathroom was this lovely Grecian style white and blue mosaic tiled space with both a shower and a separate deep spacious tub. The bedroom was simple and modern, and there was a private balcony where we sat and smoked. I’d brought a joint and Danny had his cigarettes. I put on a navy blue balconette bra and panty set and covered myself with a thick robe from the suite as we sat outside to catch up. It was warm and intimate, leaning against him, something I needed. I didn’t want this semi-platonic moment to pass, even though I knew I wasn’t there to hang out, as much as Danny would have loved it. We chatted about this and that-- a model who he’d ended up spending a long day which turned into a late evening with, who was married and expressed she was contemplating cheating on her husband. She’d touched his arm frequently, something Danny noted is a sign a woman is being flirtatious.

Him: Men are very touchy all the time, but women not so much.

I think about myself. Touch is a very complex thing. If I’m in the mood, I’ll touch everybody. I pinch butts or slow motion fight with people. I hump strangers to get them to move out of my way when I’m at the club in part because it’s such a power move. There’s nothing like being naked and asserting your dominance over men. When I’m not performing, I often keep a wide breadth of distance between myself and even some of my closest friends. I didn’t mind Danny’s interpretation, because it showed he was noting the nuances of his interactions with women, instead of projecting onto them as if we’re all made of blank canvas.

Him: I said I was going up to my room, and that she was invited to come if she wanted to, but if not that’s fine. I was tired and at the point where, if something happens, then great, but if not, that’s alright too. She got a message from this guy who’s an actor and said she had to go. She left and I went to bed, then she calls me at four trying to hang out again, but at that point I was in bed asleep. She’s been hitting me up all today trying to get together again.

It baffles me in some ways, women like her taking that level of interest in Danny without getting paid for it. Not that I don’t love him and all that, but I guess it’s strange to me to hear about other women’s quests to fuck their way up to the top, or at least toy with the idea. I know I’ve been there, but thankfully now at least I’m getting paid for it and these powerful men end up in my orbit because strip clubs transcend class and space. I’ve met people from literally everywhere from all economic statuses and levels of power. Danny is one of the most notable, so I could understand her, as much as I don’t think I’m wild enough to pursue a man like him for my career without the structure of a club transaction, but I digress.

This session, we didn’t talk much in bed. I put on Transa by Caetano Veloso and we danced. I put my panties in his mouth and used them to play with his dick. I felt outside of myself, utterly dry and sexless. We never have sex, which is odd. It’s my gift to my partner: an arbitrary boundary for my closed relationship. Danny smothers me under his giant belly, I have to wriggle out from under him and take over being on top. I get to wear my natural hair with him, and I wish I could say it’s a relief, but in reality wearing hair extensions makes me feel impervious. I can wear the mask of cis femininity and feel bold. But I appreciate that he likes me for me.

At 1:30, I decide I have to go. The anxiety of continuing the lie haunts me. Danny hasn’t come, and while I hate to leave him hanging, he’s already paid me and I’ve already spent three hours entertaining him. I kiss him goodbye as he offers me more money to stay, but I can’t.

Danny texts me later to tell me how much he loves the music I played. There’s nothing that inflates my ego more than someone complimenting me on my taste. I know I made my quota, but I feel in that moment like I’ve disappointed two people. I wished my success had tasted sweeter, but at that moment it was utterly tasteless.