Spit.

“I have a strange request,” the first line of the email read. He wrote me from his work email, to miminize the waste of time usually spent in the back and forth of vetting. He was a well known architect and had seen me jogging around Lanikai enough to know that I was real and he wanted me.

Usually, an email opener like that would raise my shoulders up to my ears as it is a time waster’s signature. They email all the time trying to cook up a strange thing that they hope I have never heard of so that they can get a rise out of me. It’s a pathetic way to get off, but unchecked impotence leads men to do some wild things. This time, I saw his full name and his company name in the signature of this short email. A short google led me to his LinkedIn and several articles about projects he had worked on across the state of Hawaii and in Asia.

I sat up when I read the next line.

“I want you to spit on me, no sex. I have read your rates and rules and I am in agreement.”

This actually seems to good to be true, and it was… but not in the way I expected. After a short phone call, I agreed to meet Nikolai at his home to get to know more and to get started. I arrived with my table in tow, dressed in my yoga gear. Living on an island as a sex worker means hoeing in your back yard, so it was important for both of us that this gave all the appearance of just a regular massage appointment. I walked in to a massive mahogany double door frame of a magazine ready home, sitting up high overlooking Kailua Bay with windows so big every dream could make its way to heaven. If there were walls, I never noticed them. I was hypnotized by the view, the Mokuluas peeking out of the water in the distance.

In Hawaii he was what you would call hapa, a beautiful mix of cultures and ethnicities. He had inherited his height from his Swedish side and his dark skin from the Philippines, and darker hair from his Japanese heritage. His welcoming was as warm as it was shy, like he wanted me to be comfortable in his home and he was also a little embarrassed that I was there.

Nik explained his situation carefully. He was happily married and had a woman who would offer this service to him for years, but she recently retired from the biz. He had found both my professional and my not-so-professional websites and decided after seeing me around town that he wanted me to take her place.

Side note: for years I thought NO ONE knew what I did. There were rumors in the town that I was a federal agent or some sort of police officer — which honestly saved me from accessing a lot of drugs that wealthy people do — because I knew so many people. Those who knew, knew though.

When I asked for clarity and direction he repeated what he had written. He wanted me to spit on him. For the entire hour. He wanted me to hover over him, pinning his arms with my knees, and drip spit from my mouth onto his face and body. He was obsessed with the smell and wanted to breathe in the stench of my wet breath long after I had returned to my comparatively humble condo on the other side of our small beach town. He wanted his experience with me to live somewhere between attraction and discomfort, so that he could learn to be in the surrender of both.

He laid on top of my table, face up and I gave him a gentle massage before we started, my mind racing. This is so far the weirdest request I have had, but he wants this to be ongoing and I love a long term client. I started with some light licks to the face and tried to be as sexy as I could be while spitting. This is harder than I thought. I slowly mounted the table at his feet, teasing, rubbing, licking and yes, spitting my way towards his face. His gaze followed me, studying each gesture, and I pretended to be a curious kitten, allowing my impulse to set the tone and the pace of each wet gift. By the time I was hovering his face, I placed all of my weight on his chest and forcefully yanked one hand under my knee and then the other. I allowed my mouth to fill with saliva, leaned forward and let it overflow from my bottom lip onto his face. What seemed to captivate him was not the spit itself, but the anticipation of it. He was fixated on it, caught in the paradox of yearning and recoil, until gravity won and his face was covered in my DNA.

This went on for an hour.

I would allow the saliva to gather at the edge of my lips until it became almost heavy, a clear strand catching the light as it stretched and pulled away. There is a moment where I was both subject and observer, feeling the cool trace on my chin even as I tracked its path with a kind of detached curiosity. When I would suck it back in, the faint sound would fill his eyes with sadness, as the disappointment of not being able to feel me on his skin left him trembling.

I need to drink more water.

Summoning up spit for an hour is not as easy as it sounds (if this sounds easy at all) but the joy in his face kept me sucking at the insides of my cheeks, demanding more of my salivary glands than I had ever asked of them. I discovered new ways to use my athletic frame as a tool to bind him, reminding him he HAD to take this spit, playing until my tongue dried up.

In the end, I laid my body atop his, watching him rest—his chest rising and falling slowly in surrender to the grotesque. It was a strange ask indeed, for him to lean into what most would ick. We would continue together for years to come, exploring ecstasy in ways that would repulse the neighbors in our quaint little beach town.

They know nothing about the depth of their pleasure or the root of their yucks.