Right before an appointment with Robert, I always lather my nipples with Oragel. Robert is a nipple plucker and his sixty-something fingertips are drawn to them immediately as we begin a session. I’ve been told repeatedly that I have luscious nipples, they are supple, and bright pink. I never knew this about myself until I started stripping and I started getting compliments about my nipples, often my breasts as well, but the nipples were where the men focused praise. Maybe not all men care about nipples, but Robert certainly does and rather than diminish his pleasure by moving his hand away, I opted for a numbing cream.
I love my nipples being touched when I’m turned on, particularly licked, but when I’m not turned on, well, that’s an equally opposing reaction.
I can’t take credit for the Orajel idea, I got that one off the Stripper Web forum, where other girls complained of the same thing and another offered the numbing cream idea.
Nipple-plucking notwithstanding, I love Robert. I really do. He’s had an exciting life and has a good read on people, particularly me. In a somewhat unsettling way, he’s like the dad I never had. Since I’ve never really had a father in my life, it’s hard for me to even think of what that relationship would be like, and obviously it wouldn’t be what Robert had in mind, but there are some looking-out-for-me things he does. Robert has clued me in on a few financial matters such as Roth IRAs and all that other boring, yet necessary, stuff. I take his advice every time, even though I’ve never even heard of an IRA until he came along. Maybe I shouldn’t trust him so implicitly, but I sense his concern is genuine.
My time with Robert is always pleasurable, but it’s not the same as with Jack, who I have a tangible something-something with. Maybe it’s just that there is too much of an age difference with Robert, he’s in his mid-sixties I have surmised, quasi-retired, and looks every bit his age. His hands are liver-spotted and wrinkly with the kind of nail thickness that comes from acrylics or age. I have made a conscious effort not to look down when his hand is on my breast—that flesh against my own never-seen-the-sun skin is a jarring contrast and always brings me back to what I am: a woman for hire. And frankly, I don’t want that reminder.
So when I get to the end with Robert, his release specifically, I look at him and smile. I can’t muster dirty talk and usually he spares me the need to say anything by closing his eyes while I massage his genitals. In a weird way, I feel good that I'm doing this for him. Robert is a widower and I don't get the impression he's much for the dating scene. I believe he always pictured himself as married. For him, some of the finer details of sexiness have been skipped, such as toe-nail clipping or pubic hair trimming, but that's just him and I accept it.
Robert has let me know on more than one occasion that he is willing to exchange a direct deposit subsidy for a relationship. He's realistic about the arrangement and I've always responded as "I'll let you know," if I ever decided to go that way.The thing about Robert that makes the deal a bit more enticing is that he does not possess an erect penis. He can have an orgasm and even ejaculate, but it's never stiff enough for penetration (or so I assume, I've never tried). Before I became an erotic masseuse, I never knew this scenario was plausible (non-erect and still producing), yet I've seen it from other older guys. It's usually an issue of medications, specifically blood pressure. Quite a few of these men have said that Viagra just gives them an enormous headache and what good is an orgasm if you have a raging migraine? In short, a Sugar Daddy relationship will Robert would probably involve messing around, but not sex, maybe toys. I don't know but somehow I figure it's a whore loophole that's enticing.