When I heard the words, "I can't find your clitoris," it occurred to me that hiring a male escort had been a stupid idea.

I hadn't slept with anyone in a long time. I hadn't slept with anyone I liked for much longer. I wanted to be touched. I was lonely for the touching. I longed for that delicious, balmy feeling I get in the base of my stomach when a man strokes me as if I am precious. I had gone for so long without that feeling, I decided I had to create a situation for myself with it.

But once I was lying naked on my bed, with my knees spread due East Silverlake to due west Long Beach, and heard the words, "I can't find your clitoris," I was pretty sure hiring a male escort had been the wrong way to go.

I hired the callboy because I was starting to feel as if I might be drying out. I swear I could feel my bones getting so parched the dust of them was flowing into my bloodstream. I was asking my gynecologist questions like, "If I don't have intercourse for a really long time will it put me into early menopause? Has anyone ever done a study about that? Could my body shut down in my thirties because I'm not being lubricated by enough masculine energy and KY?"

He laughed and said no. But I was concerned anyway.

Masturbation isn't the same thing as actually fucking a man. And women fuck differently than men; for us, it's all about what's inside. Feeling him inside. Moving while he's inside. Men can pull out, wash off and walk away. Sex isn't so momentary for us — if it's not the sperm or the jelly dripping out of us for days, it's that wonderful soreness, that sweet tinge of invasion, that hangs on in a delightful way.

I knew I was going to have to approach this thing like a man if I was going to get fucked by one. So I did what any self-respecting chap would do. I bought myself a whore.

I don't know what I thought. That my experience with him might open up my heart charka so I could let someone in. That I had been so isolated and covetous of my own delicate feelings that fucking a guy who was good at fucking might free me up to fuck some more. That if I could learn to fuck I could learn to put my head into someone's lap and fall asleep there. The last thing I thought was that my prostitute wouldn't be able to find my clitoris.

We met at a coffee place. I bought him breakfast. He was quite arresting: six foot something with clear hazel eyes, full lips, high cheekbones and fine hands. He was nice to me, which surprised me. I always find it surprising when great looking men are nice to me. He wasn't condescending or skittish at all. He was suave. I don't know people who are suave. Everyone I know has some kind of tick. My prostitute had none of that going on.

I spent my second date with my prostitute buying him lunch, paying for his valet parking and taking him to a water slide park in San Dimas. The reason we went to a water slide park in San Dimas was because after talking to me he decided that I didn't necessarily need sex right away, I needed to relax with a man and have fun. Now, I have a lot of males in my life who I hang with, so I wasn't sure why I had to pay for this, but I felt that my prostitute was probably very experienced when it came to the internal psyche of a woman.

So we went to San Dimas to have us some relaxing fun.