On giving it up for free

My dear

You say that what you have given me during the last visit -- the sex, that is -- was your free, unencumbered gift, given without calculation, merely because you felt like it.

That is a very beautiful and moving interpretation placed on what happened, and, of course, in line with the official womens-lib interpretation of sex, which is: a woman, being exactly and in all ways like any man, may feel lustful and indifferent about the object of her lust. As long as men are free to indulge their lust, therefore, so should the woman be free to do the same. You pass the femdom test with your colors flying.

Or do you?

I am of course flattered to hear that you should have been driven by nothing other than lust to take me. Repeatedly, too -- and at my age, this is quite a recommendation. (I'd like to put that in my CV).

But is it quite true?

I am very suspicious of all claims of un-mercenary-ness: my mother used to say that she loved me wholly, completely, and without any concern for a pay back; she said it repeatedly, over the years; and in the end -- it proved a dirty lie. And so in this case, too, I think the suspicion is well founded: when the sex was all finished and done with, you became angry with me because I would not huddle and kiss afterwards; or fall asleep in your arms; or promise everlasting love or propose cohabitation; or otherwise resort to any of the million other tricks of subterfuge resorted to by cheap Don Juans over the centuries.

Which means only one thing, my dear, that the afterplay is what you wanted in return for the play itself. Which means that there was a price after all.

And what may thar price be if it is not -- a quid pro quo?

The truth is, my dear, that you, ladies of the west, live in denial of the basic facts of life, which are that everything in it is done for a price, in expectation of reward. This is a blindlingly clear fact to anyone -- really, anyone -- who is, not in the throes of ideological need to uphold feminism -- and condemn prostitution. Love of God is offered in exchange for something, too, you know (i.e. heaven). (This has often made me wonder why God shoud want to be loved).

Prostitution, is the official party line, is bad because in it women sell sex; selling sex is bad; therefore we - the enlgihtened modern women -- may only have sex under circumstances in which it is absolutely clear that nothing at all is expected in return.

This seems silly to me. How is it supposed to be good for the gender to offer for free what has been its strongest asset over the millenia? To deprive it, that is, of its single greatest asset?

Not to mention that the requirement seems to put an extraorinary psychological demand on you ladies: to deliver goods for nothing. I should say, that not suprisingly in my experience, none of you has come out well under this challenge (though, to be fair, some have come out better than others). It is hard to give anything for free.

And, for crying outloud, why should we?

At any rate, the truth of what happened to us -- you and me -- during your last visit seems to me to be this: you gave it, but in the end found yourself short-changed: instead of hugs and kisses -- a lie, a pretense, a false promise of something impossible -- i.e. love -- which was your true aim -- you got good dinners, evening walks, rides on tram 28, views of the sea at sunset, and some forcks and baubles.

Your complaint, therefore, would appear to be not that I have treated you like a prostitute - giving you things and experiences bought with money -- but that I did not pay you as much as you had wanted; not that I paid, in other words, but that I paid not enough.

Quod erat demonstrandum.