Sugar's Tribute to John

My name is, well, to some it’s Sugar, from a song of the late seventies by Rod Stewart…and this is the tale of a man I met on the internet who understood my sexuality and released me from bonds that had held me in check for more than a decade, with his tongue and his hands, his kindness and his passion, his sensuality and his fairness, and his generosity of spirit and understanding, he is a man among men, he’s more man than most. I looked for him all my life, and found him on a dating service, or should I say, he found me? And hypothetically at least, I think I may have met my match, at last.

Once, many years ago, a man in my life named a club after me, as a tribute, and it still stands today on Aurora Ave in Seattle, the drawing of me on the sign was done from a picture of me…to me it’s humiliating. I wasn’t a whore or a dancer, yet to have a club like that named for me, proclaimed me as the whore they all wanted and needed, I was the whore to market with, the one the crowds would come for, come in come in, Sugar’s here! …and few men could accept a “Sugar” in their lives for little more than an evenings adventure afterwards, Sugar belonged to all of men, the sweetest of whores, all for the price of admission. And his plan was I would never belong to another but him. In someways he’s gotten his wish, for far too long.

He married a woman after me, who ran those clubs for many years, and she claims the club is named in her honor, she probably also claims her breasts are real too, although she really has purchased ones that resemble mine. He bought them for her, and the doctor replicated mine exactly. Her name is Pam, but say my real name to her, and you’ll see her face contort into a mask of anger and fury…she wants to be Sugar, and I wish I wasn’t. She has tried to become me, and she won’t ever be able to. But of course, no one really knows for sure…so she claims she is THE Sugar…and THE Honey…but she isn’t and she knows she isn’t…just as I know she isn’t. And its ok with me if people don’t know the truth. Ironic, but ok. I wear the scars, yet no one believes that I am.

She’s gotten old, I wonder how those breasts look now…I hate cheap knockoffs of anything and fakes, don’t you? Maybe they say made in Japan on them. I hope so, but the tire tracks are probably enough. It must be hard to aspire to greatness and end up always being common.

He called me Sugar Monkey, because I’m sweet and because he couldn’t get me off his mind. I was like the devil to him, a habit he couldn’t escape, or rule. That’s his version. I have my own.

He tried to prostitute me, he did prostitute his daughter, and Pam prostituted hers. And everyone knows Bunny, like the Sugar her mother wished to be, she created the whore in her daughter. I escaped but not unmarked. For years I’ve carried these scars and memories, and the shame. Some don’t believe I was Sugar, some don’t believe I wasn’t, and I’ve never been sure which to believe.

I’m blonde or with a little help from my friends I am, I am 5’5”, my hair is long thick and luxurious, like me, a little unmanageable, and once it was down to my waist, …I have good skin and I’m firm and succulent, lush without being plump, I have a body men revel in, I’m smooth and curvy, I’m supple and lithe, even now I work out and keep fit, I’m bordering on fanatical about my body, and shape…I have great breasts, breasts that have been called world class by some…They’re a D cup, but I’m small boned…my hands and feet are dainty…I have eyes that haunt a man, both innocent and knowing at once, and promise mystery, humor, sensuality and excitement, I’m mildly intelligent, somewhat arrogant and can be pretty aloof, my eyes are perhaps my best feature. My lips are full and luscious, my neck long and elegant, I look as sensitive and high strung as I am, I look like a fine thoroughbred, and feel like one and I ride like one, I’m not for the beginner, nor am I for the faint of heart…I love the feel of the wind in my face, and the play of the sun on my skin…I respond to a touch and a pressure. I’m adventurous and playful, mysterious and seductive, I’m sensual and sensitive, I’m a bit of an empath, and I’m submissive…I revel in masculine strength and intellect, but I also fear it will consume me. I enjoy being female, I love feeling a man’s strength and being overcome, and I become what my male wants me to be in return…I live to please, and I am for only one man, at least at a time. I wish I could say it was only one forever.

As Sugar I participated in two porn films, unknowingly and unwillingly, I was 27…I’m tied to a bed in each, teased into sexual eagerness, dulled by drugs and taken by other men half screaming, half moaning with unwanted pleasure, several of whom also weren’t aware this was being filmed. They were aware it was rape though, I was told it wasn’t because I was enjoying it too much, which I did enjoy it, some, physically, just as mentally I was horrified by it. The films surfaced in the early 90’s for sale, as Sugar Learns To Like It and Sugar Gets Initiated Part I, as did pictures on a pornographic website of me in various positions, usually orally servicing some male, often him and often on my knees. I’ve been trained to give incredible head…I was required to watch, to learn from others, and to participate, as I did so…I have dentures, and it was more than a prerequisite of his fascination with me, and actually I love giving. He’d share me with other men, only to humiliate me and beat me into submission, when I refused to do as he wanted. He was determined to make me a whore, and I was his wife. It was the only way he knew to handle me, with force and aggression, he considered my sensuality something to be suspicious of, as many men do. What he got was my anger and rebellion.

After leaving him and that life, I both hated and feared men, and sex, and hid…I forced him to release me, with a tape of things he wouldn’t want revealed. Then I worked with children and animals, and refound some of the innocence, and purity, I’d lost and simple joys. I refound trust and belief, but it took years. There were other men, none who understood, none who could handle my past or what I’d been through, some weren’t sure they even believed it, or what to believe…sort of odd how that works, I tell them I was taped being raped and was abused, and have a club named for me and they sort of think I’m not telling the worst of it…how much worse could it be? Would worse be, I was just a retired dancer with an imagination? A whore who wants people to believe she was special and different? Or, once used, there is no return? I was damaged goods, my lot in life cast.

I tried getting counseling, only to have the counselors try to solve my problems by offering to be next…one told me a weekend with him would cure me, another told me I needed to learn submission at his place on Saturday, I’m not sure if they expected me to pay them for that too, perhaps. Perhaps they’d throw in the counseling for free after. Sort of a trade of professional services. But even so, I had dark secrets now, that I even hid from myself. My own sexuality frightened me, so I denied, it and it worried me. I like expreme sex, and I’d been introduced to some of it’s more intense aspects, and I had liked them. This to many men, will seem, perfection, but its more than that, it’s darkness and it’s not what they can accept. So I did without. Sugar, the whore on they all dreamed of, became a nun…at least figuratively.

One man who entered my life as a partner for a time, was so unable to get past the entire Sugar thing, when we were at dinner one night, and some other man kept staring at me rather rudely, he noticed. I am a good looking woman, and I do get looked at, but his face sort of turned this shade of green as he gallantly but quietly asked if I wanted to leave, in the middle of our meal. I could hear the thoughts, they were, is that one of them, and how often will this happen. That guy remembers you…Well, for one, if he had, sitting there with his wife, I doubt he’d have stared like that with her there. And for another, there are no men to “remember” me, I’m only a name on a sign and a fantasy. But, of course, he couldn’t accept that. I think this other man, just thought I was attractive, and I am, but it’s still rude of him. My partner was ruder still. But such is the life of a woman named Sugar…and all because of a sign on a club…and a man named Jim.

Another, became my friend and treated me with courtesy and respect and almost awe, like a fragile flower, and at first I reveled in it, and felt special and cleansed and grateful, he forgave me and didn’t hold me responsible for my sins. Then he left me for a tyrant and a witch, only to tell me he’d return. It hurt and confused me, but I agreed. I trusted him. And he too is a cusp of fire and water. He returned to the wind, when the earth lay dormant.

One year, I grew weary of waiting and sleeping alone, and made a New Year’s resolution to find someone to share my life with, a man, to have and hold, to sleep with and curl up next to, to please and provide for, to keep me warm at night, and hold me tight. One to sit by fires with and cook for, one to share the good and the bad, and mostly my bed. I signed up for a dating service on line, more curious than convinced it could yield anyone of interest. At first I didn’t put my picture up, and got a lot of responses from men of all types and sizes, all walks of life and I enjoyed being a mystery woman and being popular! Then, I put my picture up.

The responses came in in ludicrous amounts, in droves and thousands, and it was both overwhelming and entertaining. Then I got a polite one, all but meek, yet not, courtesy and chivalry are this man’s cloak in life and he wears them well. From a man named John, who asked if he could send his picture. I had begun to learn to ask for pictures, it’s not that I’m a snob, but there is something to like types. I am attractive, I like attractive people. I’m not the woman for every man, by any means, and I don’t find every man attractive. I appreciate many men want me, but most are no match for me, and even though they may think they are, they will never be able to handle me. I may have the reputation of a slut, but I am slut only slut to men who deserve one, and only their slut.

His picture all but knocked me over. His lips and hair, his neck and eyes, his skin all bespoke sensual pleasures, and joy. His eyes showed kindness and a starkness, a hope that barely survived, a fire raged with in this man, and his bio on the service matched. He billed himself as a wanderer and a musician, and his picture lived up to it. He described himself as being romantic and inquisitive. He had changed the questions on the standard form to suit himself, and he appeared to be both witty and bright. I found him worrisome and intriguing, entertaining and attractive, he was a player, yet he was also a seeker.

Seekers sometimes pose as hard and untamable, when in fact they are just warning those that want to tame them, they aren’t for just everyone. Often they are convinced by others, out of bitterness, that they are the problem, when in fact, their standards are just higher, than most, and they require more. Some try to batter the wild out of a seeker, break their spirits and leave scars, I know this far too well, they’ve all tried to break me, and call me things like stubborn and too challenging. I too, am a seeker, and I do aloof very well, at times, they may have left their scars, but my heart is strong and will not give in.

He stood out heads above the rest, even at first. This was a man with a soul and a heart, this was a man seeking an equal, this man had things to offer and would, this man had passion in abundance and spirit, this was a man strong enough to be gentle when I needed it. This was a man of courage and strength, this was a man I could respect, and submit to. But? Could he respect me, could he handle me and my past, would he even want to, he obviously had women, and many, he might not need or want a squirrelly woman with a past. He might have underlying issues himself. Or, as he said, we may not have the chemistry.

I believe some in horoscope compatibilities. I am a cusp of earth and air, and I believe I can only be happy with a cusp of fire and water. I crave both, and the four elements united produce completeness. I seek my other half, the half I need to be whole, and sense that without that completeness I can never be truly happy or complete. Therefore I seek, the balance of natures within me, and life…

I’ve learned I can’t be happy with just a true sign, and it’s simplicity, I need a cusp to complete me, I think many cusps are the same. I am complex, and simplicity bores me, or I lose interest, not by intent, just because it isn’t enough, I do try and have? My mind needs to be entertained, as well as my body. My spirit needs a match, not just companionship. He was a cusp of water and fire…and I realized he could be what I needed. The water to wash me clean, and soothe me, the fire to warm me and comfort me and combined, he was the hot water to soak in when I ached or was cold. He was the fire to sit in front of and stare into mesmerized, the drink that quenched my thirst, the home I wanted to curl up in and the song that lifted my spirits, but he was also the fresh air and wind I needed to feel in my face he was freedom with arms to hold me, the wings to make me fly. Just a wanderer and a minstrel, with a halo perched upon his horns, and sad eyes, a man of music, a man of song, a man of the night, a man with spirit and a soft voice that soothed me, and on the internet too! Could this be real? This man, who I became fascinated with, his skill and knowledge of women finely honed was so real, I ached for him.

He introduced me to phone and email sex, and I adored him, he took me places I’m afraid to even let myself go, we talked about, or I did, my past and fantasies, the effect it had had on me, and my needs. I told him things I’ve never told another. He listened and read, and deciphered and considered. He is a man of superior intellect, his brain works overtime on puzzles and solutions. He is intensely sexual, he believes no one woman can satisfy him completely, yet he satisfied me, like no other ever had, with a keystroke and a voice. I was lost in the visions of our joining, and carnal pleasures. I wanted his scent, his touch, the feel of him, more than anything I’ve ever wanted. He scared me half to death. For here, was a man on email, that was everything I wanted, and more, could he even be real? And if he wasn’t? Would I plunge to earth in flames…guilty of having soared too close to the sun.

And perhaps, it’s he is partially right, as a cusp, he had figured out, he needed more than most offer, he needs two elements, earth and sky. Or is he just a myth, a man on the internet who rides silently through women’s hearts for entertainment, bringing delight and sorrow, creating pleasures, he then takes with him as he again vanishes into the night? Am I what he needs, or am I just an interesting new prey to conquer? Will we end the world by uniting or will we bring light and salvation to each other? Or maybe it’s that part of me fears happiness, that it’ll end if I reach for it.

He’s all male animal tempered with gentleness, but I’m all female animal tempered with need, he craves femininity and it’s mystery, and I crave masculinity and it’s steadiness, and he fascinated my mind and made my body ache for his reality. I needed this man, I feared needing him more than anything I’d ever encountered. I wanted to open to him in ways I never had, and give him things I’ve never given another, and belong to him, to soothe him, and please him like no one else ever had wind around him and torture him with pleasure, and satisfy his every whim and thought, I wanted his mind, I wanted his mouth, I wanted him inside me, and I wanted him in deeply. I knew he would never accept only part of me, and he would give me all of himself in return at least? For a moment. But would it be for only a night, and then, would I be plunged into the depths of despair, to learn he was and did exist, only to have him leave and shrug. Thanks for the good times, got to go! And how does anyone ask for more, via email with someone one hasn’t even met, yet I wanted to give myself to him, I wanted to be his and only his.

His life is different than mine, we contrast on it, where I want a home after being too long on the road, he thrills to the adventure of travel, and his work. He’s successful and enjoys his success, he consults the ivory towers and has presidents eating from his hand, as I would, I’m sure. He loves the city lights and the night, I love the smell of new mown hay and the emptiness of the country. I ride, he runs. He’s techno whatever and I’m country…even our music is different, but together we are all the music. Our lives are so different, and I’d want to be with him? He’s a man among men, he shouldn’t sleep alone. He needs his woman with him. He deserves his woman with him.

He orchestrated dates to woo me, every woman’s dream man, he is…champagne in lavish hotel suites with a hot tub, room service at our beck and call, he even said he’s send out for condoms, oh right, and why would we want those? What, he wants to have a water balloon fight?

As I toss and turn and try to find answers, I make him suffer, as I do, and he doesn’t complain. He may grow weary of me before I can wrestle myself to face my fears, and perhaps I should let him go, to find another, who will give him more. In the meantime, I wrote this for him, and posted it on the internet…while I decide. Girls! Stay away, this man is mine! I will not share…men, take heed, this is a man who can steal any woman away. He’s studied women, their needs, their desires, their bodies, and their reactions, he revels in knowing the places to touch and the needs of the feminine animal in us all, this man knows how to please a woman, physically. Take her to new highs, and it’s really quite simple, enter through her mind first, take her body later, but skillfully. He’s a master of women, he plays them like a mandolin, his fingers strumming softly to produce the chords he wants, the music they have within. And I want to be his instrument.

Women the world over, would lay at his feet for what he offers me, and have, they’ve berated him and left him, tormented him and loved him, begged, pleaded, and stormed and demanded he give in to them, and to me he offers it and hasn’t even met me, and yet, I can’t bring myself to face him or even tell him how to find me…I don’t want him to give up things for me. I want him to be happy, I want him to have his life, I’m just not sure I can live happily as he does. And of course, that’s an excuse. Or a small problem. Solveable, rectifiable for people like us. Yet I cling to the excuses, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps, because I am afraid he’ll swallow me whole, and I won’t be who I am anymore.

And for now, all I can do is write, and think, and dream…and like me, know one will ever believe he’s this John…a tribute that isn’t enough from Sugar, the whore they all wanted and no one believes is real. In an alternate universe, this man would be a king.

There may be a sequel to this, I hope so….