Getting started in Portland was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Kelsey and I had to simultaneously scout office locations, interview potential staff, and figure out where we would live. All of those things equally urgent, so for a while, any time spent enjoying ourselves left us feeling guilty.

Luckily, I did find a place I liked after a couple weeks and was able to qualify to rent it. Since I have never been one to use my credit cards much (saving them for emergencies), I didn't have much credit. Also, the apartment was quite a bit more expensive than what I had been paying, so I guess I must have made a pretty good impression on the rental agent.

I ended up getting my company to, in effect, cosign on the apartment, with the understanding that I would use the next year to build up my credit score by using my cards and paying them off promptly. A bit later, once our office location was determined, I decided to give up my car, which allowed me to better afford my new apartment and a lifestyle that was in every way (besides living without a car) a step up from the one I'd had in Ohio.

And with American gas prices creeping ever closer to what they pay in Europe, it's good riddance as far as cars go. I can always get where I want to go by taxi, rental, plane, or train (and I live a 6 or 7 minute walk from Portland's Union Station, probably the most beautiful train station in the United States).

Giving up the car was no big problem, it turned out, since my chosen apartment in the so-called "Pearl District," was very close to a trolley line taking me to within easy walking distance of my office, and to be truthful, on nice weather days, it was an easy bicycle ride to work.

In Cleveland, a boss who bicycled to work would be the subject of ridicule, but not here in Portland where, in our office, fully 30% of the staff ride bicycles whenever weather permits it. Portland is renowned as The Second Greenest City in The World as well as the most bicycle friendly large city in the United States. There are bike lanes on many of the major thoroughfares, and although when I first got here there were a spate of deaths where bicycles and trucks or cars tangled and the bicyclists lost, since then such incidents have been rare. I think it was just a statistical cluster, not a permanent state of affairs or trend.

In two cases, drunken drivers were involved, in the other cases, which involved young people (students), I think maybe their lack of experience or a sense of immortality impelled them to do risky things or distractions in their lives (love, sex, grades, etc.) probably had much to do with it. One girl, an art student, was waiting for a light and was run over by a truck making a right turn on red. As you may know, a truck may initiate a turn apparently wide, but then the rear wheels come close to or go over the curb as it turns, and if there is a bicyclist whose mind is elsewhere at the curb, then it's bye-bye baby bye-bye.

In another case, a high school student in Beaverton (a suburb) was struck by a city bus. While the kid's mother is suing the local transportation agency, Tri-Met, it has come out that the boy was wearing a headset and listening to his iPod when it happened. I don't expect the mother to get the $2,000,000 she's asking for. Wearing an iPod while biking is somewhat equivalent to driving drunk. When you bike, you're in a soft shell (your skin) and just about everything else is hard shell. Pretty clearly, you need all of your senses in a full state of awareness to maximize your safety.

Anyway, I'm sure you're wondering, "Okay, your last post was great but...no sex! How about some wild-ass fucking and sucking?" So, here goes.

When I finally found the apartment I wanted, I got my stuff (which had been shipped ahead) out of storage and moved in. It overlooks a cute park which looks like nothing I've ever seen before. It has terraces to sun oneself on, a little lake with a boardwalk over it, and bunches of scrub grass with gravel paths and park benches placed strategically. It even has a little man-made creek running into the lake! I'd be able to see Mount Hood except for the fact that there's another building across the park. Oh, and while I call it an apartment, it's actually a condo being rented out by its owner. Even though it's pretty expensive, I think the owner even loses a few bucks on it every month, I'll gladly make some sacrifices to live here.

My apartment is a 3-room 2-bath unit. I only need one bedroom and a work room, so I decided to take on a roomie. I put an ad out on Craigslist and started getting replies right away. A surprising number of guys responded to an ad put out by a female. (Oh, well, why should I be surprised?) I like guys, but rooming with one who isn't my boyfriend (of which I have none, by choice) is out of the question. Unless he's gay, of course. Even so, I wanted to share the place with another chick.

At last, I settled on a girl about my size but a bit fuller than me and with bigger boobs. If you were to ask, "Which movie star does she most closely resemble?" I'd say probably Elizabeth Shue only with light blond hair. A pretty sexy girl.

She proved to be a flight attendant and in many ways the ideal roommate. Why? Well, she tended to be away more than half the time, sleeping at the end of her run wherever that took her. This left me plenty of time to think and write. In fact, she had two days off every week, and seldom, if ever, the same two days. And even then, she frequently spent the night away from home.

Her name is Hanna.

One time, I saw her while I was out shopping with Kelsey at Lloyd Center, one of Portland's better indoor shopping malls. She was with a tall Asian man. She saw that I saw her and she smiled that smile that invited me not to introduce myself.

This made me curious, of course. Typically (and annoyingly) girls tend want to flaunt their arm candy, especially when he is as obviously prosperous as this man was.

Then, there was the fact that she had a car that was way beyond the means of a typical flight attendant. It was a Bentley Continental GT. A little googling told me that it sells for about $175,000 stock, before adding anything on! After that, I saw her several other times behind the wheel of that car, alone, and I realized she hadn't borrowed the car: she owned it!

I wouldn't have even known she owned it except for seeing her pull up in front of the building one Saturday while I was on the main floor to get the day's mail. She ran into the building and was obviously a little upset that I'd seen her. "Wow," I said as we got on the elevator together, "whose car is that?" "Mine," was her reply. I was stunned into an uncomfortable silence which she filled with "A boyfriend gave it to me." She said "a boyfriend" and not "my boyfriend," which told me something in itself: that her relationship with the so-called boyfriend wasn't all that romantic.

I changed the subject, which made her a bit more comfortable. She grabbed a pair of sunglasses and put together a small bag of clothes, cosmetics, and toothbrush. Obviously, some kind of overnighter was in the works, or at least being prepared for.

A number of other strange incidents helped me put it together: she was more than a flight attendant. In fact, being a flight attendant might be nothing less than a very smart marketing strategy.

My roommate was a high-priced international call girl! I found that idea terribly exciting!

Now, actually, I'm not opposed to prostitution. I've had plenty of sex with strangers and I personally see nothing wrong with being paid to perform a service in a professional way. Many men aren't interested in or ready for family life and just want a good fuck from time to time. At the same time, it's tragic when a gal isn't her own boss and is "run" by some kind of pimp. I personally think that legalizing prostitution would go a long way toward putting pimps out of business.

It was a Saturday morning, and one of the few she was actually at home. I asked her point blank if she was a call girl. She had a piece of toast with peanut butter on it going up to her mouth as I said it. She froze and thought for about five seconds before asking, "Would you care?" "Not particularly," I answered. I pointed out that she knew what I did for a living and about this blog and that her lifestyle had made me curious, and so I put that together as the leading possibility.

She then took a bite out of the toast, followed it with a sip of coffee, and said, "Well, in that case...I don't think of it that way, but I suppose I am. She laughed at the thought, which prompted me to follow suit.

I explained that seeing her in the Bentley several times had me realizing that she owned a car a flight attendant couldn't possibly afford, and that either she had a side business of some sort going on or was the heir to a hefty sum of cash.

She explained that at first her job as a flight attendant was just a job like any other until a pilot had shown her the possibilities. They had landed in Frankfurt just as a major snowstorm hit, snarling the airport and keeping her from getting a taxi to the big downtown hotel she normally would have stayed at. The pilot of the flight, Paco, a dashing 50-ish Spaniard, who normally stayed at the same hotel, kept her company. Their chitchat was very pleasant and much more serious than the levity which prevailed on the plane.

Gradually, it became clear that they might end up spending the entire night sitting in a gate, so he got on his cell phone and called around, finding a room for himself in a nearby airport hotel. He also made arrangements with the airport to get taken there. She asked if he could get her a room as well. He made another call to the airport hotel and shrugged in a way that told her "no luck."

"You are welcome to stay in my room," he offered, and since she had had a bit of a crush on him for several months, this invitation was welcome, and after some disingenuous hemming and hawing, she finally accepted, and had, as she put it, one of the greatest nights of sex in her entire life.

In the morning, over coffee and rolls in the hotel's dining room, he told her that she was one of the best lays he'd ever had. After that, he went back to being funny and friendly on their flights together, but gave no hint to anyone (least of all to her) that they had had sex, or had any sort of special relationship at all.

Then, after a month or so, after she had seen the last passenger off in Paris, she left the plane and was walking through the terminal when she passed a male passenger who was buying a paper at a newsstand. He was a well-dressed and rather good looking Asian in, she guessed, his mid-30's. He saw her, paid for the paper, and scrambled to catch up with her. Since she was off-duty, this annoyed her at first, but she was polite because, as she was constantly reminded, while in uniform she represented the airline, which was all about being friendly.

He made small talk in surprisingly good English as they walked along, complaining about the weather and giving his advice on dealing with sleeping in constantly shifting time zones. When she finally got to the departures area, where she intended to grab a taxi, he finally asked her if she'd be his guest for dinner. Now, normally she'd say no, but dinner in Paris, with someone ready to spend some serious cash? That was an offer to consider, and finally she said she'd be happy to. He then said, "Thank you. Your pilot, Paco, is a friend of mine. He greatly recommended you and said I would not be disappointed."

She was floored. Was Paco telling everyone he knew that she was a good and ready lay?

She went through with the dinner, hiding her resentment as best she could at first, but as time went by she found the man to be engaging and intelligent. When the time came at the end of the evening, she accepted his invitation for a nightcap, and found that sex with him was enjoyable if a bit quaint. His Asian formality was a bit foreign to her, and at first she tried to match his formality, but she saw his frustration and quickly figured out that what he wanted was a real lusty American girl. She gave him the blowjob and fuck of a lifetime, letting him cum in her mouth.

In the afterglow, he asked if she'd ever seen Japanese porn. She said she had. He said it's customary to the point of being almost ingrained in Japanese women that they reveal no enjoyment of sex and remain very passive or even resistant. In much Japanese porn the female just lays there and lets the man toy with her pussy, and if he fucks her, she makes a show of acting very girlish and shy and of not displaying any lust or pleasure.

Because of this, he said he enjoyed having sex with European and American women.

At something like 3 a.m., she got dressed to go and he walked her to the door. He gave her a check folded in half, which surprised her. Even so, she took it and after giving him a kiss good-bye, she walked to the elevator, opening up the check as she got on: $5,000.

She said that all of a sudden she felt like a prostitute...and it was the most delightful feeling she had ever had.

Paco was the pilot on the way back. He winked at her and she smiled back, thus giving him permission to send more business her way. She had a lot going for her, and not just her natural good lucks and ample breasts. Luckily, she worked for an international airline that provided uniforms that were at the same time businesslike and sexy. Lining up work would have been impossible on a budget airline like Southwest, most of whose attendants appeared to be soccer moms, and whose clientele thought paying anything over $300 for a flight was highway robbery. On her airline, only standbys ever got a seat for under $1000, and the flights were generally about half-full, which is good when the flights could last upward of seven or eight hours. She had ample time to socialize with the passengers.

From then onward, she'd have sex once or twice a week, earning anywhere from $5,000-$10,000 each time, and receiving expensive gifts of clothing and jewelry. The Bentley was the largest gift of all, and it came from an Arabian prince. Despite its high value, she felt it was the hardest gift to earn, for his tastes were rather extreme and involved going to a party with him where she was passed around for several hours among six businessmen who had a taste for anal sex and bukkake and nothing but contempt for womankind. So much for that vaunted Islamic "respect for women" thing: that was only extended, if at all, to Islamic women. Thank heavens they'd never heard of fisting and he said something about inviting her out to his horse ranch in Kentucky. She wasn't going to take a chance on that. There'd be no visits to the horse ranch, she told me with a laugh.

Possibly because my reaction wasn't negative, she would tell me about her every adventure from then on. Finally, she asked me if I'd like in on a menage à trois one of her regulars was jonesing for. I'd done this once before during a time when my best friend Gina had been earning some bucks by escorting. The answer was, sure, why not?!!! I was curious to see what went on.

The day came for our "job." I'd cleared the decks and impressed on Kelsey that I would be unavailable. I explained to her why and she gave me a broad smile along with a look that said "You lucky little bitch."

I hadn't seen Hanna and was only aware she was in town because she told me she would be. Apparently, she had been with this man and had, presumably, spent the night with him. I was told it didn't matter what I wore because I'd be given special clothing to wear.

This made me even more curious, of course.

At the appointed time, about 9 p.m., I went down to the lobby and saw a black stretch at the curb outside the door. I walked out and a door opened. Inside was Hanna dressed in a conservative skirt and long sleeve shirt. I was wearing a dress that came down mid-thigh and a pair of platform wedgies with uppers made of woven straw. I hardly ever wear a bra and that day I saw no serious need to even wear panties.

With her was a gaunt man she introduced as Helmut, a businessman big in the European coffee business. He was in the United States looking into opening up Starbucks-style coffee shops specializing serving up coffee more in the German style. Having been to Bremen, in Germany, I can attest that German coffee is second to none, and nothing I ever had at Starbucks was better.

Anyway, we were driven to one of the most expensive hotels in Portland. We took the elevator to the penthouse floor, which faced the direction of Mt. Hood, meaning an incredible daytime view. Of course, this was after dark, giving the suite a great night view of the city.

It quickly became apparent that this was going to be one of the strangest, kinkiest escapades I've ever been involved in. I know that the only people who can compete with the Germans when it comes to kinkiness are the Brazilians. And this guy was weird.

We both got nude. He wanted me to tie Hanna up and torture her by pinching her nipples and labia and by smacking her vulva. She gritted her teeth and let me do all these things in a serious way, because he would have settled for nothing less.

Now, in the meantime, he spent most of his time hiding behind a curtain, peeking around it to observe the goings on. Occasional shaking at the pelvic level let me know that he was playing with his pecker while engaging in this voyeuristic fantasy.

This went on for something like a half hour, at which time he changed gears. Now came the truly weird stuff. Retrieving a duffle bag from the closet near the front door, he removed some black garments which we were ordered to put on. They turned out to be nuns habits and so, except for the fact that we also wore black masks covering the raccoon area, we looked like nuns. Don't ask me why the masks: even a fetish as common as big asses or garterbelts isn't subject to explanation. Fetishes are just reflective of personal tastes and one's private fantasy life. Perhaps he'd felt attracted to a nun in his teen years. Perhaps he simply enjoyed thinking about subjecting something sacred to profanity. We never found out and in the end it doesn't really matter.

Once the garb was on, he wanted some fairly straight sex: Hanna blew him while I let him eat my pussy. Then, he wanted to assfuck, and I guess that isn't Hanna's specialty (though she assures me she's done it). On the other hand, I just love it, so I let him fuck my ass. And of course, I masturbated simultaneously, cumming several times and leaving a pool on the floor behind me, because, as you may know, I'm a squirter.

All the while we humiliated him verbally, as was his desire. Even while he was fucking my ass I taunted him with his imaginary inadequacy (even though I was quite enjoying myself!).

Then Hanna invited me to leave and wait in the next room. The next part, apparently, involved only him. This was unexpected and surprising, but I was only an assistant here, so I left.

I wouldn't spy intentionally. I respect people's privacy and boundaries for the most part. So, I sat on the bed and turned on the TV with the volume just barely audible. After a few minutes I realized that I could see what was going on in the next room reflected in the glass of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

At first, I thought she was giving him a facesitting, but then I realized what was really going on, and it excited me. I mean, it got me really hot.

He was masturbating. I was masturbating. And Hanna...

Well...Hanna was doing what comes naturally (usually, the urge comes after my first morning bran muffin and coffee), and she was doing it right into his open mouth!

After we left, the limo took us home. I made myself a stiff one and sat down in the livingroom. It was about time for the 11 p.m. news. To keep things "legal" for myself, I had refused to haggle over price. There was no quid pro quo. I treated it as an adventure, and if some money turned up as well, I'd put it to good use. There wasn't even an understanding that I'd be paid. And yet, Hanna handed me an envelope containing twenty $100 bills as she sat down next to me. Gosh damn! I wonder how much she got to keep! My guess would be a good $8000!

She smiled and said, "That was pretty weird, wasn't it? Most of my work is much more conventional."

She was aware that I knew what she had done because, did I mention?, as I saw her in the reflection, as in any such reflection, she could see that I was watching.

Now, I'm very tolerant and open-minded, so while it's nothing I'd ever want to be involved in myself, and strictly speaking it's illegal even beyond the prostitutional aspect of it, it didn't bother me. If the guy was willing to risk a pretty extreme case of colitis, that was his business. It didn't hurt anyone but him: no child molested, no hooker beaten by a vicious pimp, and I've always felt that a guy who's had an orgasm isn't going to rape anyone. (Rather, I worry about the guys who have no sexual outlet: I think they are the potential rapists and sex murderers, not the poor soul jerking off to an assfuck video.)

Things went on as they had before for a while, but then Hanna started spending more time at home and I noticed her watching her money more closely. Eventually, she explained that her lifestyle had finally caught up with her: she had contracted gonorrhea, which she successfully treated with a series of antibiotics. It was scary because gonorrhea is becoming antibiotic resistant and it was on the fourth try that they found one that cleared her up.

That was a wake-up call for her. As she explained it, next time it might be herpes, which you just have to live with and is very limiting in terms of one's sexual lifestyle. But besides being industrious, she is a good businesswoman and clearly had saved much of what she had made. Spending it wisely and continuing to work, she was set for life.

And since she gave up her prostitutional ways, she has become an even better friend and, yes, occasional sex partner.

I know some of you worry about me and even write me to urge me to use protection, because I never mention it in the stories. Don't bother. I am writing stories for your excitement and the story always comes first. Take a James Bond movie for example: what would it do to the flow of the story if, before he jumped into his go-fast car, he did a 10-point safety check. That's why you'll never hear me talk about birth control or protection from disease unless it's actually part of the story.

Don't worry about me: I can take care of myself.