Fosca Bellpuig
dijous, 20 de novembre del 2014
La Tuerka. 8 de marzo ¿Qué pasa con las trabajadoras del sexo? (10-03-2011)
Después de ocho meses trabajando en el sexo de pago, mi mente inquieta necesita definirse y posicionarse. Llevo demasiado tiempo preguntándome cuáles son los origenes y los porqués reales del conflicto que vive la prostitución y el cómo se ha llegado a la situación tan extraña en la que se desarrolla. Creo que el tema es complejo y sigo investigando, y esto me ha llevado hasta este video que me ha ayudado a avanzar.
A los que os sintáis perdidos con el tema u os guste darle vueltas a las cosas hasta el final, os lo recomiendo como base de datos. Preparo un post para mi blog, si alguien quiere colaborar os agradeceré comentarios (que vayan un poco más allá de las bases simples de la cuestión, como por ejemplo que el sexo es tabú...).
Punto negativo del programa: solo hay un hombre y solo hay una trabajadora sexual. Punto positivo: la frase del rapero del final (Nega de Los Chicos del Maíz):"Que levante la mano el que no se prostituye".
divendres, 31 d’octubre del 2014
dimarts, 21 d’octubre del 2014
THREESOME WITH MAR
A few days ago I took part in a threesome for the
first time.
In the experience I discovered a lot of things but
what I would most highlight is the connection with the escort that participated
with me in this adventure: Mar Fontes.
We totally bonded together in a spiral of
reconnaissance , of feeling to make our client enjoy, with the need to uncover
an endless number of actions, feelings, sensations and pleasures I've never
experienced before.
I present this experience to you as a tribute of our
event and with the intention to immortalize it.
If I had to choose a word that summarized it, it will
be AMAZING, like this, in capital letters.
We arranged the date very quickly, I was in my
apartment when I received Mar’s call with her proposal; “great!” I
thought, and after finishing my errands I hurried up over to the rendezvous
point.
We met with excitement, we both knew we had a good
connection, but we also had our doubts about how our live development
would be, because it was the first time we were going to try it.
We had the chance to talk for a little while about
details while she was finishing preening and dressing in a curious way; in this
part I discovered that all of us have our preparations rituals and quirks since
there was some details that I couldn’t fully understand, but It seemed to me a
pure ritual -precious- and I didn’t want to show her my strangeness - I also
have my own and there’s no logic worth-.
While she was putting on her stockings I couldn’t
avoid to get a little carried along by the attraction of her endless legs, one
of the most brilliant parts of her body from where I started to wish to get
lost.
While she was going back and forth she let me be an
observer of the sexiest and most provocative “un-striptease” I’ve never
seen. Discreetly I started to observe the perfect roundness of her breasts, how
beautiful! …the tone of her skin and the finesse of her fingers started to
intoxicate my senses a little. Well, maybe more than
a little because it passed through my mind to propose her to start our date
without waiting for our client, but I prefered to continue to get carried along
by the fascination of every corner of her body that, little by little, she was
covering with the most refined and provocative garments ever.
I imagined how she was going to take them off, I
rejoiced by having the permission of caressing her skin and I was surprised
discovering how my body was waking up slowly and stirring me up without her
knowing...or perhaps she did.
Both of us entirely ready waited on the sofa for our
client, who was delayed, which gave me a little leeway to come in relaxation,
place myself and prepare my mental disposition to the new situation I was going
to live through.
There are special moments in the development of this
work, and waiting for the person who is hiring us is one of them.
Our concentration and disposition are special, we
create a specific climate, nothing else occupies our mind except to satisfy
him.
It’s complicated to find that harmony between enjoying
and remembering that you are working. I like to prepare those instants before
we open the door, to get as close as possible to the expectations of the man
who’s crossing it.
Wernher arrived and we invited him to sit on the sofa
with us.
After swapping four ephemeral words that we tried to
use as a bridge between her arrival and the action development, Mar and him
started kissing.
I started to caress Wernher’s legs up to reach his
member and confirm that he was hard as a rock.
We started to hang entangled with each other,
alternating kisses, grasps and shedding of clothes while Mar and I were
dragging him to the shower, thing that seemed difficult until I suggested to
get into it the three of us together.
They liked my proposal, considering that the space was
quite limited and raised up the possibility of doing some funny acrobatics or
stay extremely appeared. Even though I have to say that, at first, Mar looked
at me a little doubtful. I think I read her mind: “the three of us there
inside, Fosca?...you are completely mad, but it’s great, let’s go!...”and while
Wernher and I ate each other’s lips, she soaped up all his body meticulously
and with affection, specially the part he was going to use the most.
It was difficult to get in and out of the shower, but
at the end we were lying on the bed a bit more relaxed -Wernher was quite shy,
he needed his time- and from that stage, an image and a situation stuck in my
memory: me lying down with my head beside the man looking at Mar riding him
with all her sensuality and vitality from his perspective.
I took one of those mental pictures that can only be
saved on one’s memory and I could discern the beauty that men get from having
women in that position.
The recorded situation was Mar and I letting the
moment take us and without planning it, doing the most entranced fellatio you
could never imagine: both of our mouths and tongues going through his member
while we were moaning with pleasure and excitement until his orgasm; that was
amazing.
Wernher had all the endurance needed to reach his
climax when he desired. He decided when he was going to burst to extend as much
as possible the experience that he was living.
I’m still surprised by the way we develop our
willpower whenever we feel free to, controlling our physical urges up to a
level that anyone could consider admirable.
The most erotic scenes that you could imagine came one
after another. I’d highlight one where Mar and I were completely immersed in
our caress and I contemplate Wernher’s face of fascination, being observer of
the scene.
I felt Mar’s pleasure when I was going over her wet
lips with my fingers, when I put them inside her vagina while she was moving in
a rhythmic and hip swinging dance.
We closed our eyes and we showed a pure ecstasy
expression. I celebrated to have that ability to blindly find her swollen
clitoris and her most erogenous zones. She let herself be taken by the moment
going over to my intimate places, what a deep excitement!
The only negative details of this experience were:
first of all, that I got sperm inside my eyes and I can tell you for sure that
it hurts as if you had been punched or if someone had poured you gunpowder.
Here you have a rookie who has been told that this
liquid is moisturising and it rejuvenates the skin, so she thought that if it
had those properties it couldn’t be bad. On the contrary, she was sure it could
be good for everything...ha ha...it didn't work like this, your sight doesn’t
get better, I almost went blind!
The second negative point: the frustration and anger I
felt realizing of all the time lost, all the years I could have had so much fun
being part of threesomes, quartets or orgies. But, one comes from a
family who took care about not even crossing through her mind this kind of
ideas.
Suddenly, I not only had discovered group sex, but
also the sublime pleasure of touching a woman again and let myself be seduced
by her. Imagine the feelings that me touching in her private places would
produce, thing that I’m ashamed of not being able to guess like when I’m
touching a man since I’ve never had a wonderful cock.
And so, with all this emotional concoction I came back
home with my eyes red, my body tired and my inside completely euphoric as I
never felt before.
I’d love to hear Wernher telling his experience to any
of his friends, I’m sure he will never forget that long hour with two tigresses
dedicated to him.
Actually the situation was quite explosive, Mar is a
hurricane and I’m an earthquake, but both of us are passionate for experiencing
our job with a special dedication because we don’t only like the professional
side but the happiness of life and sex.
Both of us love seeing our clients leave with a big
smile, floating, rejuvenated, taller and more handsome -seriously, I’m not
kidding, they go away like this!!- and I think we both bonded with
perfectionism in the most important thing from our job: the authenticity.
I finish here my tribute to our fantastic experience
and to my first threesome. I begin a path with a woman who never stops
surprising me, thanks Mar!
WAITING FOR YOU IN MY NEW APARTMENT
For those who would like a warm date with privacy and peace, I’m waiting for you in my new space located close by the Monumental surroundings -Barcelona-.
Cold cava in the fridge to go with our date and looking forward to share my intimacy with you and give you pleasure.
Cold cava in the fridge to go with our date and looking forward to share my intimacy with you and give you pleasure.
Here you have my ad to know more details about me:
http://www.girlsbcn.co.uk/escort/gbfosca.html
http://www.girlsbcn.co.uk/escort/gbfosca.html
dimarts, 19 d’agost del 2014
POEMA DE MEDIO MINUTO
Un verano que no llega,
un edredón que no cuadra,
un martes de domingo,
un odiar los pronósticos,
un pordiosero obeso,
un charlatán vacío,
una novia que no encuentro,
un Pepito Grillo que se rinde,
un buscarme por donde no toca,
un temblor nuevo que no entiendo,
éste es nuestro ahora,
perdidas, cabreadas y un poco viejas,
andan las mil mujeres que albergo.
dissabte, 16 d’agost del 2014
PIM PAM
M'escrius, m'emociones, em captives, em fascines.
Devoro les teves paraules i alhora penso en la resposta que
et vull presentar, corro d'un lloc a un altre, miro la pica plena de plats que
volen ser fregats fa dies i els hi dono la raó. Els rento pensant en mil coses
amb Ménilmontant Swing de fons mentre creues audaç de nou els meus pensaments
apartant amb decisió el Max, els dubtes, les planificacions, les divagacions
vàries i les meves malediccions cap al temps que se m'escorre de les mans.
Em truquen, em citen, surto cap a Barcelona, penso en tu mig
segon més i trepitjo l'accelerador amb el Mark Knofler de fons rient-se
de mi.
Arribo, parlo, somric, observo, sedueixo, petonejo, llepo, cavalco i
transformo energies amb un desconegut que m'obre poc a poc les cames i em deixa
capbussar-me en el seu món més íntim.
Marxo, m'impacto amb el contrast de la
realitat al carrer, aterro, surto del meu estat de shock, reflexiono, aprenc i
torno a casa.
I passen els dies, les setmanes i els mesos i em confirmes
que vols seguir al meu costat sent el meu més fidel company de jocs, després
d'una primera cita en que vaig pensar que no et tornaria a veure el pel. I em tornes
a sorpendre mostrant-me quan preciosa pot arribar a ser la relació entre una
escort i un client si els dos ho volen i tenen les coses clares.
Gràcies, Pagesot, no tinc més paraules.
diumenge, 27 de juliol del 2014
MADRID
Me he caído de la cama.
Cuando un domingo una se levanta a las ocho de la mañana sin
razón como mínimo siente que está quebrantando alguna ley. Parece que el
domingo está hecho para vagabundear del sofá a la cama después de estar un par
de horas recreándose en un despertarse imposible, pero no soy capaz.
Supongo que ayuda el hecho de haber amanecido con el
cojín como única compañía, si no esta historia tendría otro principio, algo así
como : “Soy tan parte de la cama como de ti”…
Pero no, aquí una que se pasa el día acompañada ha elegido
dormir sola y su alarma interior le ha pegado un par de patadas demasiado
pronto.
Me he caído de la cama y he saltado a la calle, y la
ausencia de almas me ha dicho que es domingo y que estoy en La Latina, barrio
de resaca.
Qué silencio! Madrid se detiene
un poco, las persianas me dan la espalda y yo busco una cafetería.
Policía sí que hay, y como soy la única que se atreve a cruzar la calle me siguen
con la mirada, creo que no cuadro ni a la de tres en estos paisajes porque no tengo pinta de lianta con mi portátil
y libreta bajo el brazo.
Quizás mi búsqueda va a ser más
ardua de lo que imaginaba, parece que ninguna de las terrazas que conozco es
capaz de desplegarse para mí. Casi oigo a las sillas riéndose al verme pasar a esas horas y a las mesas plegadas preguntándome: “¿Dónde
vas, catalana?...¿Te has caído de la cama?”.
Sí, ostias, me he caído de la
cama, pero lo llevo bien, no me toquéis las narices.
Subo la calle Mayor y paso frente
al hombre del culo pelado que mira las ruinas. Estoy a punto de preguntarle a
la policía por ese tipo, pero enseguida me los imagino comentando entre ellos
la jugada cuando me aleje y me cohíbo, ya me lo contará de una forma más impersonal la Wikipedia o alguna página de historia de la ciudad.
Sigo caminando calle arriba, me
cruzo con una pareja de adolescentes, él enganchado a ella que se empieza a dar
cuenta de que se está llevando un pulpo baboso a casa.
Y aquí está la Plaza Mayor, qué
maravilla, ya empiezo a ver que no estoy sola en esto de transgredir las
costumbres domingueras de quedarse perreando en casa, no soy la única santa
aburrida que no está de resaca, pero sigo siendo la única friqui que va con un
netbook bajo el brazo.
Ahí están mis terracitas
abiertas, ya me siento un poco menos fracasada. Me meto debajo de los arcos y
decido dar la vuelta entera a la plaza para escoger punto de anclaje con café en mano. Me cruzo
con un friqui, ahora sí empiezo a sentirme parte de este mundo, él no lleva
portátil pero va trajeado y no sé qué es peor.
Y no sólo hay terrazas y friquis
sino paraditas de antiguallas y variedades múltiples de objetos que exponen
personas que sí que tienen hoy una razón para madrugar.
Sigo adelante y antes de sentarme
en la terraza elegida entro a pedir mi café con leche. El camarero está solo y
me responde de espaldas y con pocas ganas mientras coloca botellas de agua en
la nevera. Ya estaba pidiendo demasiado, una terraza abierta un domingo a las
ocho de la mañana con un camarero simpático…y con la Tuna cantándome las
mañanitas estaréis pensando, no?
Me llevo el café con leche de dos euros con setenta y cinco a la
mesa y disfruto de mi momento viendo despertarse a la ciudad que me tiene un
trozo de corazón robado.
Mido mi fortaleza y mi bienestar
en base a mi capacidad por esquivar el cigarro de después del café, me toreo el
mono y apuesto por tener una mañana lúcida, pues me quedan pocos días por estos
parajes y quiero tener el paladar limpio para saborearlos minuto a minuto.
Escribo y voy alzando la vista a
los que comen churros, al hombre del puro, a Felipe III y al camarero de la terraza de al lado cansado
de explicar a los guiris que si piden “coffee” tienen que especificar si es con
leche, cortado, capuccino…etc.
Termino y doy la media vuelta a
la media plaza que me quedaba por recorrer, sin poder detenerme demasiado en
las paradas de monedas y sellos porque cada vez que lo intento el vendedor y
los que le rodean me clavan la mirada de forma inquietante, supongo que llevo
demasiada poca ropa, los pantalones ceñidos y cortos y la pequeña camiseta de
tirantes me cubren lo justo para no ser denunciada por escándalo público pero
no lo suficiente para pasar desapercibida. Me recojo el pelo, a ver si eso
ayuda, pero no funciona y empieza a incomodarme demasiado la sensación de ser
como esas reliquias expuestas en las mesas que tengo delante donde todos clavan las miradas. Pensaba que si no me pongo los tacones esto no tenía porqué suceder, pero por suerte no es así, y vuelvo a medirme pero esta vez con los ojos hipnotizados de los vendedores.
Me deslizo por los pasillos
malolientes de debajo de los arcos y vuelvo a la calle Mayor, está bonito el
día, me duelen los ojos y pienso en la siesta que me voy a regalar para
curarlos un poco y pedirle perdón al domingo.
Recorro el puente de Segovia y
mientras miro las cristaleras y pienso en los que se rindieron allí por
completo me doy cuenta que mi cerebro está pensando en formato relato. Me
asusto un poco por la sensación de estar poseída por una especie de apuntador o
guionista. Me recuerdo a la tortuga Morla de la Historia Interminable y me digo
a mi misma: “-Estamos bien, eh, vieja!...quién lo diría con lo que hemos
sufrido…”.
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