Having A Doorman Makes Me Feel Safe, But Fucking Him Makes Me Feel Nothing

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I love having a doorman. Call me old-fashioned, but having someone there to greet me every day gives me a strong sense of security. I feel at ease, protected, as if the city’s myriad dangers are momentarily repelled by his watchful presence; which is why it’s strange that I feel absolutely nothing when I fuck him.

 

You’d think that as the living, breathing incarnation of safety, my doorman would be able to stir some semblance of emotion in me while I’m bonking him in the trash room – that I’d feel joy, or sadness, or hope, or guilt, or anything at all. But instead, whenever he mounts me in my studio, all I feel is a dull detachment, like all the vitality and color has suddenly drained from my body, leaving a brittle husk of a human being. Even when we do the side-humpy thing. And I love the side-humpy thing.

 

It’s certainly not my doorman’s fault. How could it be? He’s my de facto protector, not to mention a really interesting guy. He smokes hookah, collects swords, and prior to being a doorman, was a semi-finalist on Ukraine’s Got Talent. Needless to say, Dmitri’s the total package. So why do I feel nothing? He’s a man in uniform, for Christ’s sake!

 

 

At first I thought this could be a common thing; that perhaps lots of women feel so detached while getting rammed by their doormen. But every woman I’ve confided in has had trouble relating. Unlike me, all these women have only had affirming, emotional experiences while banging my doorman. Karen cried for the first time since her divorce. Beth listens to jazz now. Meanwhile, I have to think about the Poland Spring delivery guy in order to reach even a halfhearted climax. It’s not good.

 

Desperate for a resolution, I’ve tried to consciously will myself into emotional sentience while we’re going at it. The doorman will be thrusting away, and I’ll try to think about how good he is at hanging onto my dry cleaning, or how generously he gives out the lobby bathroom key to cab drivers. Yet, I still feel nothing. Each time I end up just lying there, an emotional wasteland, staring idly at his Tasmanian Devil tattoo and wondering where it all went wrong.

 

Any metropolitan woman will tell you that it’s hard to feel completely safe in the city. But sometimes, you don’t want to be safe. That’s why I’m fucking my TaskRabbit.

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