“Hey, babe.”

“Adrianna” let me into her budget hotel room. Her long bleached blonde hair didn’t hide her Italian ancestry. All she had on was a leopard print bra and panties. She invited me to sit down next to her on the bed. An empty Starbucks cup sat on the nightstand.

I had arranged the engagement just a few hours before. I sought the remedy of sexual release. For the next hour, I didn’t half to worry about my pending dissertation proposal or running the parish’s education ministry.

“So what do you like, babe?”

I whispered in her ear that I wanted her to suck my cock.

Soon my pants were undone, and she was pleasuring me with her mouth. Sighs I couldn’t suppress escaped my lips. All of my commitments melted from my consciousness as I luxuriated in her blowjob.

Then her bra and panties came off. The condom came on. She got on the bed and seductively positioned herself on her hands and knees. I stripped off my shirt and joined her on the bed.

Then I was fucking her shamelessly.

My unsanctioned sexual desires had found an outlet. As the sound of our bodies smacking together echoed throughout the room, I had, for the moment, escaped from external tensions. The flesh is an end in itself.

“There is no such thing as sexual morality per se.” That is the proposition set forth in an recent article by Alan H. Goldman, an emeritus professor of philosophy at William and Mary. “Put less dramatically, there is no morality special to sex: no act is wrong simply because of its sexual nature.” Sexual activity, properly understood, is morally neutral. The moral evaluations that pertain to sex are those that pertain to every other field of human activity. “Sex itself is not a moral category, although it places us in relations in which moral considerations apply.” The primary moral consideration is whether sexual conduct is pursued with the rational consent of the participants, which would prohibit rape, sex with minors, and exploitative relationships.

Goldman replies to the objection that casual sex is a form of objectification, an evident violation of Kantian ethics. “In answering this charge, we must admit straight off that sex does involve viewing the other as a sex object: the focus is on the physical body. But this need not involve denial of subjectivity if the other’s desires and interests are taken into account, primarily by requiring rational consent.” Given the sums spent on cosmetics, it would seem that people readily assent to their objectification. “To use another as a means with her consent is perfectly permissible, especially when both parties benefit.”

Sexual desire is unique in that its only motive is to procure pleasure. Reproduction or the expression of emotion are tangential aims. “Overly restrictive sexual ethics derive from definitions that wrongly build these extraneous motives into the concept of proper sex,” Goldman writes. Catholic sexual ethics has traditionally condemned sex outside of marriage even if it is consensual. Secular ethics has tended to forbid sexual relations decoupled from romantic love. The Western tradition going back to Plato has judged sexuality as part of our lower animal natures, a threat to our rational faculties when untethered from love, preferably within the confines of marriage. This prejudice against sexual pleasure has clouded our ethical reasoning. “Sexual desire and love are fundamentally different psychological states,” Goldman writes. “[S]exual desire, although focused on another’s body, is essentially self-regarding, a desire for physical pleasure.” Confusing sex and love should not lead us to conclude “that all sex outside the context of loving commitment is wrong.” Indeed, sex devoid of romantic love can be “intensely pleasurable.”

Traditional Christian sexual ethics takes a rules-based approach, determining the licitness of sexual acts by judging how they accord with the dictates of scripture and natural law. Even more progressive Christian sexual ethics subordinate sexual activity to higher ends such as “commitment” and “mutuality.” Both presume that there is something unique about sexual experience that imparts its own unique moral quality. Professor Goldman’s reflections challenge that consensus.

As other platforms disappear or are threatened, I’ve started using Twitter to scout “professional talent.” A couple of weeks ago, I checked my Twitter feed and discovered that “Mandi” is visiting from the West. I hurriedly e-mailed her with my screening information, inquiring if she could fit me into her schedule. She quickly responded, offering an appointment late in the evening.

I drove to her hotel after class. She texted me her room number. Anticipation building, I inconspicuously walked through the foyer, took the elevator to the 5th floor, and made my way to the room. I knocked on the door. A few seconds passed before it opened.

“Phillip?” she whispered.

She let me in and invited me to sit down. I discreetly placed the donation on a table. Mandi is in her mid-20s, and her short black mini dress barely concealed her slender figure. She’s bubbly and giggly, and the conversation was light. “What’s the farthest you’ve ever driven to fuck?” she asked at one point. Sensing my reserve, she said, “I think you need to loosen up a bit.” Then she got up, peeled off her dress, put on some sexy music on her iPad, and put on a little show for me, moving that tight little ass of hers. Then she leaned into me.

“Like me being a dirty little slut for you?” she sighed.

She straddled me in the chair, grinding on my crotch. She felt my hardness. She unbuttoned my shirt and ran her fingers down my chest. I ran my fingers through her long blonde hair, then reached behind her back and unfastened her bra. She shook her bra off. I massaged her breasts before I suckled on her left nipple. Then I watched as she descended to her knees. She positioned herself in front of me, unfastened my belt, unzipped my pants, and freed my cock from my boxer briefs. Staring into my eyes, she lowered her lips to my cock. I felt my dark sexual energy stirring within me.

She then lured me to the bed for foreplay. I pulled off her lacy red panties. She ended up on all fours. I planted myself behind her and then slowly entered her. My thrusts, slow and steady at first, soon quickened. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her round, juicy ass. I gave it a light smack. She squealed. So I spanked her again. And again. I grabbed a handful of her blonde hair and gently pulled it. She squealed even louder.

I started to lose control. My animal nature took over. I fucked her harder and harder, slapping her ass when I felt like it. Rivulets of sweat trickled down my face. I had slipped out of reality. I couldn’t last much longer. A loud groan came out of my mouth as I was overtaken by a pulsing orgasm.

As we recovered, Mandi mentioned that she’s planning on returning in May. I promised to see her again.

A brief weekend excursion out of town concluded with a visit to “Isabelle’s” hotel room. I had arranged an appointment with her a couple of weeks earlier. Petite, busty, and a bit curvy, she met me in a sheer black robe. She’s in her early 20s, and her long brown hair framed her almost cherubic face. She’s a cosmetologist when she’s not escorting. Like a number of companions, she took an interest in my work and schooling. Then she said something interesting.

“Everyone has a right to their secrets. What goes on in here is for us to know, and them to never, ever find out.”

Then she started to seductively strip.

Soon we were on the bed and my head was buried between her thighs. She responded enthusiastically as I ate her pussy.

“Yes! Yes! Ohh, yes!”

She ended up on her hands and knees. (“My favorite position,” she teased.) I grabbed her luscious round ass cheeks, held on tight, and started pumping in earnest. The bed rocked as I thrust in and out at a steady rhythm. Soon she was meeting my thrusts. I let out a guttural grunt of satisfaction as I exploded, then I collapsed panting on top of her.

As we recovered, she suggested indulging in a little roleplay the next time we meet.

Despite the distance it takes to drive to her incall, I’ve been visiting Betty almost every week for the past few months. Her tall slender figure, pretty face, and pleasant, professional demeanor make her an attractive playmate.

Today she was attired in a demure black dress which nevertheless accentuated her ample bust. We settled into a few minutes of pleasant, innocuous conversation as I undressed her with my eyes. Then it was time to get down to business. The black dress finally came off, we both got “comfortable,” and we moved to the bed. I rubbed her shoulders, and we started to kiss. I was already rock hard. She wrapped me with a condom and started to perform a CBJ. I ran my fingers through her silky hair. She got on top of me and established a nice rhythm. I enjoyed how tight she felt. As she was riding me, I kissed her glorious tits, losing myself in the sheer eroticism of the moment. I had completely succumbed to the desire to sin, crossing the threshold between good and bad, purity and impurity. I asked her to flip over. She got in position for doggy style. I started slowly, then started to thrust harder. It was so dirty, and because of that it felt so good. One Freudian writes that “the sexual emerges as the jouissance of exploded limits, as the ecstatic suffering into which the human organism momentarily plunges” into a realm of self-shattering. I ended up on top of Betty. My body was in a frenzy by this point. For this transgressive act I had risked it all. Then came that point in which I lost control of my body, in Shelley’s words, that certain “faintness” and “abandon.” For a moment my consciousness was obliterated.

Betty retrieved a warm washcloth to clean me up. We lay in bed for several minutes and chatted. Then the alarm on her cell phone went off. It was time. We dressed in silence. She gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek goodbye, a pledge until our next rendezvous.

Along with a caramel macchiato at Starbucks this morning came an opportunity to espy that cute Asian barista. Her tight little ass beckoned as I waited for my drink.

Returning home, I attempted to pray the Daily Office. Yet my mind was transfixed by the sight of that barista. Thoughts of a lascivious nature deflected my attention from prayer.

Remember not the sins of my youth and my transgressions (Ps 25:6).

I felt, in Auden’s words, “an intolerable neural itch.”

And an itch needs to be scratched.

I set aside my prayer book. Wanting something on short notice, I called Joyce and set up a noontime appointment with Sara.

Sara is an athletic petite All-American blonde. Experience this mature seductress for a mutually rewarding experience.

I was buzzed into the upscale apartment building. She met me at the door to the loft with a sweet smile, and I was let in. She was wearing a lacy black top, a short black skirt, black thigh-high stockings, and heels. Very slutty. I set the envelope containing the “donation” on the night stand. She offered me a glass of water and said she had taken the train into the city. Knowing that Sara isn’t much of a conversationalist, after a few generic pleasantries, I slid her skirt up and caressed her firm yet soft derrière. She responded by rubbing her hands over my crotch and fondling my engorged cock through my pants.

With Sara, I seek a sexual release. Nothing more. Sara’s in her forties now, but her body’s toned and tight. She climbed in my lap, slowly grinding on my through my pants. I thrust my tongue deep into her mouth. Then I pulled out her right tit and started to suck on her nipple. Her nipple got hard. Some more French kissing ensued, then she suggested we move to the bed. After a brief blowjob, I asked her to position herself on her hands and knees. After the condom went on, I positioned myself behind her, savored the shapeliness of her ass, and slowly penetrated her.

What followed was, in D.H. Lawrence’s words, “cold-hearted fucking.” No emotions. No strings. It was brutally mechanical and impersonal. There was nothing loving or redemptive about it. Sheer carnality. The will to pleasure. Denuded of meaning, sex was just sex.

When I finished, I quietly dressed. We perfunctorily said our goodbyes. Then I left.

I was frustrated at church yesterday. A conflict with a fellow staff member left me shaken and angry. (Anger is an emotion I’m extremely uncomfortable with, and I’m averse to conflict.) I was upset all day. My class didn’t go as well as I had hoped. I needed relief. Some men (and pastors) reach for a bottle after a bad day. I’m apt to order a woman. So I braved the frigid weather, rented a room at a hotel and called Tina at the service. She recommended “Chloe.” I showered, shaved, and waited for her to arrive.

I heard a knock at the door. A cute, petite blonde with shoulder-length hair had shown up. She wore a stylish black leather jacket and tight black pants. I invited her into my room, and, after she verified my identity, we sat at the edge of the bed. Chloe is in her mid-20s, but she looks younger. The smell of her perfume was pleasant. We awkwardly made small talk. She wants to return to school and teach math.

Then she leaned in and kissed me.

Before I knew it, we were undressing. I lay on the bed stripped down to my boxer briefs. Chloe was on top of me in only her black bra and panties. We made out for a while. I reached around her back to remove her bra. I was rewarded with a pair of B cup breasts with cute little nipples. I gently traced her areolas with my index finger. She pulled down my underwear and took my uncovered cock into her mouth. I ran my fingers through her soft blonde hair as she sucked me. I softly asked if I could get on top of her. She reached for a condom on the nightstand. As she spread her legs and I slid myself inside her, her ankles on my shoulders, the tumult of the day was a distant memory.

I collapsed on top of her.

“You’re different,” she said as we lay in bed afterward.

I inquired how so.

“You’re so quiet and shy. Not like most of my clients.”

We talked for a bit. She was seeing a guy, but the status of their relationship was undetermined. She had been escorting for about a year. “I don’t want to do this long-term,” she said.

She got up off the bed and retrieved her clothing. After she had dressed, she asked, “Do you want me to go now?” I sensed she wanted to leave. I accompanied her to the door. We said “Good night,” and she departed.