I change the color of my hair often. When men see a blonde, a brunette, a redhead, a goth with her hair dyed green or purple, he sees a type, and even the most striking woman gets whittled down to fit that type. When a man sees my hair change, it signals that I am all types, a sexual chameleon.
Oh, you want the schoolgirl, the one who looks like your daughter, her pigtails tied with red ribbons? I'll dye it brown.
And you want high class but low self esteem, don't you? For that I'll go blonde with black showing underneath.
That color, blonde with black, was how I attracted one of my strangest sexual partners.
His story was the same as many others: he was married, and he loved his wife--he promised this as if it might matter to me personally--but their sex life had grown stale. He offered me two hundred dollars to come to a motel room for an hour. He said he wouldn't touch me because he was married. We ended up in a cheap room in a bad part of town. I waited in the car while he paid. It was a dive. There wasn't even AC, just a stand up fan.
He must have picked the place knowing about the fan ahead of time. .He asked me to get on my knees in front of it.
"There," he said. "That's good. Press your knees together. Hands in your lap. You look very chaste."
He turned the fan on. My hair flew back as if I were an actress filming on a beach or cliff beside the ocean.
"That's not too fast is it? It's not hurting your eyes?"
I smiled and told him I was fine. He sat on the bed, asking me to turn my head away from him. All I could see was the gray hotel wall and the outlet where the TV and fan were plugged in. I heard the zipper of his pants. A moment later they fell on the floor. After kneeling for twenty to thirty minutes, he asked if I would take my shirt and bra off. Near the end of the hour he unplugged the fan and walked behind me. When he came, most of it landed in my hair, a drop or two landing on my right shoulder.
