Seraphina Arden - More Than a Sex Surrogate: A Unique Memoir About Intimacy, Secrets and The Way We Love

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More Than a Sex Surrogate

Seraphina E. Arden

Copyright 2019 Seraphina E. Arden

All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

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Contents

Foreword

A woman is writing, hiding behind her books heroine, who hides behind her souls heroine: Seraphina behind Lilly, behind Emma. Emma is the real heroine, but her name is fictitious. The stories in the book are all based on true cases that were very distanced from their proprietors. I, the author of the book, know them well and believe them; I so believe them that as I write, tears run down from my eyes as if this is happening now, entrenching a clear path within me.

The book is dedicated to people, all people. It is dedicated to human potential, to yes instead of no. It is dedicated to the hidden, the hesitant, and the daring. The book is dedicated to believers.

Thank you to my many teachers, guides, coaches, spiritual persons, friends, lovers, husbands and denouncers, children and students. A special thank you to my patients, who taught me the life of mystery of their souls, and of mine.

If any emotional reaction arises, please take responsibility for it. There is a good chance that therein lies a personal shrinking that still needs a hug.

Love,

Seraphina

Good Morning Life

I stand in front of my closet, before the shower, and I admit and declaremy choice of underwear is influenced by the workplaces I go to. That in itself amuses me greatly, the kind of amusement I keep to myself.

Pink lace underwear, scarlet lace thong, respectable black cotton undies, blue thong with cyan twirls or white net with a pattern of golden flowers.

Green lace underwear with a butterfly pattern is definitely for a day of designing, and maybe a high-school day if there is a staff meeting. On an integrated day, solid underwear in blue plaid can accompany me throughout the day. But mostly, between the pens, purse, and change in my bag, is thrown the underwear demanded by therapy and my mood.

I step into the shower for short version, which includes semi wetting my hair, a quick soaping, brushing my teeth, and without lingering under the water current, jump onto the towel. My feet rub against the towel thats on the floor and from there my hands pull it up my body to the armpits. The upper body will dry in motion, and I walk with a towel wrapped around me, to face the closet.

This is the prelude to a typical combined day: two hours for a design meeting, two hours at a high school, and an evening therapy session.

For an advanced patient, to thongnot too daring, so he can enjoy the suggestion of nudity and in general, let him start experiencing sexy atmosphere. A patient in the beginning stages will get dark-colored underwear that resemble a swimsuit, grandma fashion, not one open to the bellybutton. A virgin patient that understands nothing of underwear will, at first get yellow cotton underwear with a flower or hearts.

Hell say, Thats so cute,

and Ill think, right, but so not sexy.

So the pink lace thong is chosen. Clothing on a day like this is tricky. There is no code for design attire, creative as that job may be; there is a different code for the attire of a high-school teacher. A patient has no code at all, so I wear long tight white pants and a flowery green shirt with sleeves. A white and pink sleeveless shirt is crammed into the bag so it will match the underwear.

Underwear is more than underwear. It shows what I think of myself, where no one is able to see. It is how I really want to feel. Its like waxing your legs in the winter when there is no romantic date in the vicinity. I wax anyway, content with myself, sexy for me, beautiful for myself. So also in the case of underwear. I can walk on the street, with this stupid cotton underwear with the silly hearts of eleven-year-old girls, on the way to buy a good book, or to the pharmacy to get iron pills and tweezersand while walking, I feel this underwear well. It might be a bit obsessive, but its clear and tangible, constrained and righteous, and I dont feel good, as if Im betraying myself.

As opposed to an annoying education meeting, sitting across from representatives of oppression, I cross my legs one on another, remembering my underwear and the freedom it represents while facing educational nonsense.

I slide my feet into sandals and quickly apply a little cream to feet and arms, and then a bottle of perfume, a pantyliner, and a makeup bag join the sleeveless already thrown into the bag.

Luckily this is a child-free day, because theyre with their father, who has almost joint custody, depending on the definition. That means no sandwiches, morning orange juice, and spilled cereal. I concentrate. An apple, a banana, and a few nuts are thrown into the mixture that is forming in my bag. Oh, and a bottle of water. Youre unbearable, I think and laugh a little. Another peek in the mirrorIm out! I say in a loud voice to myself and to the black cat that is dozing on the sofa, arranging its tail around itself.

Underwear is a thrilling item of clothing, I can rummage for hours in underwear piles in markets or in high-fashion stores, touching and feeling them.

I imagine the underwear owner and wonder what kind of partner she has, and how one can have enticing sex with flowery underwear that reach your bellybutton. I love seeing pious women, at times, covered by this or that garment, feeling the more daring underwear, and another undergarment, much more daring than that.

Ive always been drawn to the underworld, forbidden, controversial things, or ones that set other things ablaze.

How Can You Do This?

B ecause I can. I am a surrogate, a woman who accompanies men of all shapes and shades, all difficulties and anguish, in journeys from sexual dysfunction to complete functionality, from sitting in a caf to lying in bed, from coffee to sex. Both can be great or fine, but less than that is unacceptable.

My name is Lilly, and Emma is my alias. This fabrication keeps me and the patient safe from all harm. Personal biographical details never help relations.

Encounters of the fifth kind is a description that was coined by a patient, in an attempt to describe the blend of intimacy, anxiety, pleasure, alienationand all are swathed in the same fabric, like a down comforter on a cold winter night.

In shortthere is no definition.

For every encounter between a patient and myself, a detailed report is written and sent to his sex therapist, whom he meets routinely. There the report is readthe report that recounts, with as much compassion and straightforwardness as possible, what had taken place.

The patient may feel disconcerted when facing the intimate details that I divulge in the report. My discomfort and embarrassment, however, no one can see. I am too angry at the world, which is like being angry at no one, and my heart thaws before this man who forgot he is a man, or deserving of love, or worthwhile in any way. My embarrassment has learned to dissolve.

I expose myself, in body and soul: to him, to the therapist, and now to you. I love walking on the edge of lifeto impugn. I dont care what they say, and who are they anyway?

Or maybe I just gave up on the status quoI dont walk the line, I zigzag.