The turn of the year is a turbulent time for me. As winter burrows deeper into the city, I start getting riotous and wild, eager. Obstinate about getting what I want. Remember what happened early this year? I drowned myself in my own recklessness. I’m ready to do it again, in spite of the scare, in spite of the mellow moments, in spite of the grounding work I’ve been trying to do. Lord, make me chaste, but not yet. I day dream a lot. I stop reading in bed when I’m not yet at the edge of sleep, to leave a rim of time for fantasy before I fall away. I think I may finally move, very soon. If I don’t move, I’m going to implode.
Sometimes I’m ready to delete everything here. Other times I upload a picture of my face and hover over the publish button and then close the window. I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m trying to do, here or in the world at large. All I know is that on some late nights, post-appointment, when I come home to my laptop and tea and ancient IKEA blanket, and I stay up typing and sifting and reading, figuring out what should appear here, the starving fire in my chest is quiet. So thank you for taking an interest in this, thank you for witnessing whatever it is. Though I feel like it shouldn’t, your attention matters to me. Perhaps that is one thing I have in common with my clients. I only hope you don’t mind not being paid.
Thank you for opening up and sharing your thoughts, experiences and unique perspective. At times they have been oddly comforting to me… reality is so much more thought provoking than fiction.
“Having treated dozens of men who find prostitutes irresistible, I have found that for the overwhelming majority of them, the appeal lies in the fact that, after payment is made, the woman is experienced as completely devoted to the man — to his pleasure, his satisfaction, his care, his happiness. The man doesn’t have to please a prostitute, doesn’t have to make her happy, doesn’t have to worry about her emotional needs or demands. He can give or take without the burden of reciprocity. He can be entirely selfish. He can be especially aggressive or especially passive, and not only is the woman not upset, she acts aroused.”—
It’s easy to talk about these types of things in absolutes. Easier than to admit that I don’t know, some men themselves don’t know, that individuals are not quantifiable items like red bricks or jars of beans. But what have my clients wanted of me? Here are some of the things:
Massaging. Touching. To get me off. To get off. Conversation. Banter. Flirtation. To be restrained. To be absolved of responsibility. To not make any decisions. To be allowed. To be denied. Schoolgirl outfits. Garter belts. Stockings. Teasing. More teasing. More teasing. Attention. Correction. Instruction. Assurance. To feel interesting. To feel knowledgeable. To feel attractive. To feel not too old. To be liked. Company before putting down a dog. Company after a grandfather died. Company during a business trip. For me to flinch. For me not to flinch. Distraction before a meeting. Relaxation after a meeting. To see me react. To make me react. My mouth. My hands. To have it happen the way he wants. For me to ignore the envelope. For me to smile before I get the money. For me to smile after. To believe I keep smiling even after I’m gone.
You are beautiful like demolition. Just the thought of you draws my knuckles white. I don’t need a god. I have you and your beautiful mouth, your hands holding onto me, the nails leaving unfelt wounds, your hot breath on my neck. The taste of your saliva. The darkness is ours. The nights belong to us.
Everything we do is secret. Nothing we do will ever be understood; we will be feared and kept well away from. It will be the stuff of legend, endless discussion and limitless inspiration for the brave of heart. It’s you and me in this room, on this floor. Beyond life, beyond morality. We are gleaming animals painted in moonlit sweat glow. Our eyes turn to jewels and everything we do is an example of spontaneous perfection.
I have been waiting all my life to be with you. My heart slams against my ribs when I think of the slaughtered nights I spent all over the world waiting to feel your touch. The time I annihilated while I waited like a man doing a life sentence. Now you’re here and everything we touch explodes, bursts into bloom or burns to ash. History atomizes and negates itself with our every shared breath. I need you like life needs life. I want you bad like a natural disaster. You are all I see. You are the only one I want to know.