I've moved next door.
The wallpaper is different.
I've moved next door.
The wallpaper is different.
Although Toby over at Vividblurry has the subject of body-dysmorphia all sewn up, I would like to say this: travelling about the globe, staying here and there, and living out of a suitcase is not the way to keep to a strict diet and gym routine. Worse, while I have no scale to measure myself on and therefore can't obsess directly about my weight, I have been exposing myself naked to strangers for money, which I figure is bound to make even the most avid gym-rat to cast a more critical eye on their own body... and I'm not anything like a gym rat at present: I haven't looked in a mirror for two weeks, and I haven't approached a barbell in four.
And even worse than that are all those other go-go boys at work who don't have a thought in their pretty little heads, but devote the entire force of their limited grey matter towards moving their 7% body-fatted selves to and from the weight room--and purchasing steroids, I suppose. Sometimes I want to beat them up.
But most of my day-dreams lately revolve around eating according to a timer and starting a brand new workout routine; maybe doing a little yoga; oh, and hanging my clothes in a closet. Closets are sexy.
I'm so tired of travelling.
don't take your laptop to the pool. People splash people at the pool. Water, flying everywhere could--in theory--get on, say, your keyboard... which is right above your motherboard... and then there might be a... fizzeling.
I'll do my best until I can source a new computer, but it's gonna be tough. You are the most patient readers a blogger could hope for.
As for actual content, I have high hopes for seeing aformentioned swarthy geek soon, as I'll be heading back to home base and he'll be around. All advice has been heeded, and straightforward passion is going to be the order of the day, not fancy swings and clamps and things. Look at me growing as a person.
"Dancing" is a different animal from sex-for-pay. I'd forgotten.
Well, in all honesty, I didn't have anything to compare it to when last I did. Dance. Naked, for money.
The way you sell yourself as an object of gyrating desire is completely different than as one of abject sexual complicity. Here again, the girls have the scene sewn up. They've got props, a gazillion clubs, and a culture that allows men to meet in office towers before heading down to get sat on by a g-stringed amazon in stilettos. And the girls have it figured out, the parrying of priapic bellicosity; but mind you, they also have to deal with the inherent sexisim involved in the purveying (suggestion) of female desire, along with all the shit that goes with it--but boys, we're not quite as sorted out with the whole thing. For example, what's the predominant relationship that's being emulated or acted out here, one fellow naked and the other observing? Who's up to what, exactly? For that matter, who's up to be up whom's whatnot? And when, exactly, is too late for a boy to be compensated when there's a naked thigh tentatively fretting against a crotch?
Stripping can be fun, there's no doubt about that. What I find interesting is that now, after becoming familiar with the details and caveats of more, shall we say, full on sex work, I'm much more inclined to find it so, because whatever inroads we make towards true sexual congress when I'm in underwear that barley keep me in, and there's a man with a stack of bills in his pocket taking me to a back room, there's still no agreement for sex, no guarantee even of me touching him. It's all promise, not contract.
In layman's terms, drunk, lascivious men that want to do dirty things to me can't, unless I let them, and I still get paid. There's a whole club backing my decisions up: bouncers, bartenders, managers. When I first took my underwear off on a platform, it was nerve-wracking; as an older, wiser sex-worker, there's something of the "fuck you" in the act. I smile a lot.
It's an interesting way to decompress.
On the fact that I did have a really decent, kinda sweet, sexual romp with with said bespectacled academic boy a few days ago--it's strange how quickly you can revert to old habits and comfort zones. If I did have a type (and I don't), skinny boys with dark hair, five o'clock shadow, glasses and big dicks would definitely be in the running; but what do you do with them? My sexual range is a little more, ah, porn-star than it was a couple of years ago, and although one would assume that most gay boys out there do watch a fair amount of graphic sex, fantasize about it, dream about getting shoved about and ravaged, might not the average university student be a little taken aback if you were to say, passionately eat him out for an extended period of time? My instincts says "yes." If it is that you would like to see said boy again, that is.
I haven't felt shy, sexually, in quite a long time. It's kind of like walking into a temporal paradox: something being not-quite-right, but it all still seems to be congruent with what you know. Certainly, it's not as if I'm erasing my experience or ability in coitus, but insecurity is not necessarily something that I want to reintroduce into my repertoire of bedroom responses.
If I do see him again, how long, do you think, until I get to pull out the sack-o-toys? Or maybe fuck him with his feet tethered to the end of the bed... that's a little more entry level, right?
I'm so full of different accents, so used to being confounded by local common sense, and being rushed over by languages I have no grounding in, that being close to home is a bit bewildering. I've been feeling a little strange, and not so at home with being home. Or at least I didn't, so I've left for a little while, to break up the return, and re-plant myself as a national. Home again, home again....
Some people are very happy to hear that I've decided to return to school this September; others almost maniacally so. I know that these are supportive responses, but really, come on, it's not like I haven't been doing anything with myself -- world travel is, far as I'm concerned, a grand endeavor, and one that few people really tackle on a significant scale. Pity that I'm unable to really publicly catalogue the skill sets that I've managed to tuck under my rather notched belt over this past year or so.
And now I get to contend with the fact that there are large portions of my life away that will never be shared with the people I love in my more regular life. The compartmentalization that many of my whoring peers have had to deal with--I had designed my immediate life to be exempt from that, while I was at it, and besides the flatmate and a few cordial acquaintances, I didn't really have to keep much secret from that many people. Besides lies of omission, I was relatively free of deliberate falsehoods. Now that I'm home, and out for drinks with old friends--folk that know me quite well indeed--I'm very conscious of the large blanks I have to insert to tell tales of my adventures, and the deliberate misdirection I sometimes have to employ.
Mind you, I'm also debt free, even after all my escapades, so I can't really complain.
In the meantime, killing time before I get back to the business of learning (and how I do love the mnemonic tricks and terrors involved with stuffing my head full of information), I'm back to go-going my bank account back into a respectable health. Shaking my money maker, as it were. I've forgotten how frightfully amusing it can be, surrounded by drunk, horny men, and the absurd things they try and get away with. Now, we're all aware that my boundaries are pretty broad, but things do come at a price, and statements like, "I'll give you sixty to come home with me right now," are frankly ludicrous. Bless them, though, and their fumble-y, slurry ways. At least they try.
In other news, I had sex with a small, pretty, bespectacled geek a few days ago, and I realized, with a bit of a shock, that it had been almost two months since I had had sex with anyone at all.
Like, "I promise", or "never again; and, "that last one was too long since the previous one, I should really repent, and do better..."
I mean everything I say, I'm just a little unreliable.
Silence--or wordlessless, in this case--is as justifiable as it can be: I've been moving (as those of you who have been following me know). Moving, in case you haven"t experienced it, is hard.
And if you're doing it across continents, it's even harder.
I have not stopped wanting to write. I have not stopped wanting to make sentences sing.
What I have done is moved. I am now back in the backyard of my upbringing. I have made a pit stop at my mother's home. I've seen favourites, kissed babies, spun appropriate yarns, and smiled. Smiled until my cheeks hurt..
Thank you for your patience.
I had three final clients in the week before my departure.
The first was a psychiatrist.
The second had broad-spectrum Autism.
The third was a psychiatrist.
I suspect that the universe has been trying to speak to me in code.
Did that last post even make sense in all its vaguerey? I’m not certain, but at least it got me back here.
Southeast Asia is all sun, and ocean, and heat, on top of heat, on top of heat. I have established something of a tan, and created an embarrassing profusion of empty, oversized beer bottles, which are collected on the tasteful little table in my lounge room; mostly, they are named Tiger. I’m beginning to wonder how I can smuggle them out without the knowledge of my Thai hosts.
Reflection away from the world you know has it’s boons and burdens, I think. Coming somewhere so alien all alone leaves you a little adrift, constantly taking your bearings, and gifts you with impressions of difference; but I don’t know how much personal epiphany I’m achieving – if that’s even why I’m here.
Every night the sun sets a little after six, and the sky burns a low, sherbet orange; and I think,
Yes. That’s enough.
But there are the swaths of time from the morning to the late afternoon, as I wander around, thinking very little at all, except maybe about the iced fruit drinks I consume with compulsive regularity, and about how I’m anxious to start another stage to my life, but how although I know the direction, I’m unable to beat any specifics out of that cardinal point until a reach it; so I’ve come to a tropical waiting room, wasting time until I can get onto another plane.
And I still don’t know what I feel about leaving; or if it was even the best decision.
I am really loving not having a phone, though. Not being tuned into the sounds and sensations your front pocket makes really is quite liberating.
My brain is finally out of my trousers.
I am certainly humbled by the sheer amount of mail I have received (and not answered) this past month. I’m a fairly terrible absentee landlord, to be sure. Perfectly despicable; but still here.
I mentioned transition before; and transition has ended up involving more of my resources (emotional, physical, psychic) than I had initially expected.
(Isn’t it always the way.)
And I’ve been repelled by the blog, by the sheer task of assailing the material. I haven’t even logged into my Typepad account since last I wrote; and it’s not that I haven’t done much: I’ve packed; I’ve fretted; I’ve mooned… but it’s all internal, which turns out to be the space most frightening to articulate: because as soon as you say it it’s true, and as soon as it’s down in print, it’s real. I’ve covered a lot of ground. I’ve had a lot to say to myself, before I could possibly say it to anyone else.
End result: as a compromise, I’m broadcasting an abridged version:
What was that Pink said? I’m not something, something…? I don’t remember exactly, but I have at least twice as many separate words in my blog than she has chords in her songs, so I mean what she said.
I am still here. I’ve been busy.
I’m by the ocean, right now. It’s very hot.
Okay, maybe not that abridged, however true.
I’d reached my terminus with prostitution in my host location. I’d done my best, had predominantly good experiences, made some money; and it was time to leave. So, decision made, I started to prep -- and then everything became more complicated. Relationships that had been started as good-faith interims became surprisingly serious; living arrangements that had been stress-free became fraught with difficulty; and then there was the question of what to do next....
I had a plan. The plan was good.
The plan was too naive.
So, I’ve been fixing. And dealing. And doing my best (my best, my best…).
And I haven’t been here.
And now I'm in Asia; in transition.
Let me say that I am quite overwhelmed by my readers. As happy as I have been to have a forum for my experiences over this past year or so, I never expected to see it thrive so. You guys and gals are tops. Kudos.
We’ll see this to the end, you and me.