Note For Rent

Who's In My Underwear?

"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.

Contradictions In Coitus

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?

Retroactive Perjury and Dancing On Platforms

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.

Horrifying, no?

I Say A Lot Of Things...

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.