Note For Rent

Catalog of Note

As you may have surmised, I haven't just been having sex professionally, but gaily fornicating for my own pleasure, here and there about town. When I first arrived, I may have been a little indiscriminately shallow in my conquests, and aiming for a quantity of cuteness rather than a slew of sentiment, but I have actually calmed down some in the recent weeks; in fact, if I'm honest about it, I may actually be dating. I know, I know: perish the thought.

Let's be clear, I'm not looking for a boyfriend; but cuddles are nice; as are kisses; and the re-affirmation that not all human contact is currency is an invaluable exercise in my line of work -- it keeps me charming. As I'm trying to avoid any unnecessary awkwardness that might relate to issues of commitment and monogamy, or too many conversations that involve the question "where is this heading?", I been keeping the boys in rotation, so as to avoid the illusion that I'm seeing any of them exclusively. Unfortunately, I seem to have acquired a lot of them -- I didn't mean to -- and now that it's New Year's I'm getting a number of different requests for my attention. I'm beginning to realise that it's only a matter of time before I'm out somewhere and run into more than one of them simultaneously. Que histrionics.

Is this a life or a sitcom?

Good question.

But never mind the fact that I may have bitten off more than I can chew, conducting my social affairs with a lack of wisdom, or that the chances of me hurting someone's feeling over the next 48 hours are high; here, in no evident order, is my list of suitors.

* Candle. Candle and I found one another on a dance floor, where we managed to flirt through several decibels, before returning to his place to spend the next day and a half migrating between the bed and the couch, generally without clothes, and sometimes quite impressively contorted. He's very straight forward, a well-maintained gym bunny, and has got the most beautiful open blue eyes. He sends me text messages about missing my kisses. If I saw him all the time he'd drive me absolutely bonkers, but as an intermittent dinner date and shag he's very sweet. Also, when he orgasms, he's body goes as hard as stone. Love that.

* Rule. The lawyer. My gentleman caller. He's substantially older than me, salt, peppered and tall. We do brunch, civilised dinners and cocktails, talk about a multitude of subjects, and rant about politics. He's also quite enthusiastic about recreational drugs, something which I find so common in lawyers that it doesn't even strike me as ironic anymore, and he often entices me to spend longer periods of time with him than I mean to, by doing sneaky things like smoking me up. He's also quite dirty in bed - another bonus. Recent developments suggest that I should stop playing with him, and his unmentionables, as there is some history between him and my current flatmate. I hadn't thought it would be an issue, but a couple of drunken comments from the flatmate suggest that it actually is; so now I have to keep it a secret, which I hate.

* Flight. I need to get rid of Flight, as he bugs me. I don't see him very often, as he's in and out of the city with work all the time, and I'd never even thought of him as anything more than a fuck-buddy, but the last time we got together he asked me about "taking the relationship to the next level" and I almost laughed. He's figured out his sexuality more recently than many of the gay men I know, so he's still exploring his repertoire, and keeps asking me to do things that he's never tried, but then wimps out before we even really get into it. I've attempted to convey to him that sex can be messy and uncomfortable at the same time as pillow-biting and fun, but he doesn't seem to believe me. He's in town right now, and called twice as I've been writing this. I haven't answered.

* Spark. Spark is lovely, if a little young for me. Another working boy, he's a first-rate conversationalist, and a warm, delicious cuddler. We've been drinking and fooling around together quite happily for the past couple of weeks, and it's nice to have the company of someone else in the business: he doesn't need to be compartmentalised the way the others do. He makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

* Pocket. Pocket and I haven't consummated our relations yet, but I certainly plan on it. I like Pocket a lot. As his name suggests, he's rather little, but all dark and swarthy handsome, with big brown eyes. Whenever we've seen one another we've ended up locked together, more or less attempting to have sex through our clothes, and generally somewhere public. I do like being a good spectacle. He finally gave me his number a few weeks ago, but it happened to be in the phone that was robbed, which made me very sad -- but my minions have informed me that he's been out of town for the holidays anyway. "Haven't you fucked him yet?" my friend asked me incredulously a couple of days ago. I pulled a face at him. Tracking Pocket down is my project for the new year.

It's a hard life.

So they killed him, as of course we knew they would, but I can feel all the wiring in my head attempt to fuse when I'm exposed to the rants of that other mortal and incurable lunatic, as he goes on about the "important milestone" in "Iraq's course to becoming a democracy that can govern, sustain, and defend itself". You don't even really know where to begin, do you?

I do wonder, though, if the gallows were there already, or if they had them imported.

Pudding Proof

I have discovered that it doesn't matter if you're with your family, or apart from them, the fact remains: if you take the time to celebrate the holiday and you can feel your physical form degenerate towards that oh-so-attractive potato-form which lurks in the wings for all men. Hopefully older men, but as I look around, I think that just about anyone can achieve it if they put their mind to it, and fasten themselves to the lip of the pastry tray.

This year I've substituted "food" for "alcohol"; a system of yuletide revelry I had given a go in my first year of University, but gave up as being impractical, as few others in my family drink fequently, and even fewer to excess -- I would end up in a semi-incoversable state, sitting in a corner and trying not to appear intoxicated. This year, as we loitered about in the variety of locals that would have us (the last of which ended up being my flat), none of which offered food, I decided to brush the dust off my half-hearted attempt to be the ruddy-nosed reindeer of the bunch. In the end, I don't think my nose was much redder than anyone else's; but I did manage to wake up next so someone (cute) the next day without any pants, so at least one of my resolutions came to pass.

Although certain that I haven't reached a danger-zone quite yet, I am slovenly aware that I haven't seen the inside of the gym (though I did walk past it today, latte in hand) since mid-last week, and that I'm somehow almost hard-wired to ignore health or dietary concerns so soon as anyone wears a Santa hat within a 200 foot radius. I ordered pasta with a cream sauce yesterday, for God's sake -- cream sauce!

Ugh. While I sit down, and attempt to avoid the distinctly weighty feeling that I've obsessed into my gut, I think I'll do my best to snuggle in and watch an entire season of some new DVD released television... and go over my new gym routine... maybe with a box of cookies.

Under The Tree

The only way I would work on Christmas Day is if someone booked me for a trip; somewhere nice; somewhere posh. If I could start the day with a shag, and some horribly ostentatious room service, that would tickle me well enough to sublimate any of my inherent associations with the festive season into a different kind of comfort and joy. As it stands, no one offered, so I'm taking the time to get loaded with friends instead.*

All I really want for Christmas is some quiet time to myself, actually, especially with my family so far away, and the local traditions feeling a little foreign; but I don't think it's in the cards. There's going to be a party happening in my home this evening, so I can't even go to ground with a new book; nor can I escape to the gym or the library, which are always close seconds when it comes to hiding.

Maybe I'm feeling a little Holiday Ennui. Goddammit, I hate being broadsided by clichés.

Nothing for it then. I'm going to have to crack a bottle of red, shower, and find something demure-yet-slutty to wear. Here's hoping someone unwraps my package.

...

* However, I have made myself available in days directly following, as I have learnt that, for many people, in the wake of spending time with family and blood-relatives, the knee-jerk reaction is to go out immediatley after and bathe in sin. It's like the rule of equal-exchange.

Much Too Cheer

So I'm still a little shaky. Christmas has taken it's toll.

There was Malibu in that punch, I'm fairly certain; and then there was beer; and vodka drinks; and more beer.... Dear, me. When I woke up my head felt like it had been the clapper in a bell. Now that I've consumed a vast quantity of coca-cola, and picked at a block of white cheddar (the only edible substance I could find in the fridge) I'm starting to feel a little more capable, and a lot less pain, but I don't think it would be wise to attempt anything that might require physical strength. No, I think it might be a better idea to keep to the couch and focus on the more pressing task of watching Desperate Housewives on DVD. Maybe I should order pizza. That's what I need, more cheese.

Ugh. Writing sentences is hard.

I was unceremoniously woken this morning, and as the leaden weight of my head levered up off the pillow, I realised that I was not in my bed, but someone else's; and that it was presumably that someone else who was insisting I arise and vacate the apartment, which was not mine either. I looked to my left and saw something adorable and British, which was nice -- my compatriot sleepy lush. I performed a quick check and discovered that my pants were still on, so was a little disappointed, but didn't have much time to dwell on the sad fact, as we were bustled up, out the door and into an early morning street -- undoubtedly swaddled in a fog of alcohol fumes, but I didn't have the faculties to really take good stalk of the situation.

I pulled my hand from my pocket and discovered a lonely amount of cash.

The prospect of taking public transit home at 7:30 in the morning was not a happy one. The look on my face must have been suitably miserable, because Spark (adorable and British) took pity on me and donated to the cause of relocating me home in a taxi, which just made him that much more attractive. The next time I see him, I really need to make sure that I take off my pants. Maybe Christmas Day.

The rest of the day was consumed with me foetal in my bed, occasionally reaching out to cue up a song on Laptop, who I had brought to bed with me. I love him. He's my best friend.

All in all, I'm dubbing the Grand Christmas Do of 2006 a success. I'm glad my memory of it has returned, and that I'm still more-or-less functional. Now, if only I had any hope of avoiding similar nonsense for the next few weeks, but all the signs seem to portend another festive brouhaha in a couple of days.

Pray for me.

Rough Diamond

When Viagra first appeared (O, that blue diamond in the pharmacists chest, so tantalising), I remember watching the news story covering its appearance, and my first thought was:

Those poor prostitutes.

All I could see in my mind's eye were dissatisfied johns, out for a tour in the car, away from they're wives: randy, lonely, and wanting a torrid night of forgetfulness.

Men have been trolling about similarly since the beginning of time; the thing is, usually, once a man gets off, and the erection wilts, so does the will to continue whatever folly (be it monetary, moral, or indecent) he was up to. He shrugs, beings to fight some sleepy eyelids, and then says something like,

"Well, I'd best get going...."

But with chemical enhancement, I imagined girls negotiating a price, and then getting stuck with a guy that still wanted to go... and go and go; I saw a world once understood suddenly taken for a sharp turn into tedium. (At the time, I was only imagining the mechanics of street walking -- escort hadn't entered my conceptual repertoire -- neither had I imagined the specifics of sex-work transactions, and that you could charge by the hour, not just by activity.)

 

Little did I know what I'd be up to a few years later.

Among the many things I know now, that would never have occurred to me then, is how to identify Daddy's Little Helper at work.

If you take off the trousers and it's hard as a nail already, without stimulation -- without barely a kiss -- that's a sign. If it doesn't flag, or change in density, ebb, or perk up intermittently, he's either a freak of nature (and cheers, mate) or he's decided to dip into the prescription on the way from the bar to the rent-boy.

* *

Thing is, dude was boring, as well as drunk and unskilled. While it's generally true that the ones that want you to fuck them also want you to be aggressive and use them hard, throw them around a bit, this guy was more of a "take tab A and then insert into slot B sort" -- all of his instructions were painstaking. I felt like I was on set more than having an intimate moment with another human being, and despite the fact that his tent-pole was hoisted so admirably, there was no hunger in his touch, no crave or fancy in his body for mine.

"I'm going to fuck you now." As we'd negotiated earlier, this was fine.

A short while later:

"Now I want you to fuck me."

Um. I'm having technical difficulties.

"Just put it in."

"I'm not hard." I flopped for him.

"Just make it hard," he said to me, on his back, looking at me... quizzically? You've got to be kidding.

First off, do you even know how to sexually stimulate someone? Have you ever even tried? If you're really into this idea of getting nailed, I suggest that you develop some tricks, or even an in-bed manner that suggests that you want the other person to be there. Learn how to give head; that would be a nice start. Ask questions like, "what can I do to get you excited?" There are helpful things; but buddy, darling, dear source of my income, please don't try and pretend this shit is easy when you've had to take medication to stiffen your ego, and you're not even willing to share.

So that was a no-go. I tried to come up with alternatives, but at that point he became jejune and grumpy. C'est la vie. We lapsed into a very business-like torpor for the remaining few minutes until he got off.... It stayed hard. I rolled my eyes.

"You really should get better at keeping an erection," he told me.

I looked at him incredulously. "Oh?"

"I mean, it's your job."

"You're absolutely right. I'll practise more at home."

It's advice like that that keeps me humble.

"While I’m alone and blue as can be"

I was having lunch with Dorian, Gus and Michelle in a high ceilinged kitchenette, at a table in front of a peaked window, a slight breeze gusting the thin, gauzy curtains. We'd already finished our sandwiches, and were just shooting the shit; and a strange, almost metallic sound kept whooshing intermittently. I was talking animatedly while Dorian hazed off with this kind of dopey, bemused look. Out the window, it was cerulean blue in the sky, and in front of us, an iridescent blue soda that we were drinking out of glass bottles; it almost glowed in the sunlight. I picked up my high-ball and looked at the carbonation. It floated not just upwards towards the surface, but all over, like waylaid, lazy molecules. The bubbles flickered in rainbow hues. Strange.

That's when I realised that Gus was missing, and that the sound had started again. When it stopped, I felt a hand at the band of my shorts, and then a very friendly, warm wetness around my unsuspecting penis... which I more-or-less let go on for a bit before slowly bending down to see my missing lunch-mate, busy at work, and an empty bottle lying down on the floor behind him, under the table.

I sat up again and looked at the other two.

"How long's he been doing that?"

"What? Playing spin the bottle by himself? Ages."

I narrowed my eyes at Michelle. "He's been getting you too?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Apparently you haven't been very lucky today."

I sat back and spread my legs a little.

 

...

Yep, mid-afternoon naps. Love them.

Make the Yultide Something

Okay, I've cracked. Here's a totally festive video.

Happy Holidays.

Afternoon Commitment

I was feeling a little flippant because I had seen him before, several times. The magic of newness wares off after visit two or three, I've found. If he wants me back, it's usually for something besides the strip tease. So, very business-like, I was probably still making out my day's to-do lists in my head as I started to take my clothes off. Shirt over the head, pants shucked like corn-husk, I turned around and found him motionless, staring at me.

"You're looking incredibly good," he said to me.

"Shucks," I said, a little mockingly.

"You weren't kidding when you said you've been hitting the gym."

Even if he was just out to stroke my ego, it's things like that being said you need to re-invigorate motivation.

When he came, his cum hit his chin.

So it was gloomy day, and I was devastatingly bored.

So I created a My Space profile.

You bitches better Friend me; I know you're all on that bloody site.

(It has the worst interface ever, by the way.)