Note For Rent

Satisfaction, Part 3

Close to Home

Are you based in the UK?

My location is a secret.

Approximately how many miles you travel a year in your profession, and what was the furthest that you have ever been flown by a client?

As this is the first year that I’ve been working in the Business, I haven’t an average yet to speak of, but it has been common for me to travel up to 100km one way for a job, around once a week. This has become less frequent now that I’ve started charging half my rate for travel time, which is just fine for me. Most of my work to date has been restricted to the city limits of my situation, and most men who arrange to see me are impatient for me to arrive; ordering a hooker is a lot like any other id-driven impulse, if the fixation takes too long to materialize, reason usually kills the desire. There are not many people out there who are inclined to arrange too far in advance, or commit a sum of money and time to someone that they may not get along with. That said, as I develop my working relationships, travel becomes more and more of a possibility.

Although the number of men say they're going to take me places is high, and averred in breathless sencertiy, I put these opines into the category of pre-orgasm gibberish, as you don’t hear much about it after the stutter, and the buck, and the subsequent slackening. I’ve only been asked to go on an extended trip in earnest twice, and both times fell though: once because of a WHO advisory, and another because my companion’s work situation suddenly changed.

Conversely, I have a number of clients who have flown into a city just because I was going to be there, once quite a long distance, and that's something quite flattering. I also have a few invitations extended to spend indefinite amounts of time at various places about the globe, remuneration (not travel cost) included, but it’s an option I’m not interested in pursuing at the moment.

Mind you, out of blue, this morning, I got a phone call asking if I’d like to be flown out to Berlin for a number of days; that is something I am interested in, should it turn out to be genuine -- but it’s going to take some negotiation.

What other professions do you think you'd be good at?

My father always thought I would end up in PR, and I think my mother still sees me as a university professor. I imagine I’ll be quite good at writing books.

What's your academic background?

Successful and disastrous, in turns.*

What color are your eyes?

The short answer is hazel. They’re actually grey, gold and green. I’m not kidding.

What color is your hair?

I am not a successful blonde; as a redhead, a little shocking; currently, I’m brunette.

In your opinion, what's your best physical feature?

My smile.

Do you ever do drugs with your clients? Have you?

I don’t, but I have. Alcohol form time to time; presently, when a drink is offered, I’ll usually take one, but only have a few sips. I have been known to go through a mini-bar or a bottle of spirits with a client, pre my curb-the-drinking resolve.  Little bottles of Amyl are often about, but my relationship with the boot cleaner is a very wary one. Besides that, as someone who has tried just about everything once (twice, three times – you do have to be sure), there’s little that I have not encountered outside of work, so know where my boundaries and safe-zones reside. I had a client, a few months ago, take out a kit after I arrived, and offer me a small range of options. “I don’t suppose you do this when you’re working,” he said. I was in a particular mood, and had absolutely nothing to do the next day, so indulged with him, and we had a really great time. He gave me three good pornos as a tip. That was the only time I can really recall. Cocaine used to make a regular appearance, but I haven’t seen much of it lately, and it does very little to help my sexual performance.

What is, in your opinion, the best feeling in the world? And the worst one?

Musical ecstasy under the stars, hands flung out, eyes open, when you can feel the planet move concentrically in heaven’s spheres without one word to prove it; and, the moment you feel your heart collapse into a sucking memory of the love that used to fortify it against all the terrors of the world.

* Despite being a very good student, winning awards, pursuing a lengthy degree at an institution of higher learning, and being generally “most promising” to my academic mentors, I have never graduated from a single thing in my life. The psychoanalyst of my future will undoubtedly have a field day.

Romance and Modifiers

A few things (mostly) unrelated to work:

* I have continued to date Spark, which has probably been wise, as well delightful. We get on well, and if you're going to see someone romantically when you're a hooker, words can't really express the simplicity achieved by dating another one. He's actually had a greater amount of experience in the field than I have, and being able to trade war stories after a couple of days apart really helps to clear out any residual emotional backlog that can sometimes accumulate as you jump from bed to bed, in and out of position. As we're both traveling, the romance has taken on a dewy, rose-coloured summer-fling type quality -- which is about all the romance that I'm really built to handle at this point in my life. Vive l'amour temporaire!

* I am packing up and organizing myself to make it to this. I fear I may be traveling to gay Mecca.

* As I continue to not drink, I move closer and closer to becoming a morning person. This disturbs me.

* I have a new favourite band. Justin, they'd climb up onto your sexyback and ride you like bad, bad pony.

* Unbidden, life plans have begun to formulate out of the nether-regions of my psyche. Apparently certain ideas and prospects have been circulating amongst themselves back in the vaults, because I woke up a week or two ago and realized that I had a plan, and that the plan was good. Sex-work being what it is, that mysterious way station between so many things, it has never bidden a greater calling for me -- its fascination has primarily been to uncover the secret faces, and get a sense for the characters that people it -- but what my experience has revealed is a wonderful support mechanism that I can use to facilitate other ambitions. Money has never had enough of an allure to rule (re: motivate) me, and consequently my potential earning power has never looked terribly promising -- my family points out that I have made some astonishingly un-prudent choices -- but with my ability to work this angle now fully mapped out, apparently I've become empowered to make some decisions that I otherwise would have been unable to. Onwards and upwards, as they say.

I could explain what the plan is, but that would be telling.

* I keep coming back to the desire to get my nipples pierced, primarily because I think it'd be sexy as hell, and as my nipples have been more or less duking it out with my cock for primacy as an erogenous zone for as long as I can remember, getting them outfitted with little metal barbells might just settle the argument once and for all. I had almost given up on the idea until I had a client (a very dirty old man, bless him) really into tattoos and piercings, who kept mentioning how he wanted to do mine for free, and when he showed me his I was so turned on that I mounted him. The only catch is that I would need to give the poor things six weeks to heal, so if I'm going to do it, I'm also going to have to go on hiatus.

"No More Champagne"

It was Spark and Flight that ended up coming in contact with each other New Year's Eve, and thankfully the world did not implode; or explode; or even spin that much quicker on it's axis, so far as I could tell; but it was Flight's feelings that were hurt.

In the interests of decorum and anonymity, I don't think I'll go into the details of the evening here. Suffice to say that Flight was predictably difficult to get along with, Spark even more well-mannered than I could have expected him to be, and while I did my best to tread a thin line between them both, rapidly arrived at the conclusion that I really don't want to see much of Flight any more at all; the gift that he brought me notwithstanding. (He changed tack a few times over the course of the night, but the high and the low being, first, the sorrowful admission that he wanted me to be happy, no matter what, because he thought I was that great; to the lascivious later suggestion of a threesome, before making a direct pass at Spark when I wasn't around.)

So that's one crossed off the list of suitors.

The night itself was a bit of a ball. We trouped off and saw the local fireworks display, sipping Scotch from a bottle in the crowd, then swallowed something before doing a bit of the requisite dancing in a sweaty venue that had required an overpriced admission, before retreating to a house to listen to music and drink up the New Year's sunrise. I pretty much had someone's hand on my ass the entire time, so can't complain, and friends both old and new got along merrily.

I don't make New Year's Resolutions. I never have, and doubt that I'll ever start. I've always been of the mind that when you encounter something untenable in yourself that you should set about attempting to fix it as soon as humanly possible. There are enough things in this world that beset our day-to-day without having to fight your own ability to render yourself miserable. That said, I happen to be giving up the drink for the next few weeks, not because the calender has changed, but because party season is over, and now is the easiest time to do it. Depending on how successful it is, I might even extend the moratorium.

The only problem with this is that presently everyone else and their grandmother is attempting some sort of the sweeping gesture of change, so if I mention my prohibition I'm going to have to contend with the people asking if it's my Resolution, and I'll have to refrain from striking them out of pique -- not because I mind people thinking that I've made one, but because the gym will be stacked to the rafters for the next six weeks with other people who have, no matter when I go there: flabby malcontents will be blocking my equipment through sheer ignorance, and I'm going to be so clear headed and hangover free that I'll might as well be prescient, and ergo, may end up a little tetchy.

So I think I'm going to have to sign up for yoga twice a week, just to even myself out.

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.