Letters

I wanted everything for a little while. Why shouldn't I? I wanted to know what it was like, that feeling of love. You gave it to me so good. It was the breath in my lungs, it pulsed through my veins, flowed from my hand to paper in the form of poetry. I wonder if this greif will ever let me go. I feel like the king of sorrow.

You were foremost in my thoughts today. It was a day that brought it all about. It was just another day; nothing's any good. I suppose I could just walk away because I think I would have disappointed my future if I stayed. What am I supposed to do with all of these remnants of joy and disaster? I remember the battles we had. I fought hard and I am proud of myself. My thoughts are so random now, but I will put them here for you and everybody else to see in the order that they come.

I want you to know that I have feelings that are true and deep, and while I'm not crying everybody's tears and letting my emotions guide my interaction with life, I am doing something more that proves a greater sense of emoting. I was wiping your eyes and corraling the tempest of your heart. I kept the light on, the door unlocked, and the sheets warm for you. Sometimes I think that I know it all, that I have everything figured out. No surprises. But the reality is that I'm still learning, lost, and now lonely, lonely. I'm walking wounded, my heart heavier than my steps. I'm sorry I turned you out, that I sent you into the world alone with your things in your arms and nowhere to go. I wish I could cry because I know it would make me feel better, but I can't so I will write instead. I keep looking at my phone and hoping that I will get a message from you, a missed call with your name on the caller ID. I haven't, and I don't think I will.

I want you to call me when things get better, because they will. I have enough faith in you that you can pick yourself back up again and take the steps toward healing. I still love you and I probably will for a long time, if not forever.

Heart in Twilight

I once was able to see the world in your eyes,
glittering, set alight by the fire that burned in your soul
and you were better then.
I could understand your kisses,
your lips forming words against mine
to explain
what never needed to be explained
save to comfort me and soothe whatever I yearned for.
My fingers would trace a map against your face,
drawing ghosts on your back
as headlights flashed through the window
and patterned you in brilliance.
You were better then.

I have been traveling amongst infinity lately. That's how I feel, at least. I have grown more aware of my surroundings, more empathetic towards people and have found a place within humanity as a person. I feel more comfortable in my skin, and while this gives me great comfort I feel that it has also become a burden. The things that would excite and entertain me before make me weary now, and the people that I would associate with on a daily basis are more of a bother than anything else. My perspective on friendship has changed drastically. I no longer search for something to take my mind off of the 'here and now', but instead seek out sanctuary to enjoy the present. That's what friendship should be, after all. Don't you think?

I've noticed that as humans we go looking for love in all of the wrong places. In the nooks and crannies, along the walls where the dust bunnies have settled and beneath the old, creaky floorboards. More often than not we find that love, or rather; we find something that we think is amorous. It is exciting and there is a rush at first, but eventually the indicators of where we found that something begin to surface. The amatory desires vanish and resentment and discontent manifest. Then, it is no longer 'love' but the love to hate. It's an obvious observation, like common sense. I'm no genius for writing this. However, if this logic is is so common (like common sense) why is it's practice NOT so common? It's like when you're smoking with a friend, and you observe how much tar is going into your lungs, and your friend shouts, "Hey! I don't want to think about that." Of course you don't. Nobody does, but why do it if the very act repulses you on some level? 

Americans are funny people, especially when it comes to emoting. If someone displays a powerful emotion, whether sadness or happiness, anger or excitedness, they are crazy. I notice that in Europe people will get out of their cars and shout at each other, shake their fists and call each other names and then get back into their car and return home. They won't abuse their wives or children, and they won't go into the nearest supermarket and blow Tammy's head off when she doesn't accept his coupon. Instead, Americans are afraid to display their emotions and hide them, choosing to let them bubble and stew until they reach the boiling point, and the condensed steam forces its way out. That is true insanity, in my opinion. Hiding oneself from humanity. It's a life of waste and a life not worth living. 

The Difference

Lets pretend that everything is alright. We will close our eyes and imagine that we are atop a great tower, looking out on a great expanse of lush grass to where the cordillera of the worlds' edge bursts into the sky. Here we sit and bask in the golden rays of a great and bright sun. We talk, listen, cry, embrace, cry out in joy, and moan in sorrow, all at once. We are one. We are connected. Holding hands doesn't seem enough as our souls extend tiny invisible tentacles; curling and grasping and feeling each other. Everything we know is blown like tumble weeds, and as the silence of the world outside creeps over our gentle minds and threatens to take us into the dark, it is shattered by a sudden cacophany of lights and heralding harps, trumpets, and violins that rise above every sound in the universe and drowns us in the music.

We are all in this together. Every single one of us.

Monster Love

The life of a harlot is typically thought to be a lonely existence. It is the general assumption that prostitution is a trade left to those with no other outlets in life: they need the money, they are forced into it, or they are dealing with unimaginable mental paradoxes. Whomever imagines that maybe one of those creatures of the night has a stable life and career, a functional marriage and maybe even some children? Hardly anyone, I imagine. However, those things are more readily available to be absorbed and proven to the majority if there is some sort of substantial evidence. There are physical characteristics that can define someone if they are married, and the actual fact that they go home to their husband every night. He is a real manifestation of their congregation. It is a tangible existence, and people can see that and therefor believe it. I've heard of hookers being married, and often having a husband who makes a large amount of money. There is simply a void there that must be filled, as well as severe psychological trauma.

This is not my point, though. This is only the precursor to my story. I am shedding some light upon a scenario which at first might seem far-fetched, but when explained and observed does not seem all that strange after all. Now, take the above-mentioned setup and apply the element of "love". While a marriage and kids may be present, most would not believe that the nightwalker in the family actually loves her husband and kids. How could she do such a thing when so much is at risk? Where is her conscious thought-process between good and evil, wrong and right? How DARE she? There is obviously no love there, right?

Maybe. Maybe not. Married life between straight folk is a different element than partnerships involving gay couples. Love between the gays is generally a very, very fickle and elusive thing; superficial to the a high degree and plagued with infidelities and strange idiosyncrasies. For this reason I know many young men around my age that have vowed to never love. Sure, they admit that they can be smitten and often times are, but that they never throw themselves into the pit and hope that the other will be at the bottom to catch them. I used to be this way up until recently-- just yesterday, in fact. I had a closed heart and a brutal rationalization system laid out in my head. I was the most emotionally devoid person I knew and I even prided myself on the fact that nobody would ever have control of my heart.

I know that it sounds a bit over embellished, but it is not. I was the master of facades, manipulation, and heartbreaking. I could pick someone up into the heights of heaven, lifting their souls and making them feel incredibly special. Then, without so much as a grimace, I could let them go, allowing them to fall and smash into a billion little emotional pieces. I have done this many times and my mind is not haunted by it. Love comes and goes. I got what I wanted from them and decided that I'd had enough. They cried the rivers, built the bridges, and got the fuck over it. So what?

That was how I used to think. Thirty-two hours ago I was an emotional robot when it came to relationships, even in my current entanglement. Things have changed. The following story is a recount of what I can remember from the night before last.

My phone rang as the clock neared 7:45 PM. I had been expecting this phone call, as it was from the call box downstairs at the gates. I picked up and buzzed whomever was dialing in. I'd already known it would be Edgar. He was never on time (he told me previously to expect him around 5:00) and I awaited his arrival with great anticipation. I genuinely liked my boyfriend. He is the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on and aesthetically perfect for me in every way. Tall, lithe, toned and with a great sense of style. I remember when I first met him in San Diego and that I could not take my eyes off of him. I was smitten within seconds and was eager for our mutual friend to introduce us.

I was shocked to discover that upon speaking to him I grew suddenly very nervous, my ego escaping me and replaced by some foreign sheepishness that I fought to dispel but could not. I shook his hand with a sweaty palm and was immediately embarrassed. I attempted to pull away, but his hand tightened in mine for an instant. I knew I was flushing and quickly averted my eyes to my friend, Rubisell, who lifted his brows in amusement and continued my silent suffering by loudly mentioning my fondness for Latino boys.

My hand was finally released and I shoved it in my pocket, my other hand giving Rubisell a light shove. He laughed along with Edgar as I shriveled a bit inside. Luckily, the conversation was turned to their friends and I was allowed to let myself settle into my head for a minute. I gathered my thoughts and calmed myself. I rationalized that this guy barely spoke English and that something other than sexual encounters would never happen from knowing him. I'd encountered this type of thing before with my other Mexican lovers. The language barrier had proved to be a big damper on the relationships, but the incredible sex more than made up for the lack of conversational substance.

A few minutes later I was relieved to hear their discussion close. We parted ways, Rubisell and I continuing toward our destination while the beautiful Edgar went on his way. I only chanced one look back and saw that he had stopped and was staring directly at me. Another flush of embarrassment and I turned away. Rubisell laughed about the situation and later told me that he had invited Edgar out with us the next week when we had planned to see a movie together. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

"What the fuck? Why? He can't even understand the movie." I said. Rubisell looked at me and smirked in spite of my frusteration.

"Who says he can't?"

"We are seeing Elizabeth: The Golden Age. I highly doubt that he will be able to understand the conceptual English language, heavily laden with accents and whatnot."

"Some of it is in Spanish."

"Greaaaaat. Nice excuse."

Rubisell stopped walking and shot me a look of great disbelief. "Stop being such a little bitch. It's obvious that you like him, so why don't you do something about it? I mean, it was REALLY obvious with your face turning bright red and the fact that you couldn't even look at him sure wasn't a dead giveaway."

I opened my mouth to convey a look of mock shock. "You're perceptive, Rubisell. Really perceptive. You should do something with that-- like, join a fuckin' circus, you douche."

"See!" he called after me as I began to walk away from him, "it's obvious that you think he's cute. I mean, you saw him, didn't you? He's GORGEOUS."

"Yes," I replied, beginning to become exasperated with the whole Edgar subject, "he is beautiful, but I don't think it would work, buddy. He's too.. Authentico."

Rubisell laughed and grabbed my shoulder, making pace with me and leaning into my strides. "Just the way you like 'em."

"Fuck you."

"Well, I AM Mexican.."

I grunted. "I meant that he doesn't even know English."

Rubisell laughed again, this time in an authentic tumbling roar. I was a little surprised quirked and eyebrow. "What?"

"That's never stopped you before."

I smiled in spite of myself and shrugged. "What the hell, lets have him out with us then."

The next week I was cursing Rubisell's name silent in my head as Edgar and I stood outside the cineplex awkwardly. Rubisell was nowhere to be found and his phone was mysteriously turned off. He had set me up, that clever son of a bitch. I was outwardly perturbed while my stomach reeled with nervousness and my heart resounded in my chest and ears like boot steps marching on pavement. After another ten minutes of calling him repeatedly and the weird moments between the phone calls that consisted of broken and uninteresting light conversation, I decided to give up on Rubisell, knowing that he had ditched us ON PURPOSE.

"Well," I began in a sigh. "I honestly don't think he's coming."

Edgar gave a little smile and shook his head in agreement. "I don't think so."

"Well, should we just go see the movie ourselves then?"

Edgar shrugged, hands in his pockets and said, "do you want to?"

"Eh, not really."

"Okay.." he awkwardly agreed.

"But-" I quickly responded, seizing the opportunity to spend more time with him, "we could do something else. I don't like movies when meeting new people. We can't talk to each other in the movie."

Another smile, those beautiful and perfect ivories of his momentarily stunning me. I regained myself and scratched my head. "What would you like to do?"

"I like Balboa Park."

"Yeah? Me too. You wanna go?"

He agreed and we made our way to my car and were walking together in the park ten minutes later. The clouds overhead were omnipresent and heavy with rain. I feared they would suddenly release their loads over us, but I certainly did not want my chance to get to know this beautiful creature in my company, so I chanced it.

We talked about our lives, where we were from and how we came to live in San Diego. I learned that he was originally from Nayarit, an area of Mexico close to Guadalajara and known to be very beautiful. He was twenty years old and worked as a cook in an upscale restaurant in Hillcrest. I was impressed with his understanding of my English and how he manipulated our conversations between Spanish and English. It created a greater understanding between us, as I was developing my Spanish at the time and he had no American friends to speak the language with. I suddenly became very comfortable in his presence, as he was very humble and mature. His aura was also very soothing and his questions polite and sincere.

We entered an area of well-trimmed grass used for lawn bowling. The sprinklers has been activated and were monotonously spraying the lush green expanse. There were several ornate benches positioned along a small brick wall that served as a border between the park and the lawn bowling area. We sat and talked some more, both of our eyes gazing out onto the dark green patches. Suddenly, and without warning, the sky opened up and the rain came upon us. Stunned, we stood. However, instead of running back to my car, I simply stood there. The rain.. The rain! I loved the rain! I was from Portland- I missed the rain. I laughed and looked up, my face instantly becoming soaked. When I looked down Edgar was smiling at me. The smile was not the same as before. This time it was significantly more affectionate, and I knew he understood.

He was quick as a rabbit as he ran headlong into the sprinklers and within seconds he was drenched to the bones. I joined him and together we ran through the sprinklers. We laughed and gingerly touched. Eventually he came to me, arms spread, and embraced me in a running hug that sent me into the water-logged grass. He then straddled me as I lay there sprawled on my back, and kissed me in the puddles and much. It was a very light and delicate kiss, but one burning with so many desires and passions and genuine feelings. I was elated and immediately became warm.

We made our way back to my car, hand in hand, our useless coats dangling from our free hands. Once inside my Volkswagon, we stripped to our underwear and turned on the heat. The windows fogged and we were encased in our own warm, wet world; kissing and embracing with earnest and innocent touches that were meant to explore more than our bodies. Eventually, we fell asleep in the back seat, locked in each others' arms.

From that point on I've not dated other boys. As you know, I escort, but I consider it (in a perverse way) business rather than pleasure. I can disassociate what I do with Edgar with the events that happen when he is not around and I am getting paid. I've never felt bad about it and I have explored it from many different angles, often enlisting the mental help of some of my brighter friends. The general thought is that I have built up such a barrier to love that I am not truly in love with Edgar, and instead I am comfortable and content with what I have with him. There must have been something deeper, I knew, but at the time I did not know how to reach those fathoms.

Now, as the door is opening and Edgar is coming through my apartment door, my thoughts are brushed away and I am filled with delight. He is as beautiful as ever, and this is the first time that I have seen him since he returned from Mexico City for his stint in Fashion Week there. I ran to the door to greet him and ushered him in, taking his backpack from him and hanging his jacket in the closet. We sat and talked for a while. He told me of what he did in Mexico City, of the museums and history centers he visited and the interesting people that he met. I listened and asked questions, genuinely curious of his activities. It has been nearly three weeks since he had left and I missed him very much. I wanted him to continue talking. I wanted him to do something, anything. Sex was irrelevant at this point, especially when considering that we didn't have sex of any kind with each other until we had been together for almost three months. His presence was what I desired, and now that I had it anything that came with it was incidental.

Edgar was curious as to what I had been doing while he was away, as well, and insisted that I tell him everything. I spoke of work, friends, parties and Hollywood events that I had been invited to. When I had finished with my stories, a moment of silence fell over the two of us. Our eyes met and stayed. Suddenly, Edgar moved toward me, taking my hands in his. He inhaled sharply and began to speak.

"Jonathan, te amo mas que todos. When I was away I could only think of you and how beautiful and good you are to me. I want you to know that everything you have done and do for me so appreciated." He then kissed my hands and began to speak into them. "We are so very different, but that is what makes me respect you so much. You have everything you need right now and you are so young. Your energy is incredible and I feel like I am a small person around you. You are creative and talented and can be friends with anybody. I feel that you will spread your wings and fly without me, and I do not want that to happen. I love you too much, I love you more than anything and I want to be with you forever. I mean it, Jonathan."

I was frozen. Part of the reason I was so comfortable around Edgar was because he didn't get too deep with me. He was a superficial fantasy life, a trophy boyfriend worth loving for that reason and that reason alone. Sure, I'd helped him out with money and financed the last week of his trip in Mexico City, bought him Louis Vuitton and pay for all of our dinners, but that was because his purpose was being served. He was the trophy, and trophies need to be polished. Now, though, things were changing. Not only was the shift apparent in how he felt but suddenly I felt very peculiar. Instead of shutting myself up emotionally, I felt the walls around my heart begin to crumble. Edgar's words had sent a small tremor into the very foundations of my defenses and set off a chain reaction of decay. My fortifications were quickly dissolving.

I took my hands from his and held them in the air for a second before burying my face in his chest. It was then that the tears came. I burst open with emotion and clutched at him while I sobbed, my hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and back. I wanted to tear him into pieces for making me feel this way, to make him suffer as I was suffering. It had been over a year since I last cried, and I had been desperately afraid of the pains and weaknesses that sadness brought. And now, after so much hard work at making myself solid and strong, here I was doing the very thing I'd vowed to myself I would not do.

"I'm fucked up." I cried into him.

"I know." He whispered, hands wrapped around my head and pressing my face deeper into his wet and warm heartbeat.

I shook my head. "No, I'm really fucked up. Really, really fucked up."

"I know, Jonathan," he reassured me, "but that is part of your beauty. Your clever madness, the burning anger inside of you that gives you purpose and drive to better yourself."

I continued to cry. I could not help it and the tears flowed from me. The next moment, as Edgar held me and stroked my neck and whispered sweet things into my hair, my heart lifted. I suddenly felt myself ascending out of my sorrow and into a state of calm. The tears were still there, but my anger was gone and my sadness alleviated. I was free now I realized. I was truly in love with this boy. I loved him for who he was in his entirety, and had no reason to ever doubt my feelings for him. In fact, it became apparent that I loved him from the first moment I laid eyes on him. From the second that his dark orbs reflected in my own baby blues'.

"You are the only person that I do not hate in this world." I said into him, my eyes closed and dripping. He was silent and only tightened his arms around my skull for an instant. At the time I was speaking the truth. It is not true to say that I hate everyone all the time. But, in that moment in time I hated the world for giving me an excuse to close myself off to such a beautiful creature as Edgar. I had not been fair to him, I had not given my heart to him when he needed and deserved it more than anybody. I lied to myself and reasoned that it was not going to last, that this certainly was not the real deal. I was so sorry, and I told him so many times while we were embraced like that.

That night we made love for the first time. We've had sex before, but we had never truly made love. Every sensation I felt was heightened to a new, ecstatic degree. Our mouths weaved a song of passion while our bodies told the story of our love.

I know now that I am truly and deeply in love. This picture was taken the next morning. It's the first picture we've ever taken together in the five months that we have been together. He is beautiful in every sense of the word and I there is no limit to my love for him. He has completed me and this I am sure of.

I am not sure how to explain my love for him, and at the same time continue to escort. It makes no sense to the rational mind, but I am far from rational. This much is very obvious now, as you might notice. I have yet to see a client, but I am almost positive that when I do I will not feel bad about it. Such a paradox, these little idiosyncrasies that I have.

Oh Sombra!

"Ew, yeah right." Philip said, looking up from his sidekick. I rolled my eyes. Philip was not fooling me on this one. Looking at him now, staring at me with his large shiny dark eyes and perfectly formed round head, one might believe that his counter to my previous statement was truth. However, because I know this boy in front of me, I would not be fooled. I folded my hands and leaned forward a bit, leveling my height with his from across the table and creased my features into a small, malicious smile.

"He fucked you in the morning."

Phil opened his mouth in a sort of expression that was meant to convey shock, but turned into something of a laugh. "I hate how you know it was in the morning."

My smile opened up a bit and became more genuine. "Just because you look like a cute, innocent asian twink doesn't mean that you ARE. Come on, Phil, I've been at this game a long time. I know how it works."

"Oh, that's right, you're the White Diamond, Queen Of The Night, Roxanne.. You know, Lord of the Hookers."

I snorted and bit into the french fry I had been holding in my hand. "Don't forget 'Pleasure-Bringer to The Unpleasurable.'"

"Ew!" Philip exclaimed, "but, it's so true."

"Indeed it is," I replied, "but what can ya do?"

"How DO you do it, anyway? I could NEVER imagine having sex with some old gross dude."

Again, I smiled. I chewed the last bits of the french fry, musing over the best way to interpruet this for my little friend. "Well," I began, "I think that everyone has something to offer. As you know I can get turned on by intelligence, which is why I've never attempted to fuck you.."

"I thought it was because you didn't like asians."

"Yes, that too."

"Bitch."

I continued, dipping my fork into the refried beans and guacamole on my plate. "So, a little bit of conversation before always helps, especially if they are interested in me and my life and whatnot. I, of course, respond by asking them similar questions and gather a bit of information on their intelligence. Powerful men excite me, so the more interesting their job, the more I desire them."

"Basically, you fit into the classic ideal of a gold-digger." Phil said earnestly. I shrugged.

"That's not quite true, actually. I like sex and I like money, but it's not about either." I paused, expecting some sarcastic remark from my companion. Instead, he just sat there staring at me, expecting me to continue. So, I did. "I like the idea of control. I control where everything goes in the situation, bottom line. He hired me due to his desires, whatever they may be. I am there for a purpose, but I am not there to be controlled. I am under no contract and no liability. I have free range to do whatever I want sexually with them and there is absolutely nothing that they can do to get more out of me if I do not want it."

Philip was confused. I could tell by the way his almond-shaped eyes were slowly becoming distant and his face became complacent. "Okay," I began to explain, "let's say that I get a client call and he wants me to come over for a massage for an hour."

"Okay," Phil acknowledged.

"Now, he's obviously expecting a happy ending, and I am obliged to give it to him. However, upon getting there, I expect to be treated with respect. If I do not receive respect or if I feel uncomfortable with the man and the situation, I ask for the money up-front. This ensures that if things were to go downhill all will not be lost on my end. If he is polite and respectful, creates a calm and inviting atmosphere then I disregard the money up-front and instead ENJOY MYSELF. It's amazing what one can do when they are comfortable. If the client sees that he has succeeded in making me comfortable, he becomes more relaxed. Conversation begins, we get to know each other, and we go from there. I always maintain the sexual control, though. I do not do it in any mean way. In fact, I try to make it as sensual and exciting as possible, that way the control is favorable."

"Hmm." Philip chimed. He flipped out his sidekick again and began another lengthy text. "You sure make it sound easy."

"It's work, but enjoyable."

"You and your mysterious ways of thinking, Jonathan. I'm glad I'm not deep enough to delve into that mind of yours. Imagine the creepy stuff I'd find."

I smirked and continued eating the remainder of my dish in relative silence. Is the way I'm thinking about this creepy? Am I a bit too involved in this process, or am I just a little bit sick and twisted on the inside? I never thought I was. In fact, I thought I was just being realistic. It was better to sit and face things than to run from them. My mind was no different, was it?

We finished eating, paid the bill, and left the saucy little gay Silverlake mexican restaurant discussing mediocre things; topics that I was hardly interested in, but could feign some sort of detail due to my knowledge of current events and rapier-like wit. Philip's comment has ceased to bother me after I got to my apartment. Feeding my cat always alleviates such insecurities. I think it's the fact that she's so expecting and I am providing her with sustenance and that she is forever grateful to me for fulfilling my basic duties to her. Such a simple creature brings me such calm and warmth. I think that is why I like cats so much. You can never taint their innocence or disposition if you are only kind to them. I wish people were more like that. But, then again, if people were more like cats, what would make felines so interesting? I'd rather love my cat, personally. People, continue being douchebags!

Intuitions

I've thought about creating a blog for a long time. Now, that's not to say that I've never had a blog before; there is a rarely visited livejournal account that has not been posted in for some time now. All for the better, I suppose. It was full of crappy revelations that really revealed nothing to me at all in the end. A bunch of random musings that I thought were clever at the time. Thankfully I am growing up!

This blog is going to document my experiences AFTER work, AFTER friends, AFTER clubbing, and AFTER my normal life in general. This is an account of everything that happens during my nighttime sexcapades. Sexcapades sounds good, yeah? I think that will be my permanent reference to what other's might call "hooking", "hustling", "whoring" and "escorting". It's all the same shit in the end, why not consider them something sexually adventurous? That is what they are to me, after all. Besides, being a glorified hooker and all, I think it's only right that I get first say in terminology.

Thinking back, I realize that I don't even know where to begin with this. I suppose one might assume I'd start at the beginning, but that would take far too much time and would probably end up inaccurate. I will just say that when I first started this gig I was innocent and somewhat sexually naive and virginal. Now, I cannot even count the number of people I've slept with for money. I stopped counting at 97. It's up there in the triple digits now, I am sure.

What began in San Diego while working as a post production brain for a porn company has now lead me to Hollywood. I am nothing of a star. Far from it, actually. It would be more of a curse to become a star now more than ever. All of those dirty, dirty fucking skeletons would come tumbling out of the very deep, dark closet. My life has become better now. I have a regular nine-to-five working as a showroom representative for a reputable clothing company, enjoy the company of a few good friends, and reside by myself in a wonderful little one-bedroom antiquated apartment near Normandie Avenue and Franklin. My cat is fatter, my closet is more full, and the utilities are paid without the hassle of asking someone to cough up half of the fucking money.

I know for a fact that I could support myself on the salary I receive from my job, but something deep inside of me is still hooked on-- well, hooking. I've delved into the depths of my brain so many times in vain attempts at pin-pointing the exact cause of my pseudo-addiction. My closest friends all have different explanations, and I get nowhere with it. So, for now, I am content to just ride the satisfactory fuck-train until I find it suitable to get off at the next stop.

I will start this on February 19th, 2008. I received a phone call around nine in the morning. I'm usually up and about by 7, due to work by 9. As I am pulling into the parking lot in downtown Los Angeles I receive a phone call from a blocked number. I've some time to kill, so I answer. On the other end is a somewhat nervous older man, somewhere in his mid forties judging by the depth of tone and wear on his voice, and he was obviously nervous. I used to smile at the fact that a grown man (usually secure and successful in life) is so scared to talk to some 19 year old whore. The charm has long faded, and now I assume a warmth to my voice that is at once genuine and matter-of-fact. With work starting in only ten minutes, I have limited time and don't plan to spend them pretending to be besotted at this shy call. It is my job to be beguiling, after all, and that usually starts once I meet the client. Perhaps I would have been a bit more merciful if a schedule was not due on my bosses desk in two hours' time, half of which I have completed.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hi-- Um.. My name is Gary and I was-- uh, calling about the ad on the internet."

"Oh, yes, of course. How are you, Gary?"

A brief pause and a sharp, calculating inhale, "Well, I'm doing well this morning. You're up early."

"Yeah, I have to be at work in ten minutes. I'm actually sitting in the parking lot right now."

"Oh! I can call back in uh-- when is your lunch break?"

"We can talk now, if you'd like. I have a little time to kill before I throw myself into the wolves' den."

"Okay then. Well, I was wondering if you are available in the afternoons and if you can do an incall."

"You're married?" I asked, shuffling through my bag to double check that I had all of the required documents for work this morning.

A nervous laugh. "Yes, I suppose you could say that."

"That's alright with me. Discretion is the key word in this business. I won't be saying anything at the next book club meeting, not to worry."

"Eheh.. That would be much appreciated, please," he warbled. I could practically see him clutching the edges of his desk, white knuckled with a bit of perspiration forming on his middle-aged brow. A smiled a bit to myself, more so due to the fact that the image was very funny. I have quite a vivid imagination.

"I don't usually do incalls. In fact, I've never done an incall before."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, and I work during the week from nine to five. One of those corporate jobs for the Man, you know?"

Another nervous laugh. "That's a bit of a problem. I can't do this on the weekend because of my wife, and not at night, either."

"I see, well, we could get together at my apartment during my lunch break. I will extend it a bit."

"Really? You can do that? At what time?"

"From 12:30 to 1:30, and I could probably bargain a bit more time, too."

"That would be good. Where do you live?"

"Hollywood."

"That's not too far, I live in the valley so I can probably be there in fifteen minutes."

"Great! I will call you twenty minutes before I leave for lunch, then."

"Okay, will you send the address then?"

"Yep."

"Cool."

"Alright, well I really have to get to work now. I shall be chatting with you in a few hours."

"Okay-- wait, before you leave.."

"Yes?" I'm a bit irritated now, the clock ticking closer to doomsday.

"What is your name?"

"Jonathan, pleasure to speak with you."

"Good speaking with you, Gary. Ciao!"


Work was busy during the first two-hour leg, but had calmed considerably after the meeting and the pre-order rush. I sat at my desk, musing over the conversation that I'd had with Gary earlier in the morning. I had not given it another thought since, and now that I allowed my mind to gather the information once more I began to question whether or not it was a wise idea that I invite him to my apartment. I'd never done an incall before but only on the principles that my home was clear of any sort of debauchery and sin outside of convention. I was a little bothered, but settled myself with the reasoning that it would only be once and this guy was too fuck-shy to initiate anything other than the touchy-feely bullshit that 80% of these guys want.

Lunch time! I cruise home, having already phoned Gary and let him know that I would be arriving at my residence shortly. I cleaned up a bit, fed Tiffany, and set the bed straight so that it was not a messy tangle of Egyptian cotton and pillows. I had only just finished when he rang me from the call box. I buzzed him in and took the kettle off of the burner. I had just finished pouring the last finger of hot water into my teacup when a sharp knock brought me to the door. My hand turned the knob and the door opened, my face creased with a smile meant to placate even the most hyper critical of these guys. As I had envisioned, a plump white man, probably Jewish in descent stood before me. He was a good five inches shorter than I (I am a bit tall, being nearly 6'2"), his short curly Jew-fro damp with the light sprinkle we were experiencing that day. He smiled.

Oh dear Lord, I thought to myself as I stepped aside to let him in. What a fucking grill. His teeth were yellowed and had grown in at an angle that gave them the appearance of being slightly sharpened. Standing there, surveying the short attorney before me, I could only imagine what his wife might look like.

The trick was lackluster, as I had imagined. It seemed that this was the typical client that I'd come to expect from those strange, ermine voices on the phone. It was the usual kissing (as much as I didn't want to), gentle caresses, stark gasping and moaning, and the climax that ended in the shower. Before I knew it we were discussing European politics as we were putting out clothes back on. Strange how that happens sometimes. I suppose, though, that one must substitute pillow talk when the pillows are absent.

I was $300 richer, and left again for work, telling myself that it wasn't all that bad to do the occassional incall. But, then again, it wasn't good enough or convenient enough to do it again. ;]