Text and Prejudice

Waving and/or drowning

I have been sitting on a beach somewhere very end of Long Island. In the distance I see my date walking farther and farther in the ocean, who turns around to wave to me occasionally.

It is a beautiful day, seems a bit chilly for swimming but the water is getting warmer.

He and I left the city today for the first time together after I had declined his invitaiton to Catskill every weekend. (There is no way that I can go with him: I am mostly tied up for the agency for the weekend's shift.)

He is another beach fanatic, which is very typical of Russian people.

I barely explain what I do for my living to him: he is the first man that I have been a kind of dating (w/o getting paid for) w/o letting anything out). I am only a student to him who works in some straight industry as a parttimer, for day and some night shifts.

The sense of safety is a false concept. There is not such a thing as security in this world. However, that is what people are dying to establish. Whenever I sense any sentiment that seeks for security or stability creeping in myself, I remove it in a rush. That is something that goes against any excitement in my life.

When he drove me away from the city yesterday, though, I felt myself scared. The feeling was inexplicable. I might be scared of

1) being somewhere far in the condition where I have to depend on someone else.

2) getting close to him by this out of town experience.

3) having certain things, but major affairs in my life, hidden from him. It is questionable, after all, to get close to someone from whom I have to hide so much.

"You do not know how much you are missing out. Next time, you should bring your swimsuit with you," I can not help feeling lower hearing him say so.

"I have no swimsuit. Besides I don't swim in the ocean," I say to him to make a clear statement while we are walking on the shore. I start feeling dizzy when I feel water comes to the shore, scrapes sands between my feet and pulls back again. The ocean is such an attraction that I get scared. I am so fearful recently. I find myself to be so alone, although that has been the way it is all the time.

I might be better off to retreat before it is too late. The alarm has gone off in my mind while we are on the beach.

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the blast

I stepped in a room where a 50-ish, half naked man (he had only a shirt on all unbottoned, naked his waist down) with his nosrils, mouth, all over covered by white powder: he seemed to be more than ready.

The floor of his apartment in Chelsea was buried with cut offs of stockings and female underwears. The tv had a porn movie on. Clipping offs from porn magazines were all over in his place.

Oy, what a way of welcoming me, mister, or is it the way your place is all the time? I talked to myself without voicing it.

The level of the intense vibe that I felt at the moment was 9, from 0 to 10. He was shaking from the moment he opened the door , with his seemingly (not erected) huge cock exposed nonchalantly. 

The appaling thing happened. He turned out to be short of cash even for an hour session. He thought twice of using his credit card, either. Where we landed was to have a half an hour session, which we (escorts from an agency ) usually would not take.

He was a literary agent for cartoon exclusively. He offered a vintage comic book that should worth for $1000, which was neatly laminated in a clear plastic bag but I refused to take it by saying

that sort of thing should belong to someone who knows the real value of it. In this case, the book is supposed to belong to you.

OK, so we had a quick blast. He plunged himself in a pile of stockings on his bed and tried to put those torn stockings on my legs, feet and thighs. He was already wearing a loud wig before I recognized. I encouraged him to put those panty hoses and underwears (red bra and purple panty), given he seemed to be into dressing himself as well as dressing me. He pressed my high heel agaist his cock and started groaning. He bundled my shoes up with all the cut off stockings and then untied them, begging me to climb on his body with those heels on.

Please step on my cock.

So I did.

Please slap me.

And I did so, too.

So he was a conbination of

1) leg fetish

2) stocking maniac

3) coke case

4) cross dresser

5) masochist

He was a good sport after all: he never tried to drag the session than the allowed time and even wrote a check of $100 for me before letting me go. I did not even complete him, that was a shame for me: the hookerst of all hookers.

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The Price of Faking

While I was contemplating the subject that I handled in the previous entry, the faking part has come into focus. As I made an emphasis on it, faking has so much to do with survival and class/gender struggle issue.

Keep it in mind: slavery was originally a by product of slaughter. People invented slavery to have other human beings serve themselves instead of killing them to lose labor force potantials.

Therefore, the price of faking/not faking is always at stake. Because it determines the lethal condition; it is a matter of live or die depending upon if you are willing to be defeated and give in, or would rather get killed without faking anything to please anybody.

Regading the dynamics of sexual intercourse we examine here between male/female, men technically can't fake. I am talking about the getting it up part, whereas women are capable and often have to fake for numerous reasons. This pretty much defines the condition of two different needs. (Well, men have to fake a lot to bring women to the point of copulating, but that is another story.)

What lots of clients pay hookers for is here:

they need somebody who makes them feel to be welcomed or desired when they really are molesting strangers with no context. Hookers are expected to ooh and ahh... seriously, no matter who touche them and how they fuck them, which seems to be illogical. The trick of all tricks, though, is money: we hookers are money driven but it is just like anybody else in the capitalistic society. Money is supposed to compensate the humiliation, just any other profession does for people. But people fly off the handle only if it involves sexual acts.

This is only an introductory level of describing the capacity of feelings and its relationship to money, loss and gain. The point that I feel like jotting down before it goes out of mind is this faking business and how much money is thrown into the spot.

Whether it is about sex or not, pursuing truthfulness is difficult, and pricy in this world. But that is what I have been at paradoxically.

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