A call boy's experinece, up to a point.



Not so good at waiting, and even less at being poor, October looked an awfully long way off.

So at the airport last weekend, disembarking, I looked around, took a deep breath, and felt relieved. Back to basics. Back to work kids. I'm on a roll, off one bed and onto another. After all, you can't have a blog about prostitution without prostituting; and sometimes the solutions to your problems can be solved by running away. Flying away. Taking flight.

I woke up one morning. Made coffee. Looked out the window over the view, and thought:

I think I'm over it.

So I've up and left. The normal job's history. I've also threw out most of my wardrobe in a fit of pique (I was feeling an aesthetic impasse every time I went to put something on), so considerably lighter and more mobile, here I am, signed up, randy and waiting to work tomorrow.

You've got to admit, I can move quickly when I have to.

God I love travel. And sex. And dirty old men with money.