Note For Rent

Moving Day

2006-09-26T11:29:00.000Z

This blog, and all of it's further content, will be found in slightly fancier digs.

But only slightly, mind.

noteforent.typepad.com

Technical Glitches

2006-09-25T07:03:00.000Z

Hrm...

Something seems to have gone horribly awry with my blog layout, if this computer is any judge. For the interim, I've reverted to a standard template while I figure out what's gone wrong.

It's distressing, but I think I'm going to move this operation over to TypePad anyway, and maybe get someone to design me an original, now that I'm a professional again.

A Confederacy of Whores

2006-09-24T07:08:00.000Z

My bread and butter in the sex industry have always been regulars. I have a knack for being defying expectations, and I must have that certain je ne sai quois, because they do keep coming back: oh, the Johns; bless them.

This also defies the norm, according to my associates.

That's right, associates.

I now belong to a loose confederacy of boy prostitutes, and this, besides changing my perspective on sex work considerably, is not something I ever considered, up until the point that I am now faced with it: a group of professional peers, with whom I can talk shop and get down to the somewhat bizarre and disturbing business of normalizing the trade, which (as I see it) is both a good and bad thing, all at once.

The boys are fairly diverse, the attitudes towards the work variable to the extreme; and the personalities are decidedly gay. Gay, gay, gay. Which is stupendously amusing. My experience has got me a little used to the straight boys who take it for money; these ones are lighting their cigarettes off of one another.

"You're the new girl on the block honey. Everyone's gonna want to try you once."

They do. The ones that go for the younger looking fellas, the slim ones. I've got that market cornered; but some of the bitchier lads were also adamant:

"They get over you quick though."

Maybe, but early signs show my old pattern asserting itself clearly. After a fairly modest opening week, my second has closed decidedly more flush than the first. A full third of my busniess this week were repeats, and yesterday one gentleman booked me early in the day, then called in the evening, to have me again.

I'm curious to see what happens when they start to clue in, those sharp, critical ones. Getting into this arrangement, I am also now prone to something else I hadn't expected, that sickly green hue of professional jealousy.

"What did we do that was so special?"

Nothing special really, but, as I've said before, I like to be good at what I do; and I have a great bag of tricks.

Other Mundanities And Concerns

2006-09-12T05:19:00.000Z

Shelter, and a working concept of the geography of my new home.

I have managed to secure residency at a bare-bones facility that should give me enough elbow-room to turn around (barely) and properly work through the classifieds to find myself a decent place. It's dawned on me that if I wish to live in comfort, like a functional middle class westerner, I'm going to have to get a room in a shared flat; preferably a house with a garden and climate control. As much as I adore living alone, and as much as I think it would afford me fewer complications if I didn't have to lie to the people I share with about my lifestyle and profession, I don't want to have to buy cookware, and the cost of a decent furnished apartment is a little beyond my ken. There are other things I'd like to be spending the money on: bring on the six hundred thread count sheets.

The advantage of being on an opposite schedule from the professional set is that I won't have to see the flatmates too much if I can suss out a living arrangement with say, a bunch of bankers, or quorum of accountants. Additionally, if I can find people unimaginative enough, it won't ever occur to them that they're living with a genuine whore.

As for discerning which way is north, the character of the distinct neighborhoods, and where I'm going to buy wine and unpasturized cheese, the only real solution is to walk around and drink enormous bowls of coffee to stimulate the discovery process.

I'd better get going.

Addendum

2006-09-10T07:49:00.000Z

It should also be noted that Mr. Difficult yesterday didn't want me to suck him off. At all.

You just try and have sex with a man for an hour, when you don't have a boner and he won't let you perform fellatio. Just try.

Raise The Bar

2006-09-10T02:29:00.000Z

Only two clients in, back to business; the second, he could have been a deal breaker. He perhaps would have been if I hadn't had any previous experience. Let me be clear: there was nothing overtly repulsive about the man, but there was also nothing erotic. I've said it before: I get off on desire, and the atmosphere of Eros. This guy... I didn't have an inkling about where his head was, what he was thinking, and he was pretty tight lipped about what he wanted.

And, to be honest, I'm a little rusty. My bedroom ambassador skill-set needs a little brushing up -- I'm also a little nervous and shy after coming back from hiatus. I need to find my, um, rhythm again.

His touch was erratic. He kept moving my hands to different zones of his body with no warning, and without indication of approval or discomfort. He didn't kiss for any longer than a brief second, and when he did, it was tight lipped: a closed embouchure that tasted faintly of scotch. I usually like scotch. It felt like he was somehow resistant to me, but when I think about it now, it's more likely that I was just a prop for him; whatever was going on in his head only required me to be there visually. He had a good relationship with the mirror, the me in the mirror, just not with the me in the room.*

"What do you like?"

I told him twice, because he asked twice, but I don't think he was listening, because not much changed. I started to worry about how this was going. God, a bad review on my second day.... It's not like I wasn't trying. I looked helplessly at my semi-erect state. That, in itself, was a feat.

And then, he wanted me to fuck him. Grand. Simply grand.

That didn't go well. Although we tried. This... and that, but we definitely weren't meshing.

Alright, it's time to change tactics. "I want to see you hard," he kept murmuring. Fine. I started to ignore him, and keep his sporadic touch from interfering. I pushed him back on the bed with one hand, closed my eyes, and worked on it.

Worked on it, and made sure he didn't get in my way.

This, apparently, was the right thing. What he wanted was a bit of an asshole. Oh, right...

So, in the end, it came out fine. All over him in fact.

And I felt rather pleased with myself.

~ ~ ~

* He did, however, have that uncommon ability to cum without direct stimulation. No part of me was anywhere near his cock when he got-off. Twice.

Neat trick.

Landing

2006-09-07T06:32:00.000Z

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.

"World Peace"

2006-08-23T20:15:00.000Z

Whatever. I think I'd rather eat tacks.

I'm Not Plotting Anything, I Swear

2006-08-20T00:17:00.000Z

Aside from the fact that I’ve had to deal with the fallout from hookus-interruptus, my huffed issue with the pedantic, toddling maneuvers of my current lifestyle is the fact that I don’t have the time or energy left to read anything engrossing: after work and the gym (the gym, the gym, the gym: at this point, I look at it like money in the bank) I’m spent, and vocabulary-less. Text just swims like ancient hieroglyphs -- I can’t dredge up the effort to translate it; and this, I’m beginning to realize, is tantamount to a cardinal sin, because I feel guilty all the time.

When I was speaking with my mother the other day, and the conversation turned to how I felt about my life presently, what came out of my mouth was “I don’t have enough time for books”, in a kind of sad, depressive capitulation.

She looked at me with concern. “You’re really not one to get energy just from doing something for the sake of doing it, are you?”

I’m unsure of how to take that; or what it means about how she sees my character. Whatever she suspects about how I’ve made money to live in the past (I get the impression that she thinks I was a drug dealer for a time) she does like the idea of me aspiring to something in the field I work at now, and that I would be quite good at it. (I have no doubt I would be good at it, but fear that I may have to seek serious psychoactive medication to keep it up for the length of a career.) Mind you, she also doesn’t want me to peruse it here: she’d much rather I was doing it back home, even though she’s polite enough not to say. She at once was pleased and concerned to hear my dissatisfaction, and I was acutely aware through the affection of our visit that she worries. “Paychecks are nice,” she reminded me, at one point. I know that she can sense when I’m turning over an idea that I’m not prepared to share with her.

What she doesn’t know is that I keep staring at that XXX on the calendar, or what exactly I can exchange for reading time.

Fruit. Juicy Fruit.

2006-07-27T14:26:00.000Z

Some things just make me happy. Like artistic demonstrations that sum up every dirty-creative impulse in my brain. Like this.

Remiss;

2006-07-27T14:01:00.000Z

Remorseful, reproached, regretful; rueful, rebuked, reproved; rattled, rote-ridden; and I haven't even gotten to "S". Not properly.

To think, all those "R"'s, and not a ravished among them.

Now that I have a timetable, there's a terrible XXX marked on the calendar, right across the month of October. That's when I relocate. That's when I get my 'ho' back on.

It frees me up a bit mentally, now that I have a timetable for departure, and a plan of attack; I can give up on here, Business-wise, rather than just wasting in Doldrum Alley, wondering how so many people manage to manage their lives so minutely, and sequentially, for such long periods of time; without interlude or hope of escape. (I don't knock it though -- thank god for all the little people, making the wheels turn. Yes. Thank god.)

The freed mental state should also help with freeing the words that have been congregating -- but then dispersing at the first signs of authority; which (truly emblematic of Big Brother) seems to be blank oscillations of the computer screen.

Maybe it's time to purge some of the stories of being up to no good, before I got to where I am now. There's a big, elephantine vault of them somewhere in the back.

But will you respect me in the morning?

Inertia Creeps

2006-07-21T10:46:00.000Z

Probability moves.

I can't wait.

I Love Her

2006-07-05T09:32:00.000Z

If we take it as a given that most out gay men in western society have a special, teenaged squeal set aside for some designate diva in their heart, be it Madge, or Kylie; or for a younger princesses like Britney or Christina, I find myself a tad outside the norm. If I had to choose, it would probably be my dear Peepshow Queen, whom I love.

While I can respect the absolute vacuous superfluity of dear Miss Spears, so completely manufactured as to be almost anti-substance, a pop anti-matter, inasmuch as she represents the present apex of the dollar magnate (perhaps magnet?) masquerading as an artist, the giddy faggot in me can't help but adore the other girl who uses the three ring spectacle of the glossy industry to laugh at everyone.

Observe.

Quickie

2006-07-03T22:56:00.000Z

No sex. No drugs. Nor very much rock and roll to speak of, besides what comes out of the radio. Still trying to figure out what the next move is, still a little squandered in all areas.

Life'll get more interesting soon, I'm sure. It always does.

My Roving Eye

2006-06-18T05:11:00.000Z

While working in a regular job is nice and everything, and the crazy regimen I've been keeping at the gym has reduced my body fat percentage to something ridiculous, this inability to whore safely is starting to irk me something fierce. I don't imagine that I'll even want to do it much longer; it'd be better to make use of the motivation while it's still available. Making the decision to start in first place came out an intention for it fund my travel ambitions, and now I seem to be mired in a deadly dull routine, somewhere I don't find particularly inspiring, which is leaving me neither enough time or energy to peruse any of my other projects; this blog being one of them.

I also don't like being poor. What happened to going out to restaurants? I love eating at restaurants.

So let's make a list, shall we? Nations and their legal positions on prostitution. Where should an increasingly buff Note be off to next?

Opinions are welcome but may be disregarded.

Australia: Legal, with some restrictions on streetwalking. Possible. Not streetwalking, mind.

Canada: Legal, with restrictions on incalls and streetwalking. That's fine. I don't like incalls, and I don't like walking on the street. Cabs were invented for a reason.

Israel: Tel Aviv specifically. Um... after weighing the pros and cons, I don't think I care whether prostitution is legal or not.

France: Oh, the French. I can speak French, barely. I don't know if it would be enough, given that no French law has ever been produced to be anything but deliberately obtuse. That said, sex for money is apparently legal.

Germany: Legal, but I have no ability with the German.

New Zealand: The most comprehensive legalization of sex work I've been able to track down, with legal recourse mapped out and everything; but more people live in London alone than reside in the entire country.

Spain: Unless I can live in the Guggenheim Bilbao, I don't care.

U.K.: Although you can legally be venting every orifice in public due to alcohol toxicity, you can't peddle your ass. Interesting, no? Not surprising, but interesting. More reserved forms of prostitution are fine. I like the U.K. well enough.

United States: You've got to be kidding.

Not Greece, because I don't like Greek men. Not Eastern Europe, because I only want to hang out there and drink. In Brazil I wouldn't stand a chance. In Russia I might end up dead, either that, or the mistress of an overly affectionate, middle-aged crime tsar; and who needs an overly affectionate partner?

Suddenly the world doesn't seem so big of a place.

I Do Feel A Little Stiff

2006-06-18T03:23:00.000Z

Opened my eyes and saw a grey chest hair.

Hunh. What did I get up to last night? Let's see... wine. More wine. Drinks with a friend up the street, then dancing. Oh, dancing. Oh, dear.

I'm coming to the conclusion that if I don't have a nap after getting up early and working all day, before going out on the town, it ends badly. Which is to say, I end badly drunk. I don't weather exhaustion very well. Not when paired with the booze. I'm not sure if I ever did, but it's especially bad now that I don't drink as much or as often as I used to. I used to drink a whole bunch.

The grey hair was attached to a tight little torso, a taught stretch of abdomen, and only a little furry. I slid my hand down. Oh, and a nice ass. Nothing for it, then. Toss it up.

Sex in a morning shaft of sunlight. Life is good sometimes. I've been working on a concordance of kisses, a la Nicola Six; this morning I brought out The Wet One and The Hungry Gardener: both are aggressively slutty, which is what you want to start with when your already naked with a stranger, and you need his cock hard; fast. They worked just fine. I made him come with his head and shoulders hanging off the bed, deep down my throat, with two fingers up his lubed, slippery ass, his prostate hard as a stone.

"Wow," he said.

Then he made me breakfast.

This time, I didn't make the same mistake as the last time I went home with someone for recreation: no phone numbers were given. I'm still getting wiggy, stalker-y texts from the last one.

He was kind enough to drive me home. We were coming over the bridge, and I was looking at the water: "I can't believe your not hungover," he said.

"I don't really get hungover."
"What?"
"No. Not really."

That was the last thing we said to one another. I didn't really have anything else.

So, what else to accomplish today? Maybe this bottle of Pinot Noir has some ideas.

I Don't Take Tests, As A Rule

2006-06-18T02:14:00.000Z

But I just had to know.

You are best described as a:

Socialist

And here I thought I was an autocrat.

The Green Fairy and Her Party Pronouncements

2006-06-04T01:37:00.000Z

Since you all asked:

Flatemate and I set off to find the party, hopeful that the location would be both sumptuous and entertaining.

We should have also mentioned in our oblations to the gods "easy to find".

An hour after we got off the bus (don't ask -- it seemed a good idea at the time) we found the house... which ended up being full of middle-aged lesbians, and the guest of honour was too blissed out on ecstacy, rolling on the couch, to be remotely capable of entertaining us.

She was also the reason we came.

We did make the best a remote and desolate situation. We danced (artfully). We talked (animatedly). We stuck a pose (devastatingly). Then I got hoary on the green licorice drink and Flatemate had to get us both into a cab.

I miss home.

Unveil The Geek In PVC

2006-06-03T02:34:00.000Z

What I've had to contend with, on a fairly regular basis, is the examination of who I am, in relation to who I've been, and what, if anything, that discrepancy means.

For example, a number of years ago, while I was shaking a handful of dice, rolling up a character for Dungeons & Dragons, I had to ask myself, how do I see ME? I mean, was I actually this chaotic evil, grey elf illusionist? Were my choices of presentation determining my inherent quality as a person? Was I a team player or an anarchist? Did I want to relate to my fellows, or did I want to contribute to their demise? What was my sense of fashion? Was one eye differently coloured than the other? Did activity concerning role-playing games factor into my long-term life goals at all?

Alright. I give up.

To be honeset, I wasn't rolling up a character in that instance I was describing. Those were questions plaguing my peers. I was more in control.

I was the Dungeon Master.

And Apologies

2006-06-02T01:59:00.000Z

I've been trying to adjust myself to my new schedule faster than has probably been wise. I've been falling asleep at the keyboard when I get home, instead of typing out anything remotely readable. Once I get over this melting-the-wax-phallus-at-both-ends thing, more will be forthcoming.

And incoming, I expect.

Alright. Sex.

2006-06-01T13:49:00.000Z

I’ve had a lot of it. Not much of that has been with the same partner, but I did have a boyfriend once. Well, more than once; but one time it was love; and I had a lot of sex with him specifically.

Breaking up was (I am unafraid to say it now, even though I was afraid at the time) the hardest thing I have ever done: the meanest decision; because what’s left after you’ve done away with love? What happens when you’ve been choosy, and careful, and still, there, in the fucking muck, is love? Bleeding….

I drank, of course. In (and out of) the relationship; but after with a particularly extravagant flourish. Who remembers going home in a taxi? Why should you? Taxis (I’ll attest from my sober moments) are boring. As long as you can still press a crumpled bill into the poor immigrant’s hand, you’re in the clear. Home free.

Is this my house?

Point being, the breakup was not all that great; and sex, after being sex combined with love, was unbearably desolate without. Alcohol was a fine surrogate for emotional and physical intensity.

That was, until I discovered that you can have it in a group.

When I started go-go dancing, it was to satisfy curiosity first, and pay the bills second; and besides basic hypotheses about my character, I needed to know whether the experience would inadvertently increase, or retard, my libido.

Where I was living at the time, promiscuous outdoor homosexual sex was relatively easy to find. I had, for the most part, abstained; but as I was coming home from work -- or what seemed to be work, seeing as I got paid for it: the gyrating; and the frottage; and the necking in the back rooms…

I was fit to be tied by the time I got on my bike to ferry myself home.

Add a few cocktails, and I predictably ended up, straddling my bike in the park-grounds at 4am, scanning the darkness:

One. Two…. Three, Four Five. All together, against a picnic table.

As it often occurs to me:

Why not?

And that was fun: a release, after the teasing; after being the tease, for hours.

I approached hesitantly. They were well involved. All of them; and I was unsure of the etiquette. Do you just insert yourself? Do you wait patiently for an invitation?

A little from column A, and a little from column B, it turns out. In no short time at all, I had my tongue down one man’s throat, while my cock was out and being sucked by another, and hands… hands were everywhere, with mouths. The one I was so deeply making out with brought my right paw around his back to his ass, so I could feel the Fifth fucking him, right at the join.

(The Fifth, interestingly enough, was the only one that seemed a little less than interested in my arrival.)

This, I thought, was the way to spend an hour before going home. Yes, Group Sex. The answer to the highly driven, yet emotionally unavailable, young gay male. Thank god we share that libido. Thank god it’s (mostly) only jealous when we’re not getting off. We’re more giving when we’re horny, and if your disguised in a crowd afterwards, so much the better.

That night was a good one, and prompted me to stop fairly regularly after I was “dancing”. (I’m an expert now at inducing the group sex dynamic in a public space – so long as it’s dark… and certainly not past dawn.) The thing that makes such activity so palatable, especially after a break-up, after love dies, is that it has nothing to do with that heart wrenching emotion – three people are not replacing one, and one can never hope to accomplish what you can get by being the centre of naked attention, braced backwards over a picnic table, staring up at the stars still seen between tree branches and the urban pollution of light. That’s just fun. That’s just recreation.

That’s just sex.

It’s the conversations you have to avoid, have to scuttle before they make their appearance when you bring someone home, or have to excuse yourself from someone else’s.

I’m not looking for…

Thanks for a wonderful time…

I don’t think this is right for….

I've have had enough of apologizing, and winging, and making amends. I’ve also had enough of parrying the emotional destitutions of others. When I catch my breath again, I’ll fall in love. It’s inevitable. As for now, I intend to travel, and play, and do myself proud; and make the money that allows me to keep some distance, even as I orgasm.

Especially as I orgasam.

Seeking the Green Fairy

2006-05-27T05:53:00.000Z

Well, kids, I've got the night off: no business, no appointments; nothing pending, nothing earned.

I also have a bottle and a party to go to.

Is this a recipe for disaster?

I don't rightly know, but on the back of the bottle it says Artemisia absinthium, and it's 72.5% alcohol.

That's right: me and the poets, old school.

"I'll Be Joining That Guy"

2006-05-24T08:58:00.000Z

For me, the assertion: "I want to take you to dinner," is usually delivered in a breathless, and sometimes sweaty, moment. My response is always a smile.

I do love a good gastronomist; apatites being better indulged then fended off.

And I happen to be good dinner date. Professionally, I mean (casually too, I suppose; but dining-for-pay is so much more fun); though I’d rather go to McDonalds by myself than be forced to sit through a tasting menu at Truffles with some boorish, new-money twat, so, if it's up to me, I only accept if I know there’ll be a measure of good conversation.

I also enjoy being the surprise. A lot of men automatically assume: a) that I'm stupid; and b) that I somehow fell into sex work because I have no other knowledge or skill. Getting "invited" to dinner lets me cannonball both of these preconceptions out of the water, in an entertaining and endearing sort of way, rather than a challenging one. I generally choose the restaurant, as well as the wine -- no one’s going to be having me drink a Pinot with my steak, thank you.

Plus, my skills at drawing people out have been improving. My dinner flirting is (I hope) desirable and engaging, and as I’m genuinely interested in other people, getting him to talk about himself is not necessarily a torturous experience; although, monologues have gone awry and seriously tried my goodwill.

When I was a young, nubile buss-boy at a fairly upscale metropolitan restaurant, there was a tall, gorgeously muscled red-head, who dined frequently with companions. His multiplicity of older urbane gentlemen were always quite polished, and he himself was probably one of everyone's favourite regulars: he was affable, and charming, and lovely. He was also the subject of a great deal of gossip. Which is something of an honour, when you consider that restaurant service staff are really more interested in gossiping about themselves than any two-dimensional patron. (The dirt really is all in the kitchen, let me assure you.) I watched him during lunch one day, and it recently occurred to me, that it was a moment delineated and filed for later reference. There was an attraction for me there: I wanted something of it. It wasn’t the redhead, and it wasn’t the older man; it was situational. It was the dynamic.

Curiosity and wonder; they’re a potent mix. Evidently, in me it can take a while for the combination to bring up much of a driving force, but when it happens watch me go.

Ah, subconscious goals and their fruits.

Needs Working Out

2006-05-23T18:49:00.000Z

Hey, look!

A "respectable" paycheck, with tax taken off and everything....

Fuck me.

Why do I feel so cheap?

Oh, Pheromones; What Mischef You Sow

2006-05-22T22:32:00.000Z

Boys smell good, don’t they? Especially when they’re hot and bothered; especially when they’ve been running around in the sun.

A cute courier boy (CCB, if you will) came into my place of employ at the Interim Position: tall, unkempt and a little rank. He reached across me to grab the parcel, and suddenly nothing fit anymore: my skin tightened. Then he flashed me a smile, and jumped off, out the door.

I felt I should sit down and put a book in my lap.

For someone who thinks about sex an awful lot, I can get perplexingly broadsided by random desire. Maybe it has something to do with subject: my libido is oft ordained to be driven by situation, not individual; and to be honest, since entering into sex work, I’ve been become astonishingly picky about what I find attractive… well, at least in comparison to what I was before. I don’t expect to get breathless much anymore.

What a pleasant surprise when it happens.