Category Archives: blog

I miss being an escort

I miss being an escort. I miss the freedom to be my own boss, to work the hours and days I want, to have control over my own life. Yes, a lot of the time it wasn’t the best job, but at least I could have the freedom a spirit like mine needed.

I’m sitting around so much stuff as I write this. I have a good job, I own more things than I ever have the past 5 years of traveling combined. I have security and don’t drink nearly half as much as I did before. I’ve been going to the gym, I quit smoking, I have a savings account that’s admittedly still not the greatest but it’s better than anything I had when I was travelling.

Yet, I am unequivocally and irrevocably depressed.

I would trade everything I have right now to be back in that little brothel in Australia, surround by friends that would soon become people I used to know. A life wilder, a life untamed, an adventure left untapped. A time when I was free, where I could be free to live my highest highs and lowest lows.

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SotC: Script Ideas by (ERROR)

This is a piece that’s not written by me, but copied word for word by someone I know. It was titled “Script Ideas” and found in his house nearly 4 years ago. I’ve never shared or shown it to anyone as it took me a long time to process the words. The first part is an awkward read because it starts off with a rudimentary script outline (which I tried my best to format in the same way he did), but ends off as something else entirely. Take it as you may, but the words are quite shocking. Everything that I couldn’t read in his handwriting are marked as (UNINTELLIGIBLE).

 

Knowledge that might be of value: The Wall was a place in Sydney where underage sex workers would go for work. Quite literally, it’s a wall in the suburb of Darlinghurst. Another thing that’s helpful to know is that Kings Cross (The Cross) is a suburb in Sydney know as a good place to party and to pick up escorts and find drugs.

 

It took nearly 4 years of mental back and forth to decide to transcribe his words to electronic form and share them. I won’t confirm how autobiographical his words are. At best, take everything that’s written with a pinch of salt.  

 

SCRIPT IDEAS

 

  1. The Downward Spiral

 

Intersplice credits on black background with splices of an explicit sex scene. An overweight middle-aged lebanese man (not pretty) is fucking someone, but we can’t see who it is, just quick flashes of their skin. The sex gets harder, more intense (he’s fucking the daylights out of this person) and then he comes.

 

  • CUT TO FINAL DIRECTOR CREDIT
  • CUT TO MAN, IN A BATHROBE, VERY GUARDED “You can’t stay here. My wife will be home soon. You’ll be able to get a cab around the corner.” CUT TO Dan, 14, looking tired, not showered, being polite.

 

DAN “Well I’ll just get that money & I’ll get out of your hair.

Man gets his wallet. “It was 50, right?”

 

DAN “Ah, no, it was $100.”

 

MAN “You said 50.”

 

DAN “No I told you 100 in the car. It was 50 for a headjob, a fuck is 100.”

 

MAN “Well I’ve only got 50,” he offers it to DAN, who’s looking uncomfortable, “You want it or not?” DAN takes the $50. “Now get the fuck out of my house.” Opens the front door, DAN doesn’t leave. “Fuck off before I beat the shit out of you, you little fuck. Fuck off!”

 

DAN leaves.

 

  1. English Class

 

Pan through quiet classroom, people taking notes from text on the blackboard. Zoom on DAN looking at the book on his desk, he’s in another world.

 

School A 13 y/o – A grade student, represents school at events and performances. Is coming to terms with his homosexuality. Is quite innocent, and looking for acceptance. Has lots of friends at school, none of them close. Except for Brad, who he’s in love with. Living at refuge. At school, trying hard. Talks about problems with mum (but very innocent, doesn’t know why) & how he’s going to go live with his Dad up north, but he has to wait till Dad organises everything. Period at refuge ends (3 month rule) and goes back to mum & step dad & little brother. Things are (UNINTELLIGIBLE), but cold & empty. Mum drinks a lot & takes it out on Dan. Comes in to his bedroom one night, drunk, and tells him he’s destroying the family and to get out. Lets him take a sports bag of belongings. He leaves, goes to local shopping centre (closed) & sleeps in a clothing bin.

 

Goes to school next day, keeps quiet. This goes on for a few weeks him in clothing bin, showering at school in the mornings. Grades drop dramatically. He calls his Dad after school, he’s gone on a fishing trip, won’t be back for a month. It’s his girlfriend. At the end of the conversation, she wishes him a happy birthday (14). He goes to clothing bin, cries, decides to go to Sydney. Gets lost all over town for hours, finally finds Kings Cross, walks around flabbergasted. Sees a gay couple holding hands, is transfixed, follows them through streets. Ends up lost again. A cute 40’s guy approaches Dan, offers him a place to stay. They have sex, gives him $200, he stays the night and goes to school the next day with a pep in his step. A week goes by, grades & behaviour get worse. He goes back to the Cross, stumbles upon the wall but doesn’t know what it is. One of the boys talk to him, explains, and tells him the ground rules. Dan starts working.

 

Months go by. School by day, the wall by night. Attendance starts to drop, money starts to come in. All the boys do heavy drugs but Dan won’t. He watches them shoot up though. He meets Darren, a heavy junkie (very cute though) & he falls instantly for him (puppy love). A few nights later a mug takes Dan to a house where 5 guys are waiting. They gang rape him without condoms, beat him up & dump him.

 

He tells Darren, who dumps him. Dan goes to a dealer and asks him to shoot up (Heroin). It wasn’t a pleasant experience. In the morning he goes to (UNINTELLIGIBLE) for an AIDS test (has to wait 3 months), and asks the doctor to teach him how to shoot up, so he’ll be safe if he does it. Reluctantly he does.

 

Dan lasts about 3 more weeks at school. He gets angry & cold & aggressive, full of hatred. But he feels happy on the wall on drugs. He moves to the Cross, gets fucked twice a week by the landlord for rent. Becomes more and more empty inside, covers it with drugs.

 

He’s making a fortune – all going up his arm. Becomes a full blown junkie, lives for the next hit. Does anything for cash. Is paid $400 to be the “slot machine” at a party for 20 men all over 40.

 

A year goes by. There is no trace of the boy we first met. He thinks about suicide all the time. He calls his mum, for the first time, tells her he’s gay. He fixes a hit (with intent to overdose) and shoots up.

 

THE END.

A Cunt Named Troy: How I Didn’t Have A Low Self Esteem That One Time

People who know me know that I have the self-esteem of a wet mop. A bipolar wet mop. A bipolar wet mop with the fashion sense of a schizophrenic lamp. On rare occasions I am empowered and strut the streets like a sexy goddess, but most of the time I feel like I could be described with words such as frog, praying mantis, potato, and greasy McDonald’s takeaway bag. I reflect all of my life’s negativities inwards and it makes me very vile to myself. It’s something I am working on, but that’s not the story I wanted to tell. This is a story about a time I felt like a frog but came out strutting like a goddess.

Oh yeah, and fuck you Troy.

If you’ve never read any of my other blog posts or don’t know me, I’ll give you a quick recap that will give you mega wtf whiplash. Ready? Ok – I used to be a meth-addicted prostitute living in Sydney, Australia. Cool – now go see a physiotherapist for your neck and lets move on.

One of the managers of the brothel was named Troy. I wanted to give him an ugly fake name because he’s pretty good looking and well liked but I was too lazy. So yes, Troy is his real name. He’s totally bald, so at least he’s a failure at something.

Troy seemed to have this weird thing against me. I thought he was a pretty cool guy and I tried to get to know him like I did the other managers, but he seemed to have this chip on his shoulder towards me and some of the other boys. The last time I ever talked to him he really fucked me over so my overall dislike for him doesn’t actually come from this story.

There was about six of us boys in the brothel that night. A few of the boys were very good-looking and fairly popular with clients. I could hold my own against them – I was also popular with the clients – so they weren’t competition for me. It was a quiet shift, not a single client had come by. We were lounging about the Boy’s Room watching tv and playing games on our phones, periodically making small talk amongst ourselves.

When the client bell announced the arrival of an unknown person we all sat up. Someone moaned, “FINALLY!” We could hear the muffled sound in the hallway of Troy opening the front door to let the client inside and the quiet shuffle to the office, where the client would be asked what he was looking for.

There was two ways the client would choose the boy he wanted: The first was that the client would look through photos of us in the office and select boys to interview based on the photos and bio alone. The second was that the client would request to see all of us for an interview. The interviews would be done one by one until the client had seen all of the boys he wanted to see and then he would decide which boy he would spend time with.

Troy opened the door to the Boy’s Room and announced that the client wanted to see everyone for an interview. But then he turned to me and said, “Except you, Cody. There’s no point in going in there, he won’t choose you.”

I was a bit baffled because no one had ever been asked to hang back when a client asked to see all the boys for an interview.

The first boy that went in – a muscular Irish guy – came back and said to Troy, who was standing at the door of the Boy’s Room, “Holy shit! The client is so hot!”

Troy gave him a smirk and said, “I know.”

One by one the boy’s went in for their interview with the client, and one by one they all came back and exclaimed about how hot he was. I felt dejected and disappointed – it was obvious that Troy thought I wasn’t good looking enough for the client. I was also very embarrassed because it was apparent to everyone else as well. In a normal case the manager should’ve just let everyone go in to the interview, regardless if the manager thought the boy would be chosen or not. It was the polite way. Troy purposfully chose to make me look like a fool, and to this day I still have no idea why. Maybe he was mad because I had a full set of luscious hair.

The boy’s all finished their interviews and were giggling like girls about how exciting it would be if they got chosen. Troy left the Boy’s Room and went back to the office to see who the client would pick.

I sat alone in the back corner.

Troy was taking longer than usual to come back to tell us who was chosen. The boy’s started joking that Troy was snogging the client himself and they started laughing hysterically. I thought about going out to the yard to have a cigarette when Troy finally came back into the room.

Troy said, “Cody, can you go see the client in the office.”

“I thought there was no point.” I stated.

“Well he didn’t want any of the other boys. I told him that you’re probably not his type but he still wants to see you. Go, quickly.”

I got up and moved towards the office, resisting the urge to glare at Troy as I walked past him out of the Boy’s Room.

Opening the door to the office was like being hit with a nuclear bomb. The being that sat on the couch could not be human. He was muscular like a bodybuilder, had a jawline like an icepick, had a voice like melted caramel, and was over six feet tall – everything that would make a basic bitch swoon. He was hot as fuck. I sat next to him and told him my info and we had a quick conversation. He rested his hand on my thigh at one point and I blacked out for a few seconds. When I came to I said something corny like “Maybe I’ll see you later” before I went back into the Boy’s Room.

Troy proceeded back into the office once again. He wasn’t even gone for more than 30 seconds before he came back, red with embarrassment and envy, and announced, “Cody, I don’t know why, but he wants you.”

Confetti fell from the ceiling. A chorus of angels materialised and a red carpet unrolled away from me towards the door of the boy’s room. People stood up and applauded. Troy took his real form and reanimated as a snake. I signed a cheque of a million dollars and I cut a red ribbon with a pair of scissors as big as a pair of scissors that are really big.

I strutted so hard past the other boys that when my feet fell they cracked the floor. I basically hair flipped as I past Troy, smirking as I said, “I guess you should’ve let me go in the first place.”

Exiting the Boy’s Room I was flashed with the bulbs of a million paparazzi cameras. I opened the door to the office, and with the dramatic swing of the door I entered with a wink and said, “You called?”

 

 

 

 

 

Pigeons

The old lady came to the park every day to feed the pigeons. She would bring whatever leftover bread she had in her possession, she’d sit on the same bench, and she would slowly reach into the bread bag and toss small crumbs onto the ground. She’d move through the tossing motions methodically while facing the morning sun, the rays of sunlight illuminating her weathered face. The whirlwind of pigeons that surround her swirled and ran and flew as if they were one organism. She was a conductor under the spotlight leading her own orchestra.

Park services were unhappy. There were signs in the park that specifically said Do Not Feed The Birds. They warned her many times before that her actions were frowned upon. They complained to her that – by feeding the pigeons – it made their work harder as they had to spend extra time scrubbing pigeon shit off the bench and surrounding sidewalk. Despite the warnings, the lady came every day. The park service employees and volunteers felt that they could not take any action against the old lady because of her frailty and age, so they begrudgingly spent extra time scrubbing the sidewalk and bench at the end of almost every day.

One day a female park worker was near the bench in late morning when the old lady came in her purple overcoat and ugly floral dress. The lady sat on the bench and slowly opened her bread bag and within seconds she was surrounded by many pigeons. The worker had been picking up garbage in the grass but decided to take it upon herself to confront the old woman.

The worker said, “You know you can’t do that.”

The old lady slowly looked up at her with a frail voice and said, “I know damn well I can’t.”

The attendant crossed her arms, “Then why are you doing it?”

The old lady replied, “Because the pigeons are reliable.”

Confused, the attendant asked, “What do you mean?”

The lady slowly responded with, “It means that these damn pigeons are the only thing I can be sure of. They are here every day. They always show up.”

“Well, can’t you rely on the pigeons somewhere else?”

The old lady suddenly became cross, “Only if you carry me there, dumb ass. You think this old body of mine could walk far enough to go somewhere else? I live just over there.” The old lady pointed indistinctly to the left of her.

“It’s been very annoying having to clean up all the bird…” the worker caught herself from cussing, “… poop.”

“I’m sorry you have to put in the extra time,” the old lady was frustrated, having had this argument with many other park workers in the past, “but this is the highlight of my whole day, so if you don’t mind leaving me alone that would be great.”

“Well I hope you understand that you just waste our valuable time when we have to clean up the mess you make here.” The attendant snapped back, unable to control herself.

“As sure as I am that the pigeons will return here every day, you can be sure to clean up after them.” The old lady hissed.

The park employee retorted, “As sure as I am that the pigeons will come when you’re here, they won’t return when you’re gone.”

The old woman looked up at the attendant with a pained expression. The expression slowly turned to anger, and then it softened, and with great purpose she said, “I am sure that you are wrong.” Then she turned away from the attendant and continued her slow, repeating rhythm of tossing the bread onto the ground.

Weeks passed before the female park worker and the old lady saw each other again.

The female worker was passing by the old lady on the bench when the old lady hissed, “You missed a spot.” She motioned towards all the pieces of shit on the ground.

The attendant stopped and looked at her with great malice and said, “One day soon there will be no spots to miss.”

The old lady pondered carefully what to say next, and with great conviction she said, “Only the selfish say that the value of life is ease.”

The worker retorted, “Only the selfish make things harder for others.”

The old lady laughed, “Well then, honey, you’ve never been in love.” She looked back towards the pigeons and tossed them more bread.

The park worker turned and walked away, silently mumbling a curse under her breath.

It was over six months later before they spoke to each other again. The female worker tried to pass the old lady without her noticing, but the old lady looked up at her with surprise and said, “You’re pregnant.”

The worker stopped, straightened up and rubbed her protruding stomach, “I am pregnant, yes.” She said with no tone of friendliness towards the old lady.

“Not that I care too much,” the old lady stated, “but congratulations. Obviously I was mistaken when I said you’ve never been in love.”

The female worker looked down, “No, this wasn’t from love.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The old lady bowed her head.

The two women were silent while the pigeons stirred at their feet and flew around their heads. The worker watched the pigeons look at the old lady in anticipation as the old lady tossed another handful of crumbs onto the ground. The pigeons went wild, scrambling to be the first to gobble up the broken bread. In that moment the pigeons seemed ferocious.

The worker looked back up at the old lady and asked, “Do you have kids?”

The old lady tossed another handful of bread on the ground before answering, “Yes. I had two.”

The worker leaned closer to the lady, “Is it easy?” She asked, “Raising children, I mean.”

The old lady smiled, “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

The park employee was stuck in thought before asking, “Do they visit you often?”

The old lady stiffened and tossed another handful of bread. Her voice was strained, “Just leave me be, please. I like being undisturbed when I feed the birds. Good luck with your child. Bye now.”

A couple months passed and the female worker’s stomach grew larger. She worked in the park until the final days of her pregnancy, and then she gave birth to a little baby girl. She couldn’t afford to take much time off work so two short weeks after giving birth she returned to the park, leaving the baby in her sister’s care during the day.

“Good news,” a male coworker said on her first day back, “The old lady hasn’t been in the park for two days. The first time in years!”

“Oh really?” The female questioned, “That’s very strange.”

“Maybe the old crone finally croaked.” The male laughed.

There was palpable silence.

The female asked, “Do the pigeons still come around?”

The male replied —

The End.

An Overdose

Some know basic details, few know the full story. It’s hard to explain what happened to me on that night. There are two perspectives of the story: One from my point of view and one from my friend Cheryl. Cheryl’s perspective paints the fuller picture but for personal reasons I am not going to write from her perspective because I find it too disturbing. So, as confusing as telling the story from my perspective will be, you’ll be able to enjoy the confusion I felt as it was happening.

I had relapsed back into my addiction with crystal meth, though it’s hard to say whether that played a part in my overdose or not. See, I technically didn’t overdose on crystal meth. It was on a drug that used to be legal in Australia two years ago, a drug that is still legal in Canada:

Synthetic weed.

Cheryl and I had just arrived to her house after watching a concert. I had a couple glasses of wine at the concert and I was keen to get stoned. She grabbed the bong and told me where to find the marijuana – it was in the coffee table drawer. The drawer was filled with all kinds of things; papers for rolling, lighters, small trinkets. In the back of the drawer I found a little bag of what I presumed to be weed. I brought the baggie to my nose and inhaled; it had an odd, chemical-like smell. I didn’t think much of it.

We went out onto her balcony and I sat on a chair opposite Cheryl. I packed a bowl for myself, sparked the lighter, and finished the cone in one giant hit. It tasted like bleach and I thought of how weird that was. It was hardly a few seconds before I felt something was wrong. I remember saying to my friend, “This is really strong.” She chuckled. But right after I said it I thought, this isn’t strong, this is really bad. Something is really wrong. I tried to scream for help but nothing came out of my mouth, instead Cheryl slowly blurred out of my vision. Everything went black.

The next part is hard to describe and I can hardly understand what happened myself, but after everything went black I still knew what was going on. I couldn’t feel anything, see anything, smell anything – all my senses were switched off and I was all alone in my own head. I seemed to be in my head for a while, wondering why everything went black, wondering why I was unable to feel anything. Was I dead?

Suddenly a flash – my vision was blindingly white. I could hear a familiar voice say, “He’s going to throw up.” I felt like I was spinning around in a dryer. Something was rammed down my throat and my whole body wretched. Everything went black again.

After an unspecified time of total darkness a white speck appeared in my vision. It was so tiny I hardly noticed it at first. The appearance of the speck was accompanied by a high pitched sound that sounded like the dial tone of a telephone, just at a higher frequency. The dot started moving in slow spirals. The movement of the dot caused the noise to grow louder. The dot started moving faster and faster and the noise began to get louder and louder. It was hell. I was sure of it. I was in hell. The noise became so loud I couldn’t even bare it anymore. It was splitting my mind apart. I was being ripped to shreds because of it.

I thought it couldn’t get any worse until a second dot appeared, this time accompanied by another high pitched wail. The old speck started to vanish but the noise it made remained at the splintering frequency. This new dot started spinning like the first, it’s noise also getting louder. Now I heard two different frequencies that were so unbearable I wanted to die. I actually was wishing for death. I’m not being dramatic or overreacting, the sensation was so powerful that I was hoping it was the prelude to death. I only wished for silence.

The sequence repeated with a third dot. And with a fourth. And with a fifth, and a sixth, a seventh, an eighth, ninth, tenth, twentieth, fiftieth… it seemed never ending. I was lost in eternity with a hundred different frequencies that looped over themselves.

But then there was silence. There was darkness. I was relieved. Maybe now I was dead.

The first sense to come back to me was my hearing. I heard a bunch of voices, one of whom seemed to be yelling at me but the words were muffled.

Next I was able to feel. I couldn’t move my arms. What the fuck is wrong with my arms?

I was underwater. I’m drowning, I’m fucking drowning. Air wasn’t passing through my oesophagus.

What is that fucking noise?

It sounded robotic.

Suddenly, I could see light. It was so white.

Someone was still yelling but the words didn’t make sense to me. I thought I heard a female voice yell, “Breathe Cody! Keep breathing!”

How can I breathe when I’m underwater?

I tried to move my arms again but I was still unable to move them. I felt claustrophobic and started to move my body around violently.

“Stay still, Cody!” The voice said, “And remember to breathe…. BREATHE!”

I was holding my breath. The voice got closer but I could only see white light. The voice said, “Cody, I know it feels weird, but you need to breathe. You have a breathing apparatus on which is why it feels weird.”

Something was ripped from my face and I could suddenly see blurry figures. A woman was bent over close to my face and she said, “Hey Cody, did you hear me? You have a breathing apparatus on and I need you to breathe. You need to inflate your lungs and deflate them. It’s weird because you can’t feel the air but I assure you everything is fine.”

My head hurt so much and her words took a long time to make sense. I stopped holding my breath and I could feel my lungs expand even though air wasn’t passing through my mouth.

I realised then that my mouth felt like it was pried open. I could feel something down my throat.

The blurry figures were slowly coming into focus. I tired to lift my head but the woman said firmly, “Don’t move your head.”

I tried to yell at her but something was pressing my tongue to the floor of my mouth.

I finally understood why I couldn’t move my arms; they were tied up. I started to panic again and began to pull at my restraints. Tears rolled down my cheeks. The woman said to me, “Cody, don’t pull at the ties. We had to restrain you because you kept ripping out your IV’s during your seizures.”

My seizures? What seizures?

The woman continued, “I’m gonna untie you now though, but please don’t move around. Can you do that for me?”

I obviously couldn’t answer her but I stopped struggling.

“Ok I’m going to untie you now.”

As soon as my one hand was free I brought it up to my face, ignoring what the woman said. A large apparatus protruded from my mouth, it felt plastic. The woman grabbed my hand and said, “We will remove the breathing apparatus soon, but please keep your arms by your side.” I put my arm back down. My vision was coming into focus and I could see that she was in a nurse uniform. The nurse untied my other hand. There were two other people standing around me as well: one looked like a man and the other was definitely a woman.

“Cody, we will remove your breathing apparatus now. We just need you to hold still please.”

Someone unclipped something close to my face. I felt a pressure being relieved around my mouth.

“Ok, we are going to remove the tube now. It’s going to feel really uncomfortable so please don’t struggle. Ok, removing it now.”

I could feel something rip up from inside my body right out of my throat. It scratched as it rose and made me unable to breathe for a second. I coughed as air passed through my mouth for the first time. I was catching my breath and trying to speak, my voice was weak and hoarse, but I managed to say, “Where am I?”

The one nurse got close to my face and said, “You’re in the hospital. You had some seizures and are coming out of a medically induced coma.”

I was too fuzzy to even try to make sense of what she was saying. I lifted my head slowly and saw three IV’s coming out of my left arm, two coming out of my right.

I noticed I had two hoses going up my nose as well and I realised there was something snaking up my leg and right to my… FUCK! I thought, NO NO NO NO! It was a catheter.

I slowly drifted from being fuzzy to slightly less fuzzy. I was exhausted. I wondered where my friend Cheryl was. The nurses were trying to get my medical insurance details from me but I was hardly in the mood for formalities and didn’t know where my insurance card was.

The nurse handed me a phone, it was Cheryl on the line. She said, “I’m so sorry, Cody. I had to go to work and I thought that Shane” – another friend of mine – “would be there when you woke up. I’m so sorry.” She offered to go to my house after her work and look for my insurance card. I understood why Cheryl was unable to stay, she had a very prestigious job. She’s an amazing friend for keeping me well until the ambulance arrived when I first started having the seizures. I love her to bits.

Shane arrived not long after the phone call and sat with me all day. He’s the greatest friend I could ask for.

Aldo brought me flowers and came to see me even though he was hungover. He’s so special to me it’s insane.

My friend Kathleen brought me underwear (I woke up naked and in a diaper for gods sake! They had to cut all the clothes off me in the ambulance.) She’s like my fairy godmother.

I was visited by another friend and he brought me some soul food… McDonalds. It was awesome. There was a couple other’s as well who came and I am so happy they did.

The doctor came when all my friends were by my side and officially explained what had happened. He said I had about sixteen seizures in a row and was placed into a medically induced coma to stop them. When I arrived to the hospital in the ambulance I had stopped breathing and was a code red (I can’t remember what the code was actually called but lets just say it was ‘red’), which meant that all the doctors in ICU had to stop what they were doing immediately and come help me. All up I had eight doctors trying to save my life. I thank them for their work.

When I heard the story from Cheryl’s perspective I was deeply disturbed. What happened during my seizures is something I never would want to witness myself and I am deeply thankful to Cheryl for keeping her composure.

I am thankful every day for the friends who came to see me after I woke out of the coma. They’ve always been like family to me and I keep them close to my heart always.

I am now predisposed to have seizures. Because I am more susceptible I have a blacklist of things I’m not allowed to do to my brain; including taking crystal meth. So in a way, my overdose on synthetics saved my life. I’ve been free from crystal meth for a year and a half now.

The first day I was discharged from hospital I was with Cheryl and we went to this market that was outside in the parking lot. In the market I saw two earrings: A bird and an elephant. I bought them and wore them for a year and a half. I thought of them as my ‘healing earrings’. This weekend I took them out for the first time and replaced them with two new earrings: A peace symbol and a diamond.

May I never overdose again.

The Sickness 

I’m laying in bed with the man that I really like. We’re in Sydney, and to be brash we just had sex. We aren’t cuddling but he’s laying next to me and the sides of our arms are touching as we both lay on our backs. He’s asleep – or at least I think he is because his eyes are closed and his breathing is heavy. His barrel chest slowly moves up and down. I like the sound of him breathing, it’s deep and powerful. It makes me feel safe. 

The power of infatuation is the spell I’m under. In this time of my life I need a protector, someone I can confide in. Someone who likes me despite the lifestyle I have warped myself in. 

Sex for me doesn’t come easy. It’s not because I’m bad at it, it’s because it comes with baggage. Being a prostitute skews my view of sex and it’s hard to detach work from life. Some nights I spend with him are easy – my problems slide from view and I just live in the moment. Other nights his touch feels unfamiliar. His face unreachable. A haze hangs over our encounter and it’s like I’m watching us lay in bed from a distance. I forget who I am and it’s hard for me not to get and up and run away. 

He doesn’t know this double side of me. I’ve mentioned to him that sometimes it’s hard to seperate work from personal life but I don’t feel like he understands the depth of it. 

I can feel a layer of sweat build between our arms that are touching. It feels really hot in this room. I can feel the heat radiating off of him and it’s starting to give me anxiety. He rolls over facing me and puts his arm around me. I know he’s asleep for sure now because his eyes are still closed and I can hear a very subtle snore. 

His arm feels like a vice. It’s just resting on top of my chest but I feel like it weighs a thousand pounds. The panic and anxiety start to overcome me. I feel him vanishing in the distance and my head clouds with memories I have tried many nights to drink away. 

His arm isn’t a vice anymore, it’s a grater. I feel like the tiny movements of his arm across my chest as he breathes are slowly taking away my skin. I can feel his breath on my neck and it makes me feel like I’m being burned. I want to run. I can’t handle this. I roll over so he stops touching me but he pulls me into a spooning position and I want to scream. My temples are pulsing from my fast heart beat and I try and control my breathing. I try and lay still as to not wake him up. 

I fucking hate this. 

I fucking hate myself. 

I’m a disgusting human being. 

I don’t deserve this. 

I lay awake until morning. His alarm goes off at 7am to remind him to get ready for work. He kisses me good morning and I feel sick. I try my best to make small talk but all I want to do is get out of there. 

I want to be alone. 
I’m sick in the brain. 
Help me. 

Help me. 

The Truth: A Reflection/New Beginnings

It’s hard not to dwell on the past. Moving forward consistently feels like one step forward, two steps back. I ended The Truth because reflecting on the past was draining. It takes every fiber in my body to put words on a page about things I have done. I would come out of writing a blog post exhausted both mentally and physically. Most blogs posts came with some cigarette breaks in between to calm my nerves, others I had to write drunk because sobriety wasn’t an option for reliving an experience.

I tried to compare my mental state with those that also worked with me at Knight Call. I would check up on their facebook pages, talk to them online, follow their journey. Some still work there. Others have left. Some had left for a bit and came back. Some have gone on to study in University, trying to do good things with their lives. Others are unperplexed; their lives moved on the second they walked away from the life. In monumental ways I’ve moved on as well. Less often now I have to take controlled breaths to try and relieve my anxiety. Less often I cry alone in my room.

Living on the straight-and-narrow is difficult. Some days I just wish I was able to make quick hard cash again. I’m constantly skirting the poverty line. My life feels so boring and empty. Not like being a prostitute was fulfilling but at least it came with a sense of intrigue and adventure. Most days I’m just going through the motions without feeling like I’m actually living.

I’ve looked up seeing a therapist, contemplating the idea often. But what would I even say to them? I feel like they’re not even capable of dealing with what I’ve been through.

It’s coming up to a year now where I officially left that life behind me. I remember the defining moment in my life when a client called me for the last time and I said to them, “No. I am not doing that anymore.” It was empowering. I even think I danced a little when I hung up the phone. Who knew such freedom came with a cost?

Something in my life that has suffered greatly (but also has to do with location) is my sex life. I think I’m scared of sex and of intimacy. If Channing-fucking-Tatum walked into my room naked right now I would probably turn him away. I keep telling people I’m happily single – and in a way I am – but the truth is I just want someone to take care of me. I feel selfish in the way where I want someone to come into my life to help me carry my burdens. I’m so tired of carrying them alone. I’m tired of being independent. I’m tired of relying on myself.

Life ‘round here.

 

Even though I’m not supposed to, I have been doing some recreational drugs. Not regularly, but I’ve taken MDMA and maybe have done some lines. The doctors said I wasn’t allowed to do any drugs, but they specifically said no hallucinogens so I’ve avoided those at least. I also like to get drunk, but i’m limiting myself to only going out once or twice per week (been sticking closer to once per week recently). It’s been good to allow myself some freedoms in the form of some controls.

I’ve also been doing drag every once in awhile. It’s hardly even worth mentioning because my drag is absolutely and hilariously horrid, but it’s been really fun focussing on something else. It’s also enabled me to keep that small part of me that was gay-boy-in-the-city. I miss that part of me so it’s been fun playing that role in such a small village.

 

I’m sure you’re all bored reading this now: my list of complaints.

But I will tell you this story:

 

Halloween: 2014.

I was dressed as Dr. Frank-N-Furter from Rocky Horror Picture Show. Had the black curly wig, the tight leather shorts, the long red nails… it was really the full getup and it looked absolutely fabulous. It took me nearly two months to find all the pieces to put the costume together and I was really quite proud of it.

I was at a house party with some friends, a lot of whom were prostitutes I knew but at parties you don’t talk about such things. I had one or ten too many shots and drink mixes and I had broken the seal so was going every 10 minutes on the regular. Getting in and out of the tight leather shorts with long fake nails on was a true challenge, let alone it was the first true night I’ve ever spent in heels and my feet were ready to be amputated.

After visiting the bathroom for the twentieth time my friend noticed one of my fake nails was gone. I wasn’t too mad about it, saying something like, “It probably came off when I was using the bathroom. Let’s do some shots.”

When I went to the bathroom next I scanned around the room hoping to  find it but when I couldn’t I just assumed it fell in the toilet or something.

The night continues for another couple hours. People (as in I) are starting to get drunk and rowdy and I remember seeing a hot shirtless guy dressed as Wolverine and I decide to take a running leap straight for him hoping he would catch me in his arms (like a true superhero). He does, and this is photo proof:

frank n firter 2

It’s not long before a friend and I take a taxi back to his place. In the taxi I got a message from this (very) hot guy I’d been chatting to online. We had been chatting for a while by that point but he was officially asking for me to come over to his place for the first time. I obviously wasn’t going to show up as the Dr, so I spent an hour at my friend’s house removing my makeup and rubbing my very sore feet (Umm ladies, why do you never talk about that phantom hole-in-the-ground feeling when you take off heels because its cool and really annoying?). To the best of my drunken ability I manage to take everything off and put on some respectable clothes.

A very short bus ride later and I’m at this guy’s house. To paint the only picture you need to know about how hot this guy was: he was an ex-Calvin Klein model. It’s really not that long before we are fooling around. He’s taking off his shirt and I’m wishing that I don’t have too take off mine after seeing his body.

We are completely naked on his bed and making out. His hand wanders south of the border. Suddenly he stops kissing me.

“What the fuck is that?” He says, pulling his hand away and kind of pushing me off him.

“What?” I asked, desperately trying to kiss him again.

He deflects my kiss and says, “You’re clean, right?”

I regret some of these next words but whatever. I say, “If you mean by STD’s yeah, if you mean by hygiene – probably not. I have just been wearing ten tons of makeup and was so sweaty all night.”

Yikes.

He replies, “Then what the fuck is that thing under your dick?”

Now I am terrified. What was under my dick!?

I sit up. I grab and lift and to my horror I see that SOMETHING RED AND HARD WAS ON MY DICK OH GAWD wait – phew – it was my missing fake nail. Explaining to this demigod why I had a fake nail stuck to my penis was probably funnier than this actual written story.

I want to end this by saying we still had sex (probably against his better judgement) and I went on to wear that same costume the next night for a halloween gay-club party that ends with me crawling on the ground, full costume, to puke in the toilet.

Classy and sassy.

 

I want to take this time to say that, as of this story I just told, I am going to continue to post stories on my blog. They will be related to The Truth but will carry their own names and won’t directly be about my life as a prostitute. I want to tell you the many funny and endearing stories and forget all the crap.

 

Thanks for reading Xxx