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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.

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An Open Letter to S.S

I knew it was a mistake to go with you. After months of worrying about my visa being renewed for New Zealand and finally getting approved for it, I decided to jump with a glimmer of hope into something I had little faith in. I left behind a good job, amazing friends, and a place I truly felt at home for this whirlwind adventure I was promised. We were best friends, so I put my trust in that and nosedived into this plan of yours.

 

But oh did it spectacularly fail.

 

What were we thinking? We relied on a friendship built on bad deeds and party days. The bond we had was always reinforced by distance. We didn’t have depth over distance, and that’s why we failed.

 

Coked up nights in the Toronto scene and days spent wondering why you couldn’t be my friend when the sun was up, I would sit in the Canadian spring air writing stories about rape as you holed up in your bedroom unable to make the slightest gesture to even pretend you wanted to be there with me. Fighting those long days away and snorting the long nights together, I was cornered in a world I thought we had moved past. Was our friendship doomed to repeat the same circles? Glass pipes in one and lines of white in another?

 

Financially you kept the nightmare going for me when I should’ve let it die the second you asked me to do two years of travel together. 

 

I had so much going for me. After years of rough times and days spent crying I had found a world where I belonged. Now I sit unable to find the person I was before Toronto, unable to find the passion of putting trust in people. You always wanted me to be like you, and now I’m like you more than ever and you’re nowhere to be seen in my Newsfeed.

 

Our end crashed hard like our beginning. But hey at least someone didn’t die this time around.

 

I do miss you a lot, but maybe it’s the distance talking.

 

Love,

Cody.

Magdalene

WARNING: Extreme graphic violence. I wanted to write a short story that pushed my writing into taboo areas and pushed the reader in the same way. This story involves torture and rape. Read at your own discretion.

 


He called me Magdalene. It wasn’t my real name, I didn’t hear my real name for years. He proclaimed I was his gift from God. He told me to call him Father many years ago, but my own name for him was The Menstealer. I had been his property since I was 16 years old, kidnapped and placed in a room guarded by a lock on the door.  

I remember the first day in the room so vividly – I was screaming, clawing at the walls to get away from The Menstealer as he approached me quoting words from The Bible. “But at the beginning of creation God made them male and female,” The Menstealer bellowed, “For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh. So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.” His eyes bulged and mouth was agape from his last recited word. His hands reached down to his waistline and he started undoing his pants. I started screaming louder, tears streaming down my face. Blood dripped down my arm from a couple fingernails that ripped off while I was scrambling at the walls. He grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head against the concrete.

He raped me nearly every day since then and I hadn’t fought against it for a long time. Whenever I heard him unlocking the door I would climb up on the mattress and lay on my back, opening my legs for him. It made it easier.  

The room had concrete walls, ceiling and floor. When I had first arrived it smelled damp like wet rocks in a riverbed. It took no time before I didn’t notice the scent anymore. A single bare mattress lay in a corner opposite from the door. No blanket or mattress cover was ever provided to me for comfort. The only other amenities in the room were a bucket used for defecating, a roll of tissue paper, and whatever novel he would provide me to pass the time (One that he deemed worthy to God). All my food was served with plastic plates and cutlery and he made sure he got them back after each meal. Clothes were given and rotated to me every couple days, along with another bucket of clean water and a sponge to wash myself.

Once I tried to attack The Menstealer. I held the bucket high over my head when I heard the door unlocking, positioning myself against the wall. I whacked him hard over the head when the door opened. He stumbled forward and I quickly slipped between him and the open door. The Menstealer was swift when he spun around and caught me by the forearm, and with immense strength he flung me to the floor. My head cracked on the ground, briefly causing me to drift out of consciousness. When I had come around my sight was blurry. I saw his figure stand before me. Suddenly there was a sharp pain in my leg. I could hear him screaming maniacally as he lifted his leg and smashed in down on mine over and over, multiple cracks pierced the air. My right leg laid there in an unnaturally shaped L. He had broken it badly, the tibia bone threatened to protrude through the skin. The LORD has disciplined me severely, But He has not given me over to death The Menstealer said to me when he saw me pathetically laying there. He loomed over my broken body, and when he climbed on top of me the pain was so intense that I wailed out and went limp.

My leg never healed properly since. A burden gifted to me.

I laid on the mattress years later with my gimpy leg, reading a novel The Menstealer deemed appropriate. I had been ill for a few days, vomiting so much that he gave me a seperate bucket. Even without any way to know the time, I knew he was late. The Menstealer loved routine, and over the years my internal clock had adjusted to his sick schedules. But he was late. Very very late. I hoped he had died in some terrible accident, but then pushed the thought aside, If he died then I would too. I would be confined to this cell until my mass had withered away.

I heard rustling behind the door. I put down my book, pulled down my pants and lay on the mattress. The locks unclicked and he opened the door slowly. He stood in the door with tears welling in his eyes. The bucket I used to wash myself with was dangling in his hand by the handle. Except it wasn’t the day to be washed, and he had never broken that routine before.

His tears dropped and his lips were curled into a small smile. He was so soft when he finally spoke, “And so that you may live long in the land the LORD swore to your ancestors to give to them and their descendants, a land flowing with milk and honey.” He approached and knelt beside me, another instance that broke routine. He reached out and stroked my cheek, “Beautiful Magdalene,” he passionately whispered, “God has blessed our union.” He set the washing bucket down on the floor and cupped my face in his hands – almost an affectionate gesture if not for the circumstances. It was then I noticed he left the door open, but with him so close I wouldn’t dare make a run for it. He usually locked it behind him when he entered.

He removed the hands from my face and reached into his pocket and provided a small white tube that I couldn’t instantly recognise. He placed it in my hand. It was a pregnancy test. He choked back on his tears when he said, “Magdalene, you are with child.”

A shock ran up from my stomach, a sobering surge that vibrated in my bones. I was kidnapped at a young age, but not young enough to not have had a sexual education. Over the years I assumed he or I was infertile.

“You are pregnant!” The Menstealer loudly pronounced, jumping me out of my horrified thoughts. He lifted his head towards the ceiling, “God blesses us! Thank you LORD!” His hands raised up in a spiritual gesture and I thought about making a run for it. With my disfigured leg I wouldn’t’ve been able to get away fast enough.

“What say you, Magdalene?” He turned his attention back to me. I still clutched the pregnancy test, unable to bring myself to look at it a second time. I knew he wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t lie about something he deemed so important.

I knew now that he was using my bucket full of piss and shit to test my fertility. The thought of him dipping the pregnancy test into my defecation bucket caused me to drop the test. He looked at me sharply and got closer to my face. “The confirmation of God has blessed us. What say you?”

I hardly ever spoke to The Menstealer and when I did it was with my head down in soft words that would please him. This was not that time. I looked him straight in the eyes and hissed, “I’m not going to have your fucking baby.”  

His face burned red and his eyes bulged as his drew back his hand and slapped me. He climbed on top of me and slapped me again. I tried to push him off, but that caused his open hands to become fists and he punched me in the face again and again. I cried out and covered my face with my hand, which he caught and with a loud crack he bent it unnaturally, snapping my wrist. I wailed out and his bulging eyes seemed to recede back into their natural place. His face went soft but still burned red.

“Beautiful Magdalene,” He said, using a soft tone. “We have been blessed. You must be so overbeared with the emotions of God and swayed but the whisperings of the devil.” He got up off me and motioned towards the bucket. “Take your time and be overjoyed. God is inside of you now. Inside both of us.” He left the room, locking the door behind him.

I laid crying on the mattress, my broken wrist resting below my breasts. I wanted to curl into the fetal position but the pain was too much, so I lay on my back until bile built in my throat and I shot up and spewed vomit onto the concrete floor. It was then the pain was refocused from my wrist to my face. With my unbroken hand I gently touched my face, outlining with my finger the swollen bits. My right cheek was puffed, as well as my lip. My left eye had been slowing closing until the swelling confined it to a puffy slit.

I fucking hated the Menstealer – a fucking devil. Satanic were his grotesque eyes that would push out of his head unnaturally. Demonic the seed inside me he planted, forming the antichrist within the walls of my very womb. I will not have this baby I told myself. I cannot. It is unnatural, it is a leviathan in a sea of beautiful things. I will strangle it as soon as it’s entered the world. I will raise my bucket high above my head and bring it down onto the babe until it’s crushed on the floor. I thought about how The Menstealer would be there by my side as I gave birth. He would probably snatch it away from me before my hands could reach its neck and then he would probably dispose of me or rape me till I beared more of his offspring.

I wouldn’t not allow it.

I grew larger as months past. The Menstealer would come visit me more often than usual, providing me with healthier foods and daily wash buckets. Before my wrist healed he would wash my naked body with the sponge daily. My wrist healed as disfigured as my leg, and just like my leg I could still use my wrist but sometimes pain would shoot up my forearm and I wasn’t able to hold onto things like I used to.

One night I lay on my bed, my small belly protruding skywards like a hilltop. Something inside the mattress jabbed at my side so I sat up and felt it with my hand. It seemed as if my unfailing mattress of many years was slowly deteriorating. A metal spring inside the mattress had apparently come loose. Maybe if I asked nicely The Menstealer will buy me a new king sized tempurpedic I laughed, He’ll probably just flip the mattress over. For some reason this thought made me laugh harder.

I lay back down on my side facing the broken spring. I ran my finger over it and felt it through the mattress. Absentmindedly I picked at it, the threads slowly unravelling until the spring had fully poked through. It was rusty, but feeling the tip it was also quite sharp. I shot up with an idea. I began picking more of the mattress away until, after a few minutes, I was able to see further down the protruding spring and its many coils. The coil was sturdy, but after bending it around and twisting it with my good hand I was able to snap it off. I held the coil in my hand and inspected it, deciding it would be best to try and straighten it out.

I was bending it and twisting it when I heard the door unlocking. I lept to my feet – which pained my bunged leg – and panic shot through me. The lock clicked as I rushed to put the coil under the mattress. I then remembered the hole in the mattress and dove on top of it. A piece of the metal had stuck straight out from where I had snapped the coil off and it impaled silently and easily into my side. I winced in pain but remained over it as it was too late to reposition myself. The door was open and The Menstealer stood in the frame.

I was laying in an unnatural position on my side, looking like a model in some awkward photo shoot. In a normal situation- and if not for the piece of metal that was painfully in my side- it would’ve been funny.

The Menstealer gave me a weird look when he got closer to me. “Are you alright?” He questioned.

“Yes I am. It’s just comfortable like this on my side. More comfortable for my belly.” I lied.

“Are you in any pain?” He looked concerned and knelt beside me.

“No,” I stated, almost too quickly, “I am fine. Just resting.”

“Here, I will help you up. Lean against the wall.” He motioned to grab me under my arms.

“No!” I snapped.  

He was taken aback, his eyes beginning to bulge, “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Savior.” He aggressively grabbed my arms and lifted me, the metal in my side tearing violently down before exiting. I felt my side getting wet with blood.

He threw my back against the wall, then his eyes got soft, “And the wife must respect her husband.”

“I’m sorry, Father.” I humored him, “Please forgive me.” I had my arm against my side where the metal had stuck in, hiding the blood. I quickly glanced down between my legs (I was now sitting on top of the hole in the mattress but managed to not get impaled by the broken coil a second time). Something else had caught my eye. There was a little blood stain on the mattress, right between my legs high up near my crotch. I had glanced quickly, but The Menstealer had noticed and quickly followed my gaze.

He leaned back in horror, “Magdalene! You are bleeding!” He reached his hand out between my crotch and felt the blood, an odd gesture, “Magdalene! You are not well! The child! Oh God the child!” Then – with great surprise to me – he slapped me across the face.

“You’ve been courting with the devil to bring harm to this child, haven’t you?” He slapped me again, “You mean to bring disruption to our union!”

“No,” I pleaded, “I didn’t know I was bleeding.”

“You were trying to hide this from me! You know you rot from the inside.”

“ I did not! I swear!” I cried out as he slapped me again.

“I will fix this!” He screamed, his voice reaching unhuman levels. He was unhinged and I expected to be beaten, but he rose to his feet, “I will be back, and when I do you will truly feel the wrath of GOD.”

He quickly left the room, locking the door behind him. I didn’t know how long I had before he came back, but I knew I had to act fast. All I knew was that he would probably beat me within an inch of my life, but I also knew the child still lived inside me.

I moved quickly, pulling the piece of wire out from under the mattress. It was misshapened but as straight as I could make it, one end formed a small hook. I took off the ugly pregnancy pants The Menstealer so graciously gave me a few weeks previous and lay on my back. I inserted the hooked end of the straightened coil into my vagina. The wire was uncomfortable as I inserted it further and was met with some resistance. The misshapen features of the coil meant I had to move it around a bit to insert it further.

I must admit I had no idea what I was doing. A joke stuck with me over the years I once heard in school: Coat hangers, they really bring out the kid in you. I could feel fluid dripping down my labia. I was unable to push the wire in any further. I moved the wire around and it caught. I pulled the mattress wire out slowly, trying to supress my wails. I noticed a lot of blood on my hand and a small piece of flesh hung from the end of the hook. I brought it close to my face and knew that it wasn’t the fetus. I picked the chunk of my insides off the hook and I reinserted it.

Through my stress and anger and pain and sadness I could no longer compose myself so I screamed out. I moved the coil around until it was met with resistance, this time hoping I had caught the fetus and not the lining of my insides.

I heard the door unlocking; The Menstealer was back. With one hand motion I pulled the wire back out, met with pressure, pain, and a feeling of expansion. The Menstealer was in the doorway, face frozen with shock and horror as the wire fully came out of my body. Something the size of my palm moved slightly on the end of the wire and I threw up, rolling to my side and dropping the wire.

The Menstealer, screaming and not bothering to close the door, ran forward and dropped to his knees in front of the abortion. The fetus had stopped moving. The Menstealer pulled the hook out its lifeless body and threw the wire aside, landing to my left. He picked the fetus up in his hand, trembling, and shrieked, “What have you done?”

I didn’t hesitate nor did I answer, I picked up the coil and inserted it into his neck. He dropped the fetus and turned to me, the coil protruding from his neck. I went for the open door.

He grabbed me by the leg and I fell forward. My face ricocheted off the concrete, knocking the wind out of me and at least a tooth. I twisted onto my back and The Menstealer ripped the coil out of his neck, a trickle of blood coming out with it. I kicked him in the face with my bad leg, causing a sharp pain to run up my shin. The Menstealer fell backwards as I sat up. I  was almost on my feet when I was slammed back to the ground, The Menstealer tackling me onto my back. Both his hands were wrapped around my neck and his eyes looked like marbles about to fall out of their sockets, his mouth hung unnaturally wide open with an odd slant. Maybe I broke his jaw.

His hands squeezed my neck with a strength and fury that could only mean he was going to kill me. I gasped for air, clawing at his arms. He face was inches away from mine, drool dripping out of his open jaw onto my face. In the moment he looked like a sadistic animal.

My hands moved to his face as he bore down on me harder. I clawed at his face and he moved his head back trying to avoid it. My bad arm fell to my side and I felt something metallic on the floor. My arm twisted and turned, desperate to pick it up. I felt that it was The Menstealers keys – they must of fell out of his pocket when he tackled me. I got a good grip around them and brought them up to his neck, stabbing him. His body curled down when the keys punctured the skin, I removed it and with a frantic movement stabbed them into his eye. A jelly liquid mixed with blood bursted out of his eye and onto my face. He lurched back screaming and I kept the keys tightly in my hand. He landed on his ass on top of the abortion, sliding slightly from the slickness when it was broken apart beneath him.

I scrambled to my feet, The Menstealer held a hand over his eye as I loomed over him. I thought about kicking him but realised how absurd that was, an open door was at my back; freedom was so close. I turned and limped to the door, blood dripping down from my vulva in red lines.

I went past the open door and slammed it shut. I fumbled with the keys. I already knew what lay outside the room from my attempt to escape long ago. During that time, when I managed to slip past The Menstealer before he caught my arm, I had seen that I was in an unfinished basement. The basement looked the same now as I remembered it had back then. I tried two of the keys on the lock but they didn’t work. On the third key, I pushed it in and with a satisfying click I turned it to the locked position, hearing the deadbolt slide inside of its corresponding tunnel.

The Menstealer was screaming in blood curdling cries, “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!”  

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?”

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Cross Your Arms

When a person crosses their arms it usually means they are either hiding something or trying to protect something. It’s a natural instinct built into the human race.

She sat across from me in her white doctors’ uniform. Her hands were folded on top of the clipboard on her lap. She was going off script – I could tell by the hesitation followed by not being able to look me in the eye. Routinely, when I am getting a sexual heath checkup, they ask the normal questions; the questions written down on the page on the clipboard. They ask about my sexual history, they ask about escorting, they inform me about the dangers of sex work and STD’s and I’s and HIV.

I can answer these questions robotically, having been asked them dozens of times before. It doesn’t faze me or embarrass me – my answers are without emotion. But this time I really fucked up. I really, really fucked up and now the doctor was going off script.

In a perfect routine of questions and robotic answers, the doctor will ask questions about escorting (“How long were you in sex work?” “Did you use protection?” “Did you provide full service?” ect.) and then they will brush on the ultimate question: “Have you ever had sex that you didn’t consent to?”

I had developed such a methodical and resounding ‘no’ to that question they would usually move on to the next question immediately.

This time when I was asked by this particular doctor, “Have you ever had sex that you didn’t consent to?” I fucked it all up. Instead of answering her, I lifted my hands off my lap and crossed them. It’s such a stupidly small gesture, one that can go easily unnoticed, but this doctor was perceptive. I don’t know why I allowed myself to do it. Immediate regret flooded through me. She put the clipboard down on her lap and rested her hands on top of it. She was looking down, I could tell she was building her off-script sentence in her mind.

The doctor looks up at me earnestly and asks, “Cody, have you ever been raped?”

I keep my arms crossed. I am uncomfortable but doing my best not to show it, especially in my voice. But my voice betrays me and it wavers slightly as I answer, “Yes.”

“Was it through sex work?”

“No.”

She sits up straight in her chair, “You know we have crisis counsellors here, right? If you ever need someone to talk too about it we offer our counsellors at no charge.”

I swallow hard. I wear an imitation smile and respond, “Thanks, but I’ve dealt with it all myself. I don’t need help.”

“They are always here. If you find you’re having a hard time then please don’t hesitate to contact us and we can set you up with an appointment.”

I smile harder as if I am trying to prove something to the entire world, “Thanks so much, but I am honestly fine.”

 

 

 

The Guy

Sometimes I feel like an empty shell; a vessel that others have dug away and dug away until there’s nothing left but some skin and bones. I sit alone with a cigarette and look off into the distance at nothing, wondering how I haven’t killed myself already. At the street corner I am always one step away from going in front of that speeding bus. I look at the people around me and wonder what would happen if I bash their faces in – would I feel something then?

/

Other times I feel filled with emotion – with life. My inclinations are multifaceted as I laugh and cry and sing and anger seemingly at the same time. My friends are lovers are enemies are friends – I am unable to keep one label attached to them. I chuckle earnestly and love openly. The world seems more colourful even on the gloomiest of days. I want to hug and kiss everyone and tell them how much I love them – about how much I love life.

 

Evil vs Good.

Evil vs Good.

Evil vs Good.

Evil vs Good.

 

The guy that used me as a vessel for sex for a year while making me think he felt something for me / The guy that helped me sort my life out when times got hard.

 

The guy that was my best friend who told me I was too ugly and skinny and weird / The guy that would stay up late with me as we talked about love and life and everything in between.

 

The guy that I relapsed back into crystal meth with / The guy that cried when I cried when I showed him a song* that meant a lot to me.

 

The guy that first broke my young heart when he ran away to Las Vegas with a porn star / The guy that would Eskimo kiss* me and it was adorable.

 

The guy that was an off duty police officer that wouldn’t stop having sex with me even when I told him to / The guy that noticed me in the club and for the first time I felt that I was worth noticing.

 

The guy who’s mouth hung open horrifically when he took too much meth.

 

The guy that slept with me because I looked like his step son.

 

The guy that pretended to like me to try and get me into an orgy.

 

The guy that tried to blackmail me for sex.

 

The guy I had to push down the stairs to protect someone I loved.

 

The guy that used to take bodies out on his boat and dispose them in the harbour.

 

The guy that clawed at me while screaming that he was going to kill me.

 

The guy that wasn’t there.

 

The guy …

The guy

The guy

 

Is this why I feel dead inside? 

 

 

(*song was Little Lady by Ed Sheeran feat. Mikill Pane) 

(*Eskimo kiss is when you rub the tip of your noses together)

 

 

An Open Letter to Deniro

Dear Deniro, 

Well fuck, look at us now. From startling beginnings to tragic ends, our story was always one for the books. Remember when you hated me? That was a weird time for us both. Through unfortunate circumstances we were forced to become allies. You were pretty good at taking care of yourself but at the same time you needed a lot of help from me. I wasn’t ok with it at first as our friendship hadn’t started yet. Scott loved you so much and I was morally obliged to try and love you as much as he did. There were things I did to you that you hated, but they were necessary. I’m sorry you wouldn’t talk to me for a day after I helped wash you. I’m sorry you didn’t like when I had to give you your medication. I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job at making sure you were healthier and happier. 

We were at our best when we would walk around the parks, the sidewalks gleaming with late night dew. Near the end you were so protective of me. Our bond so unshakable that when Scott returned he was surprised at how well we became friends. You helped me learn to take care of something. You were the prelude to taking care of a larger problem. I still remember Scott screaming in pain those first few weeks. He’d scream, and moan, and beg and I would lay there covering my ears. I would hear you run from my bedroom to his aide instantaneously – the second he was in trouble you were his number one man.

 I knew Scott was in bad shape when I wouldn’t see you for days. You’d come down the stairs looking almost as emancipated as he did. When he started to get better we all started to get better. We healed together, you and me and him and our little townhouse in Chippendale. 

I left you alone with him. I’m so sorry I left you alone. I thought everything was getting better. I ignored the signs. They were there – just beneath the surface. I could’ve seen them. 

You’d be so happy when I came to visit. I remember my nickname for you was “The Perfect Boyfriend”, which is weird thing to say because, well, you are a dog. 

Thanks for protecting me and making me feel safe. I know you miss him as much as I do. I’m so sorry you had to be there to witness it – but you were always the strong one. 

Me? I’m in a much better place now. And I hope you are too – wherever in the world you are. You are all the love that Scott had to give manifested through another being. You carried around the best of him. 

I miss him as much as you do, 

Cody