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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.”

 

 

 

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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)

 

 

Cody’s Guide On How To Be Single

People ask me all the time, “Cody, why on earth are you still single?” They don’t actually ask me that but I’d like to think that they do inside their head. I feel like it counteracts the many times they’ve said to me, “Cody, you’re such a mess,” or “Cody, please stop doing that.”

My close friend’s are able to see through my messy exterior and see that there is a pretty-alright-if-you-look-hard-enough guy inside. Although I’ve never technically ‘dated’ anyone, I’ve had my fair share of successfully unsuccessful relationships.

Take for instance my first of these relationships: He was a hot sparky from Calgary. He was muscular, ginger, and now that I look back he was pretty boring. I was madly infatuated with him and he decided to end it with me and run away with a porn star from Vegas. Yikes. That relationship only lasted a month.

Then my next relationship came along. He was a man working in the oil fields. He wasn’t as good looking as the previous relationship but sometimes I feel charitable (Just kidding, I’m sure I was the charity). We saw each other on and off for six months. He tried to teach me to drive manual in his truck once – and once was enough for him after we slid backwards down a dirt hill with me screaming, “WHY!?” It came to light that he had major anger issues when he took a baseball bat to his classic mustang one night. He also had night terrors and scared the shit out of me when he told me he saw a gang hanging outside the house. I also accidentally punched him in the nose when we were making out and he bled all over my face. We would sleep on an air mattress on the floor because why get a bed when an air mattress is fine? In the sixth months I was with him we never had sex. I ended the relationship with him and he went to Mexico to ‘sort his life out’.

I am no good at flirting either. I had a guy come up to me in the gay club in my hometown and say, “You’re the hottest guy here.” I responded with, “Oh wow you must be blind.” and then I sank into the crowd, never to be seen by him again.

I’ve also tried my hand at flirting by saying to a guy once, “I would love to go home with you but I haven’t showered in three days.” He didn’t even end up giving me his number.

Another time I was drunk and I refused to go home with a guy because he didn’t have any alcohol in his house.

Next of my failed relationships was with this big, muscular sporty guy. We saw each other on and off for over a year and he was too embarrassed by me to even introduce me to his friends. I was so infatuated I didn’t care and it ended up being really toxic for me. I understand why, in hindsight, because I was in the messiest time in my life and the poor guy had to buy all my meals because I was so insanely poor. But he was incredibly hot and his calf muscles were as big as my head so it was a confidence booster that he wanted to be with me. It was the first time I’ve ever felt good looking, which for a kid that grew up incredibly ugly it was quite an astounding revelation. I drooled on his chest once and I was like, “Oh god I’m so sorry.” and he replied with, “It’s ok you do it almost every night.” Fuck. My. Life.

Another relationship I ended up in was pretty tragic. We bonded over crystal meth and it caused my relapse. We were both quite psychotic due to the drugs and I’m quite happy it’s all over. I’ve been meth free for a year and a half now. Out of respect I won’t say more than that because, even though he acted batshit crazy, I really can’t judge. It was bad. It was weird. I can’t stress enough that I wish him all the best.

I do find that I am quite lonely sometimes. Sometimes I wish I had someone to cuddle, to talk too. But then I remember I’m only 23 and I laugh at myself for being so stupid. Don’t get me wrong, if a relationship happens then it happens – But I’m happily single and don’t mind staying this way. I love myself a lot – it’s not a bad thing either. I think in life, loving yourself is the most important. It may sound conceited or selfish, but I think it’s pretty fundamental. I feel whole in myself that I don’t feel like I need someone to complete me. Lot’s of guys think I’m weird, but I love that. I love openly and am myself, and that is what’s important to me. If someone comes along that can fit in to that then I can make it work.

So I guess what I’m saying is; in Cody’s Guide On How To Be Single, you should just embrace it. Don’t care about it. Don’t think too much about it. Life’s too short to rely on someone so rely on yourself. The rest will fall into place. You can learn a lot about yourself from dating, but you’ll learn more from being single.

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. 

An Ode to Whistler: I should be dead.

I always knew this time would come, I just never knew when or in what way. It’s time for me to say goodbye to Whistler and say; thanks for almost killing me.

Never in my life have I stood on the precipice of death and laughed. I mean that literally. Figuratively I’ve stood on the precipice many times and laughed until I cried, but Whistler provided the unreal opportunity to really be slamming on death’s door.

It was the first time I’ve ever skied in the glades. My friend insisted that my 186 cm long skis would be fine for navigating through trees and I stupidly and naively believed him. I was doing horribly. I pizza’d my way through the glades like a retarded 5 year old while my friend effortlessly manoeuvred and sped his way through on his snowboard. The pizza technique was hardly working and I continued to build speed. My friend had stopped up ahead and I came at him like a rampaging animal before I noticed he was stopped at the edge off a small cliff. I wanted to stop but just screamed ‘OH SHIT’ instead as I plopped over the side head first. Luckily the powder was deep, so when I landed on my neck and continued ricocheting off small rocks it wasn’t that painful. My friend looked mortified as he jumped off the cliff after me, determined to stop my limp body. And yes, I was completely limp. In the face of death my body went into rag-doll mode and I didn’t even try to stop myself from sliding down. I couldn’t feel anything. All my brain could think of when I was tumbling down was the Whistler newsletter headlines: Gay Boy Tumbles Off Cliff And Dies. It would be my last claim to fame. Luckily the whole ordeal was less dramatic than I make it seem, the powder slowly built up around my head and stopped me from sliding down further. I lay motionless for a few seconds, mentally scanning my body for injuries. When I realised nothing was broken I burst out laughing. I was unable to get up because of the way I was laying, so I stayed there and laughed for what seemed to be ages before my friend caught up to me.

This has been my whole whistler experience. I’ve fallen off cliffs (twice), I got a major concussion from stupidly not wearing a helmet, I got a second concussion, I suffered through bronchitis, the flu, throwing up in garbage cans at work from bad hangovers. I’ve fallen off stripper poles, cut my lip from the sharp edges of a snowboard, been trapped in a gondola because of a bear.

Whistler has been life on the edge, and I’ll never experience anything like it ever again.

Mainly it’s been the people that made Whistler a memorable experience. The friends I have made here have been the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. Sure, they have also been the ones to influence me to take that one last drink on a night out that gets me (almost) kicked out of a club called Maxx Fish (Technically they did kick me out but I came crawling back in like a cockroach when they weren’t looking). They’ve been the ones to convince me that drinking 5 jugs of beer the night before bungee jumping is a good idea, or the ones to cheer me on as I funnel an entire bottle of red wine (please don’t ever try it, I actually almost died. But it didn’t stop me from funnelling an entire bottle of Fireball on a seperate occasion. Or funnelling half a bottle of Okanagan peach cider either. Please don’t. Just don’t.).

As you probably guessed, a lot of my fondest memories are fuzzy from a night on the drink. But that’s Whistler life. You really haven’t experienced Whistler until you drunkenly walk up a ski hill at 3 am comforting a crying friend in between throw-ups yelling ‘You’re beautiful! *throw up* Any guy would want you! *throw up*’.

I’ve done many things since I’ve been here. I’ve tried to get recognition as Whistler’s only drag queen (my drag is atrocious but borderline ok when you have no competition). I’ve learned to snowboard so that I can finally be that guy that can say snootily, “I ski AND snowboard.” I’ve zip-lined, hiked, camped, bobsledded, paddle-boarded, sat in a dingy down a river, and more.

Working for Whistler was a pain made better by the people I worked with. Every day I would go to work happy to see all my friends, less happy to deal with stupid customers. Believe me, the customers were stupid. Full on stupid. I was working as a rental tech (someone who sets people up with their ski equipment) and the amount of times I would measure someones feet but they insist that the boot I give them is too small and make me go up three sizes larger is unfathomable. Don’t try and fight me on it bitch I’ve been trained 2 weeks for this!

Living on the poverty line was hard. Mr. Noodles and I became close acquaintances. It didn’t help that I spent most of my money on alcohol but I will never regret that for one second.

I’ve seen some bizarre shit as well. I’ve watched a girl piss on a bathroom floor, a girl took a shit in front of me once, I’ve seen people skiing naked. Once I saw a friend fall down an entire set of concrete stairs. I’ve drunkenly played bumper-cars with laundry carts in a hotel parkade. I got my drink drugged once and watched the trees melt upwards and everything I looked at was shades of red.

This place will always hold a special place in my heart. I’ve come so far from who I was before to who I am now. I feel more energised about life. Feel more positive about things. And it’s really cool to be around people who just don’t give a fuck about who you are. We all came here for the same reasons: to have fun and make friends. I feel like I’ve accomplished that and more.

Every person here has affected me in brilliant ways. It didn’t matter if it was a best friend or someone I met drunk at a bar once, everyone had a story to tell and piece of their story will stay with me forever.

I know an ode is supposed to be a poem, but I can’t put all of this into poetic words. The entire experience was poetic and I am unable to capture that in any significant way. The best way I can are with these words I have put in writing here.

A piece of Whistler will always be a part of me wherever I go. I may leave, but it will never be forgotten.

I’ll send it into the next life,
Cody Oak.

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