Bird fight

I don’t want to have sex anymore! I really don’t, but it just keeps fucking happening.

I thought erotic massages would be a good way to release my sexual tension, so I went to this guy on the beach and let him rim and blow and rub me. By the end, before I had a chance to reflect on my status as newly reclaimed virgin, he was fucking me.

Afterwards, on the same day nonetheless, I met up with this really young guy (he told me that the day before had been his 18th birthday) and he tried to fuck me as well. I felt his cock stab its way a quarter inch or so into my ass, then I realized that he was wearing no condom and that I didn’t want to get ass fucked. I pulled away. The next hour consisted of him stabbing his cock blindly around my ass and back. Sometimes it would push against the right spot, but most of the time it was far away from the gold. I never let him put it in, though.

You may be asking yourself – Why did I end up naked in the bed of a good looking boy that I did not want to fuck? I don’t know. I guess I lack boundary’s.

Both these incidents occurred this past Thursday. They were reminders that I need to actively work to not be whore.

The next day, I was walking to school when these two huge tropical birds started fighting in front of me. They weren’t just colorful birds, they were huge peacock sized birds that emerged seemingly out of thin air. I tried to attach some meaning to the event.

“Of course,” I said to myself, “the birds represent the internal battle between good and evil that exists within me. Their emergence shows how sudden and unexpectedly conflict can arise.”

“No no no” I thought seconds later, “these two magnificent animals indicate that even beauty has a destructive side.”

I had a few more theories before concluding that birds just like to fight sometimes.

Drugged and Raped

It was never quiet during our dinner conversations, and yet no one talked. When I was a kid my parents used to ask my sister and I questions about school and our friends. Mom would laugh while dad ran his fingers over her ticklish knees. Some nights, when I was in an especially good mood, I would prepare trivia questions for us to answer. I spent hours scanning through dated Worldbooks, writing down facts about state populations and ocean depths. After dinner, when it was summer and the sun was still up, my mom would take me behind the house with the dogs and show me how to cut through the barbed wire fence behind our property. Then she and I would walk, with the dogs running tight loops around us, through the mossy cattle fields.

Now the empty lots around our house were covered with wooden frames. The sound of construction drills and slamming hammers perforated the night air and sent ripples through my tomato soup. All of us were silent, focusing on the sounds of grinding tools and flying splinters.

I had a new client that wanted to fuck me before his wife came home. I read and responded to his text messages underneath the table cloth while my sister read a school book and my mom drew wispy figures with her soup across the sides of her porcelain bowl. The only thing on my mind at that moment was pills.

I excused myself when I felt that I had sat long enough not to arouse suspicion. I walked to my room and locked the door behind me. My parents believed that I have been sick for weeks, so they didn’t act surprised when I appeared to go to sleep before 9.

I ground up a pill with a glass globe my grandma had given me the year before and then snorted the powder through a red straw. Then I crawled out my window and quietly mounted my bike and followed the main street towards Madison Park while a nice, warm buzz looped through my veins.

As I biked slowly into the twilight the street lights flickered on one by one. To my right was Lake Washington. When I was younger and there were less houses, my sister and I would sneak out at night and sit along the seaweed covered beaches and smoke cigarettes that we stole from our dad. If the moon was bright enough, we would swim out to a wooden dock, igniting blue bursts of light as our wakes aroused luminescent algae.

Now it was hard to see the lake through the high fences and garage doors.

I was excited because soon I would be able to legally buy cigarettes. Until then, nice clients or cheap clients were my only source. Sometimes I gave them a discount if they offered to buy me carton beforehand. On other occasions, I just stole their packs when I left. Then I marked their numbers with an “x” in my phone, which told me to never contact them again.

The air felt cold on my face as the street darkened. My bike handles wobbled as I looked at the house numbers, trying to find the address of my new client. It was supposed to be a brick house with a white pergola wrapped around the garage.

Eventually I saw the house. A giant ivy vine’s arms had wrapped around the base of the house and snaked up towards the wooden roof. Ivy vines are selfish creatures, I believed, that swallow every plant, house or human nearby. I knew that, if left untouched, this vine would soon expand like cracked glass until it smothered the manicured yard – covering the golf grass until it was obliterated.

I hid my bike in a dew soaked bush and then swatted the moisture off of my jacket as I rang the doorbell. I was greeted by an unusually good looking man with coal colored eyes and hair. For once a client had been truthful about his appearance. I was still buzzing from the pill I snorted, but I could already feel myself beginning to descend back towards sobriety.

He invited me in and took me into a large, marble kitchen. He asked me if I was thirsty and then handed me a beer before I could respond. I took a large sip and let the frothy bubbles slide down my throat. I wasn’t yet skilled at talking to adults, even though I fucked them, so I was hoping the alcohol would give me some confidence and something to talk about.

Mitch, as he called himself, asked me questions about my school and my favorite sports teams. I tried to convey confidence and intelligence as I spoke, but all I could think about was how I blinked. Was I doing too quicky or too slowly? I didn’t want to flutter my eye lids like a fag, but I also didn’t want to dry up my frail, moist cornea.

I responded to most of his questions with quick answers. Yes, No, Sometimes. I was more concerned with analyzing Mitch’s appearance. His hair had been greased and combed and his slacks were sliced with freshly ironed creases. He clearly took care of himself. He wasn’t like the other slobs I saw.

Then I felt a craving for more pills. The desire slowly tightened in my stomach like a noose. I just needed to fuck, get money and then Oxy. The thought was reassuring to me as I gazed at Mitch and smirked while he talked. I really, really wanted some Oxy.

Soon I was feeling drunk. Much drunker than I should have felt for having not even finished a whole beer. Before I could react Mitch was sitting next to me, stroking my hair, as though he were coaxing me to fall asleep. The synapses were slowly crackling in my mind, trying to process what was happening around me. Then it became rather obvious, I had drunk more than just alcohol.

My thoughts trotted like sludge through my brain as I tried to think of how to escape. I’ll just tell him I have to go pee real quick, and then I’ll run out the front door or sneak out a window.

I excused myself to the bathroom and tried to walk straight without falling. I didn’t want him to think his drugs had taken effect, or else he would stop me. I managed to make it into the bathroom and close the door. Leaning against the door, it took all my strength to study the small window in front of me. Why had I not gone out the front door?

A powerful urge to close my eyes swept over me. I tried to fight it, but soon I forgot why I was trying to keep them open in the first place. Closing them felt so good. I let them relax and again I thought about the pills and how yummy they tasted in the back of my throat.

I slid down onto the floor. My eyes were still awake, studying the wet floor mat when the door pushed open and slid my body towards the wall. Then I felt Mitch’s hands on my back. Hope you’re not too tired he said as he dragged me into the center of the tiled floor.

I didn’t feel nervous or frightened. I just felt tired. So incredibly tired.

My body was complete dead weight while Mitch pulled my jeans and boxers off. Then I felt his hands squeeze the meat of my ass. He was grabbing it so hard that I knew it should hurt, and yet I didn’t feel any pain. I tried to focus on the ice cold tiles pressing against my cheek while Mitch probed my ass with his hands. Then I felt his tongue run down my ass crack. His teeth pushed against my skin while his tongue twisted its way in.

I didn’t find the encounter too unpleasant at that point. I hoped that maybe he would just rim me and then leave me alone until I awoke. Then I would sneak away and bike back home.

I let the thought ever so slowly move through my clouded mind while Mitch sucked on my ass. Then I felt a hard spank.

Yeah, you’re fucking nothing he yelled,You’re nothing but a fuck machine. Just a hole for me to fuck and suck.

Please no I said rather pathetically, imagining my parents putting up missing persons flyer’s on the cracked power lines that lined our street.

Mitch laughed a little and then shoved a few fingers up my ass. Then he pushed hard up into my guts. I felt a drop of his saliva fall on my naked back while he swirled his fingers through my insides. My body wouldn’t move. I kept willing my fingers to wiggle and my feet to kick, but they didn’t respond.

Then his fingers were out of me and I felt something much bigger against my ass. It was his cock. I couldn’t see it but I could feel that it was big and hard as it slid up and down through my ass cheeks.

I’m gonna cum in you he said as he pushed down on my back and thrust his cock into my ass. This time I did feel a tinge of pain, which let me know that there was a lot more pain that I was numb to. His cock dredged into my ass hard and strong. I guessed that he was probably drawing some blood.

Yeah you fucking like that don’t you Mitch said through his labored breaths as he fucked me. At first his stokes were relatively shallow. Every once and awhile he would pull his cock out so that he could move down and relubricate my ass with his tongue. I could feel big globs of warm spit streaming down my ass as Mitch wiped his tongue over my hole. Then he would slide the tip of his dick around for a second before sticking it back in.

As he got more turned on he started fucking me deeper and deeper until his entire cock was inside of me. I felt his sweaty stomach pounding against me while his hands wrapped around my neck.

Yeah kid, I’m gonna fucking fill you up he said as he started pounding me painfully hard, preparing to explode inside me.

It was then that I thought about the pills and then, like a spark of the way things once were, the barbed wire fence behind my house and the way my mom used to look as she and the dogs crossed over it into the open, empty pasture land.

Moving on- perhaps

Yes, things have been much better ever since I quit. I have been feeling happier and more at peace. Last Sunday, when the decision was made, I actually felt my mental state change from depression to complacency over the course of a few hours. In order to affirm my decision, I contacted all of the sites I was on and told them that I was 17 and that my lawyer would be taking legal action if the profiles were not removed.

I was trying to douse my bridges with gasoline and not just burn them, but completely obliterate them.

Thing is, questions have arose.  Once my stash of money runs out, I have nowhere else to turn. The last week I have been taking a jab at modeling. Most photographers want to take naked photographs of me, and I am not sure whether I want to do that or not. Escorting may be bad but it’s a transient thing – once the act is over it exists only in memory.  Naked photographs will continue to exist for decades.

Besides money troubles, I am having a really difficult time “reclaiming my virginity.” My goal was to cease being sexually active for awhile, but sex seems to follow me around. I have a good friend named Ron who I saw this past Saturday. He and I got drunk and talked about love and justice and bullshit like that. During the conversation I mentioned that I had done some escorting, but that I had quit and I was now on the path to salvation.

Quickly his demeanor changed. He became flirtatious. I let him rub my body, but didn’t let it progress any further. After a few minutes,  while I was lying on my stomach, I felt him pull my boxers down. When I reached back to pull them up, I felt his hard dick pushing against my ass. I stood up and told Ron that I didn’t want to hook up.

Ron felt embarrassed and pretended to fall asleep quickly as though someone had knocked him over the head with a hammer.

These assholes keep chasing sex. Like insects to electric lights.      Zap Zap Zap.

It’s just hard sometimes to live in a place like Florida. It’s so god damned flat. If someone was to run away from you crying in an open field, they wouldn’t disappear from view behind a hill like in other states. No, they would remain in your field of vision until they rounded the very curvature of the earth.

The End

I have been feeling depressed lately. Life seemingly has no meaning – although I know that it must. I have spent hours and hours of my time searching youtube – watching hours of video about spirituality and God and his existence or lack thereof.

Overall, I am feeling unfulfilled. I seek sexual attention from others, hoping that their desire to be with me and have me will quench my insatiable thirst. I have done this with escorting the last 9 months – and, as would be expected, this method has failed me. In fact, it has done much more than fail me. It has thrown gasoline into the flames.

I just walked over to Borders, hoping that reading books would refocus my mind and help me forget my anxieties. While there I was suddenly struck with an idea that I have been fighting off for months now – how in the fuck do I expect to get better when I am a whore?

And not just a metaphorical whore, but an actual whore.

I got into this is the first place because I was lazy and thought it would be the best way to make money while in turn doing the least work. In that sense I succeeded. A little over a hundred hours of work has brought me somewhere between 20 and 25 thousand dollars of hard, undivided cash.

And yet I feel terrible. Because deep down I do not want to be a whore. I do not want to be a commodity. I do not want to be a mindless body that older men jack off to.

Often I enjoy fucking clients. Sometimes it is a so-so experience. Other times it is completely miserable.

I have sold myself out, allowed disgusting men to suck me off, jack me off and feel my insides. And for what? Money? I don’t even need money! Sure, it’s nice to have it, but I have done little with it other than pay my rent and buy groceries and drinks on the weekend.

I’m a man. I’m not a kid anymore. I can’t brush off my actions as immaturity or exploration because I know better and I was raised better.

I am a gay man living in an unaccepting (though improving) world. And while it may be a double standard, gay men are looked down upon more for promiscuity, drug usage and prostitution – perhaps because many expect it.

I want to be a healthy gay man. I want to set a good example. I have already fallen into the trap of drug addiction. I pulled myself out, only to discover the equally deep hole that sex and money can dig.

I am terrified for my future. I don’t know how I will make money now. Of course I will get a job, but the money won’t be even remotely as good – atleast not for years. For once, I will actually have to drag my ass through life.

I’m good looking. I’m a good person. I’m smart. I know these things. There has to be a place for me in this world, and prostitution is not it.

I am not denouncing other escorts. If someone can do it and look in the mirror without feeling shame, more power to them. But I am not that kind of person. I am not that strong and I don’t have the spiritual and emotional foundation neccessary to carry out a double life without regret.

I have lied to every person I know. I will never be able to openly discuss what I did in the last 9 months – not to my friends, my family, my future children, anybody. So, in a sense, I will always have to lie about it, but atleast I’m closing this awful chapter to my life and hopefully opening up something immensely more fulfilling – a life where people like me for more than my looks and where sex is as sacred and powerful as it is meant to be.