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Sometimes I don't know about this love connection thing or the psychosis of compassion. Perhaps it's best to leave both well alone or you'll be in for some real problems and some real depth and pain. And now that you don't want pain to go that deep, otherwise you're never gonna make it, let alone fix it up. I said to Samantha, 'Don't insert that sea sponge up there 'cause you know you got a deep cervix.' She says, 'No. It'll be all right. Why should my rags stop me from working this weekend?' Her rent was going be cut off and she refused to sell her sports car. Now that's what I call desperate, and all on a downward slide from crack cocaine. Later that night after all the other girls had gone, Samantha was waiting in the Emergency ward of the Darwin public hospital in order to have the sponge removed. It took the nurse on duty twenty minutes to open her up, to insert the forceps and to pull it out. It was a slippery little alien who had gorged on menstrual blood. To the hardened nurse, this whore on her back was like operating on an old mare, whereas to Samantha the instrument was the eighth one she'd had shoved up her that night and by no means the coldest. Samantha said, 'I had a couple of half an hour jobs that were colder than that!'
And the universe beyond the planets was the coldest of them all! It made all the loveless married men and the hospital forceps look like love. The problem is when you fall and the only safety net is positioned at the bottom of a bottomless void and then you break through that and just keep falling. The safety net was the thing that killed me, but that wasn't enough for space, as I just keep falling with nothing to catch me. The best thing I can hope for when it comes to men, is any stranger with the urge to spend big money on an all night booking at the MG Grand and provide a Martini or two. Lately I dream of the universe and of trying to revive the corpse, while I am sucking off another client. I begin to cry out hysterically about the fact that I just can't do it. Of course I couldn't, but someone had fed me the hype that I could. It's a very painful thing as it turns into hope inside us. We have nothing else left, but we keep depositing hype into our hearts, so that we never have to suffer again. The corpse of your beloved grows colder before disintegration. It is the final thing for our memory to latch onto before we do not exist for each other again. By viewing this whole life from infant embryo to rotten corpse, we hope that you might fully grasp the situation of this time on earth, and what it amounts to for yourself and what it amounted to for the greater ones before you. Even if it takes you a lifetime of hope to grasp the fact, it's better late than never at all. The best you can do in the whorehouse tonight is hope that she kisses you on the lips and don't believe the hype when she does. But she won't because she has dreamt about you. She went into a room with you and before she could ask you to shower or for the money, you fist fucked her all the way to the brothel ceiling, so that she hit her head and jarred her neck. Your filthy arm was inserted up to your elbow because your mind was empty and your prick was small. But this was not the last time. She dreamt of you when she left the job for good to remind herself of all the fear she hadn't dared to feel while inside that place, because between us all she had to be the perfect hostess, with a smile as wide as her cunt and an orgasm twice as fake. The best you can do is give her the money and go. So do you have it in you?
So you're a big spender and there's not much sex involved and you think that all the girls love to have your kind around? Well perhaps they do but you're in a minority of men. And you think she provides a good service and that the industry is good clean fun? Yet you weren't the reason that drew her here, and you weren't on the cliffs along the East Point coastal reserve when she said to the ocean, 'I don't want to be a whore,' and when she sobbed bitterly into her hands because she had no money and felt that there was no other option for her. I am sorry if this story has a sad ending or an ending that you don't want to hear. And I'm the first to say that I wish it were otherwise, but what can you do? The best you can do is hope she kisses your lips. 'I kiss their lips if I like the look of them,' said Nikita. With the right worker the sex is powerful and impersonal. This is as good as it gets. Yet he was a clever client who wanted to 'romance' the sex worker. He booked her for thirty-six hours and had not engaged in penetrative sex with her. He stopped right at the point of penetration and looked into her eyes. But it was about her time on earth and not her cunt. But who could expect him to know any better. So he did her the 'big favour' by paying for her time. She didn't push the situation and they both fell asleep. They had massaged each other's bodies with their hands, tongues and lips. They had cuddled, kissed, talked, laughed and once she had even wept. The thirty 'sex' hours had been intimate and intense but with no penetrative sex. It had been the stopping point for him on this occasion. It would have been the ultimate sacrifice for a lesser man. |
