Procrastination
I’ve been meaning to start this for a while, but as always I’ve prevaricated, all in a cloud of weed and crippling melancholy. I’m not sure why I’m even doing this, a confessional maybe, or a desire to connect, fill the existential hollowness, or simply to pass the time. Only to pass the time. Anyway, enough of the pretentious self attention. I’m the oldest temp in the room, the amiable old buffoon, and sick to the fucking soul.
Paying for junk sex is awful moreish but being poor as well as charmless means my life is long stretches of sexual drought. Maybe I should go on Patreon, support an anonymous white working class middle aged male from the North of England, that most reviled of species and help fund his search for a busty milf who does sex with condom and cim for 60 a half hour, part of a rare species when owo seems to be a standard twenty quid extra and no one takes it in the mouth.
A very modest total of five ‘escort girls’ I’ve screwed over the last 14 months. I always think the term ‘escort girls’ is too twee and frivolous a term for their emoluments, belying the reality of being sweatily pumped doggy style by fat old fucks like me, who they are forever worrying are on the verge of an aneurysm. Now I understand what is meant by sex work and why people who sell sex are sex workers. It’s hard and what must be at times stomach churning manual labour, with days marked by mundanity and uncertainty, the fear of exposure or a bad punter, mixed with, at least in the better ones, an element of customer service. It’s the most purely transactional and honest of professions if you peel away the moral and taboo bullshit. I’d have fucked more but like I said I’m poor and my 4th encounter was so enervating I went 7 months before getting back in the saddle a few weeks ago with a middle aged Japanese woman who proficiently serviced me in a pleasant one bedroom flat in a Manchester apartment block, sixty quid for thirty mins for owo and sex with condom. She was technically efficient with a fake tenderness that was touching in its sincere artificiality. One of the first things you discover when paying for sex is how vanilla and chaste it is, where even modest requests elicit an ‘I don’t do that’, the bathetic yin to the porn fantasy yang. Anyway, point being mama-san licked and sucked my balls and later gave them a good stroking when she was riding me, and it seemed beyond the call of her duty considering the flat fee and the minimalist fervour of some of the others. So faith restored and a tax return last week and I’m sizing up options for next weekend.
Paying for junk sex is awful moreish but being poor as well as charmless means my life is long stretches of sexual drought. Maybe I should go on Patreon, support an anonymous white working class middle aged male from the North of England, that most reviled of species and help fund his search for a busty milf who does sex with condom and cim for 60 a half hour, part of a rare species when owo seems to be a standard twenty quid extra and no one takes it in the mouth.
A very modest total of five ‘escort girls’ I’ve screwed over the last 14 months. I always think the term ‘escort girls’ is too twee and frivolous a term for their emoluments, belying the reality of being sweatily pumped doggy style by fat old fucks like me, who they are forever worrying are on the verge of an aneurysm. Now I understand what is meant by sex work and why people who sell sex are sex workers. It’s hard and what must be at times stomach churning manual labour, with days marked by mundanity and uncertainty, the fear of exposure or a bad punter, mixed with, at least in the better ones, an element of customer service. It’s the most purely transactional and honest of professions if you peel away the moral and taboo bullshit. I’d have fucked more but like I said I’m poor and my 4th encounter was so enervating I went 7 months before getting back in the saddle a few weeks ago with a middle aged Japanese woman who proficiently serviced me in a pleasant one bedroom flat in a Manchester apartment block, sixty quid for thirty mins for owo and sex with condom. She was technically efficient with a fake tenderness that was touching in its sincere artificiality. One of the first things you discover when paying for sex is how vanilla and chaste it is, where even modest requests elicit an ‘I don’t do that’, the bathetic yin to the porn fantasy yang. Anyway, point being mama-san licked and sucked my balls and later gave them a good stroking when she was riding me, and it seemed beyond the call of her duty considering the flat fee and the minimalist fervour of some of the others. So faith restored and a tax return last week and I’m sizing up options for next weekend.
5 years ago