I had a couple of important things happen today. I’ve still been fucking around at work. Because I can. Because they’re there, and that’s the atmosphere. Sex is so open and encouraged and welcome. And there are so many beautiful men there anyway. And they want me. Fuck, I know it. I know that’s why I was hired to be there. I know that that was my reservation... knowing that I’d be in a situation where I was hired because men would want me, and I could sell memberships because of it. And I can. And I do, because that’s my job.
So, it’s not unusual, when I’m leaning on the shiny steel counter, to see another reflection approach me, someone who wants to know ’when I get off.’ Sometimes I pick them up. I was tired today. I wanted to rest, because I didn’t sleep very well last night. I wanted to go back to the place I’m staying, peel off my clothes and curl around a book. So I said so. I said I wanted to go home, and read One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. And he wanted to know, "Like the movie?"
I sighed, and told him "No, like the book." I told him who it was by, and he looked blankly back at me. I said I like Kesey and Vonnegut, and he again looked at me blankly, and asked, "Who?" I sighed, and explained that Vonnegut was another author. I. Explained. Vonnegut. Was. An. Author. He looked back at me, like I was a moron. Like it was a revelation that in spite of how I look, I can read. And do.
And he was hot. And I could see, in my mind, myself- irritated and scowling- telling him to shut the fuck up. I’m not some stupid fucking gym-rat that can only count when numbers are followed by lbs. I could see myself firing across the counter, pinning him to the glass-block wall and spreading his blood across my knuckles, fragments of bone and teeth chipping into my knuckles.
And he was still hot. And in another instant I could see myself- dark and alluring- pulling him forward. Tell him to shut the fuck up. Telling him to get a room and I’d meet him. Fuck him. Dig my fingers into his skin and leave harsh red lines with tooth and nail. Make him want me so much, and make him remember me so that I could burrow a way into his chest and pull his heart out on a coathanger, and leave him hurt and broken like he did to me when he thought I was dumb because of my face.
They’re different sides of the same coin. Seen flashing back and forth. Fighting. Fucking. Fighting. Fucking. Fighting. Fucking. Before I might have let that coin fall, and taken the showing face, and the consequences that came with it with a cauterized heart. Today I caught that flipping violent coin and put it back in my pocket. I shrugged, and sold him a room, without promises. I left work right after I clocked out, and stewed on the drive home. Came home angry.
While heading through streets and afternoon slush and dark and cold... I missed someone who knows who Kesey is. Which part of me knows is ridiculous. To be thinking about someone I’ll never meet, just because he’s read a book. Someone else who if he saw me on the street, would think the same thing as the asshole I flipped a coin over. That looking at me, I’m beautiful. Hot. A good lay. That I’m a shell, and a robot and that there’s nothing left inside but rotted rusting cogs. That he would look at me like I was. Like I was who I was. But I can lie to myself so well, and tell myself that isn’t the case. That because he’s never seen me in person, because we’ve never whispered moans and tasted each other’s skin, that he might be thinking about me differently.
And then I hate myself because I hate anyone who makes me feel like an idiot.
But. But.
But I didn’t fight or fuck that guy who looked at me like a moron. I was angry, because he was a stranger and he still hurt me by thinking I was stupid. But I didn’t fuck him to hurt him back. And I didn’t punch him to hurt him back. I didn’t argue with him, I let it go. Eventually... I let it go. And I didn’t pick up some pretty twink who would fawn over me and make me feel needed. I didn’t pick up anyone. I didn’t hurt someone else because of how I felt.
And when I thought about someone else. When I wanted to talk to someone else. It wasn’t because he was hot, or because I knew for sure I could fuck him, because I don’t even know if he bottoms. I wanted to talk to him, because he knows who Ken Kesey is. And knows he’s a writer. And knows that One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest should be in italics because it’s a book, and not quotes, because it’s a movie. Although I guess it is a movie, but I haven’t seen it. I wanted to talk to someone that I could talk to with my mind, and not my body.
And those are two very important things right now. Those two are more important to me than passing the GED, which I also did today. Or rather, I passed it 12 days ago, but today I found it out. That’s important too, but I probably could have done that high as a kite. The other two, are more important.
I remember this day very clearly. First of all, a bathouse is probably not a great place for a recovering sex addict, granted, but at least they don't actively serve alcohol. I was really really angry with this guy, and really wanted to hurt him back for hurting my feelings.
Once in a while I still get people that are kind of surprised that I can and do read, based on how I look. I'm just as frequently surprised when people say they don't read.
This day was a very big deal for me though, which is why I ended up writing about it. I had been wanting to share about it, but I was afraid it would take up too much time, or that no one would understand what I was talking about anyway. Sometimes that happens still.