I told him to eat my ass so he wouldn’t see me cry. I’d had enough of him rubbing the head of my dick on his sandpaper face anyway. I took a moment to feel good about cleaning my face and doing all my human skin chores the night before.
I wasn’t crying for him. My rate doesn’t include that, especially the lowball rate he was paying. The crying was over someone else that mattered to me.
Can you process sharp emotions with a 70 year old man’s tongue in your ass? There’s only one way to find out.
I tried to appreciate the snow covered roofs of the row houses I could see. The only things virgin in my neighborhood. They’d only get touched by water from clouds. Doing survival sex work while you still have floor to ceiling windows in NYC means you’re running in the wrong direction. I was. It was temporary. My hooker rates are adequate now.
You need to point awareness at sensations in your body to process feelings. I do, anyway. I was carrying pain from belly button to throat in the shape of a potted house plant. His agitating stubble and thin lips over yellow teeth grinded on my hole like a drunk frat guy on a freshman. I bet Eckart Toll couldn’t stay in the moment with that loud of a sensation. Makes me wonder if that means I’m a stronger meditator than him. Anyone could stay present in the moment if that’s their whole fucking job. Maybe that’s just my hooker pride swanking. It’s ok, I earned the right to swank.
I had inner-work chores to do, so I shifted focus to my limbs. Moving my soul to my shins and palms, feeling my deliberately cheap brown sheets was sufficient. Those sheets were brown to mask stains from unprepared clients. Cheap so I could afford a few sets. They had a low thread count that my autism noted and quantified, but accepted. I cycled through them while I worked, and I put bamboo sheets on my bed to sleep.
I couldn’t cry for over 25 years. The last time I felt tears I was having a schizophrenic episode as a teenager. My outcast friends and I were chained to the inner circumference of a giant blender. It was stainless steel like something in a big pharma lab, not glass like in your kitchen. Our teachers and parents watched from above when the blades turned on.
They started with our feet. I could see chunks of my friend Juan Carlos’s dirty grey vans churning up in our blood. They all screamed but I couldn’t. Catastrophic body damage makes me silent. Quieter than the people hurting me. I learned I have that instinctual stealth function when I was 3. Erin McMann tried to cut my hand off with a gardening tool that day. I wished I was a pretty girl like her, but she was an awful playmate.
“Put a condom on and fuck my ass.” I needed to keep my client busy while I made sure I got the whole cry out. His dick went soft inside me, but he left it in deep enough so it wouldn’t fall out. I felt my skin on the sheets. I visualized my lover saying the thing that hurt my feelings, trying to be aware of all the atoms between my eyes and those snow covered roofs across the street. I moved my soul around my chest and gut, probing for the hurt. The cry was done. The hurt turned into a seed again. I turned around and jerked him off on my girl dick.
Those friends in the blender were the only people that loved me the way I was. Juan’s bloody shoe chunks really hurt my feelings because he wore those shoes everyday, and I was always looking down at the time. I watched them all make agony faces like if rubber sheets could be jagged. My big brother wasn’t there. I never let him know all of me, because I respect his peace of mind. He’s always protected me anyway. He still protects me in my 40s, but he wasn’t in that dimension that day.
I was supposed to be picking up all the sticks and raking the back yard. The compost pile needed stirring. I hadn’t started my homework. I couldn’t stop crying on the sofa in our basement, and I couldn’t get out of that blender until my parents got home around 11.
I used to have delusions of hell like that often. Now I’ve had decades of learning to mask with spiritual tools and mental health tricks. I’ve moved on to nicer delusions. I earned my black belt in madness.
The client took a long time in the bathroom after. Old guys always do. I wondered which one of my soaps he was using, and I took a moment to feel good about having fresh towels for him in there.
I can cry now that I’m on enough estrogen to choke a camel. No tears come out. My face scrunches ugly, and I breathe shallow, and my lungs feel wet. I don’t need tears to blast some relief, and I don’t have to clean my face after. Just the one time before bed.
