Yes. I do all of that, and then proceed to sell my dick. Isn’t that incredible? Does anyone else out there have quite that range of experience?
All of which, allied to my grasp of the English language, should make me a great writer, but at the moment, I am producing the goods only occasionally. I don’t know why. When I tell people stories they question how I could possibly ever suffer from writers’ block. I am seeing PL, PJ and GDN, all whilst trying to engage the establishment in important art/social projects for London.
Maybe it is just laziness. I sit at my keyboard at 0055 with my eyes glazed over, knowing that I will not complete 1,000 words. Maybe I don’t write at the right times of day. Maybe I don’t give myself enough credit for the work that I do. Maybe I don’t want to do this. Maybe I think I should, but really, actually can’t.
I just fucked someone for £150, and there was even talk of running along to the next guy in the same evening for another £100. Even at the height of my renting, when I was 22, I refused to see more than one client per day. The one time I did was almost completely disastrous.
There is something extraordinary about me and about what I do but for me it is totally uninspiring. Maybe that’s why I cannot write about it. I hate that I have to do it, never mind have to then relive it and make it sound beautiful. Perhaps it is the job of someone else, to write about it, to dream of it. Perhaps it is the job of someone who could never do it, to dream of it, be shocked by it, and appraise or judge it.
It’s even more boring that I was raised as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and was personally devout. I took it upon myself to attend meetings when my parents had let their heads drop. I took it upon myself to work as an auxiliary pioneer, engaging in door-to-door service for sixty hours in the month of August during the summer holidays. I even took the lead in services, as the only baptised brother. That was one of the best times of my life.
Six years later, lying in squalor with my mouth fused shut from neglect, I wondered how I had got to that point when, stoned out of my head, I had allowed a stranger to ride me, take the condom off then ride me some more, before scratching a two-inch wound inside me with his cum-dipped middle finger as I wanked myself to completion.
I hate that I have to sell myself, but as time goes by I realise that some form of slavery will never be far away from me. I must be the only writer in the world for whom it is more natural to sell their body than their words. Even the project management work I do is unpaid, which is why I have to hold on to the clients who want my dick. Being top with a big, black dick is an amazing thing, but I’d rather be a bottom with a big, black American Express.
But while I stay slim and healthy, there will never be a shortage of middle-aged white men opening up their pink arseholes for me. And I shall never tire of it. I don’t have to talk; I barely even have to smile. Either can be detrimental to the level of devastation. Talking can force one to talk too much in the vain hope of reclaiming the sublime power one held naturally when one went about one’s life unconscious of being observed by the awestruck other. I don’t want to talk, but just to fuck. Talking and sex are mutually exclusive, and should never be combined. I don’t even want a big man to talk dirty to me. I’m the top, and you can just shut the fuck up. Smiling makes people think I’m just another cute little black bottom, and destroys their self-worth when I refuse to be fucked and flip them over. I just want to get my cock out. It’s big - not that big - but big enough on my small frame to cause jaws to routinely drop.
One day, nobody will want me for those reasons any more, and I will be forced to push through as a writer, as no one will even want me as a bottom, and there will be no easy option left, unless, as has happened with the bears over the last few years, the masculine ideal becomes that of the middle-aged black man, which is unlikely, to say the least.
I’ve had, and get, more sex than anyone, but it is never enough. I think I’m becoming cold, as when I try to imagine it, even the idea of being cuddled up tight within a strong man’s arms, nestled in the cleft of his beefy, hairy chest, fails to stir me. The more I think about it, the more I would rather be alone. I don’t want to wake up next to someone breathing sourly over me. I don’t want to have to fight over the folds of my linen. I want to fart and wake up in the middle of the night and jack off without waking or offending anyone. If I do have sex with someone I want him to fuck off straight back to his own bed as soon as we’re done. And don’t even dare try and push your dirty dick into my mouth in the morning.
For the time being, this will be my life, working hard, coming up with ambitious ideas and achieving their realisation, for free and so for no respect, as I write myself to sleep at night, having compromised my genital health in the living rectum of some middle-aged tosser with more money than problems. If it keeps me young, so be it.