CW: sex, sex work, and general Ick
I am downright envious of everyone who wants to fuck right now. I haven’t been able to think about it in days, and my vibe on the night table scares me. The idea of prying the fingers of anxiety off my mind, one by bony one, to the point of relaxing and fantasizing would be a terrific amount of work. I took a shower. That was adult enough.
People still want to fuck though. All of them: that can’t be true but it feels like it. Clients stream into the closed house through my phone; text, email, twitter DMs, Signal, Burner,What’s Your Price. I put down the phone to write and the screen fills. On-hold prospects from dating apps ask. I say no. They say yeah, they get it, they’re just tense: this is the evening their ex has the kids, and they know this is how it’s going to be. They hope I don’t judge. It’s quiet, not pushy. People who live alone want the normalcy of a hookup, the routine, a rosary. Sex too, but more to meet and exchange surface conversation where we are both good people in control of our lives and then the understood wanted thing could happen. I guess I want that too.
I can’t do sex but I can trade sexual attention for money. Much of it goes to other people, my aspirational hooker Robin Hood blaring. Some no, some I keep. I feel rich but how long will this last, I wonder. How many months. A year? I try to figure out how rich I am.
For a period of days I refreshed a NYT piece where there were numbers, new infections, new deaths, then the cases broken down by regions. I was excited when the ticker jumped, the empty filled silver moment when it was so much bigger. It reminded me of when I checked my bank balance obsessively, when I first started having money left, when I first started to save. Up it should go. Up things should go. Higher. They should reach their apex. We shouldn’t be down here in the waiting, getting there, almost.
Because my libido is so dead sexting doesn’t annoy me. Last night I back burnered descriptions of being covered in semen and feeding it to each other off fingers in public. I was focussed on my family’s group text and figuring out why a friend’s gas pedal is squishy. The puzzle of the car soothed and pleased me.
When I toggled back to the sex chat I flowed well, grabbing his last text, building and sending back fast enough that if he was jacking off he would get there. Sexting doesn’t require big picture perspective, Sheherizade’s ideal multitask, it doesn’t GO anywhere. It takes bandwidth to calm someone or love them or cheer them or touch their loneliness. He deserved it, the man- he sent me a Venmo but more than that he is a manufacturing designer and had just finished setting up a factory on the quick to produce ventilators. It was no trouble to talk about locking eye contact at a sex party, fucking insatiably til exhausted so he could take me home, bathe me and slake himself between my legs. I figured out the car, I’m pretty sure. We decided she needs to change the oil filter and I found a Youtube video for her make and model.
I‘m bored with my job but I forget how bored when I’m doing it, so the isolation is a reprieve that clips my eyelids open. The phone’s rectangle glow shoots hot dogs at my face as long as I look, comic, a life meme. I don’t know who I would be if I wasn’t dispensing attention, annoyed but fecund, a patient dog on its side wall to wall with needle mouthed puppies. Filling the void feels intrinsic, like a quadricep. Everyone who can walk has quads. Who will I turn into when I stop? Will I need nursing pads? When I look up from the screen I can’t believe I’m kissyfacing my way through a global crisis but of course I am. My mind is gentle. They are frightened.
Last year a man watched my best friend and I spend care on each other and then accused us of mothering each other. Like most of his critiques I didn’t know whether to defend myself. His mother died when he was young, and he made it clear after we had dated for months that our 6 year age difference had been by his design. I felt old then, suddenly, and when we were naked around each other, self conscious in a way I generally am only in conversation.
I steer clear of the parts of the internet where people say boomer remover- but I grew up in a hippie forest of bongs, so of course I wonder if we’ve tripped a wire. If so she will kill the poor first. Gaia is not a Marxist, nor a humanist. She doesn’t do harm reduction. If COVID-19 doesn’t do it, there may be more coming. Maybe normal won’t come back.
It feels strange to be so grateful to my partner for existing. He’s in bed with me at night, when we wake up we switch spoons. He gets up before me, loves on both dogs and makes coffee. The clients who have bought the idea that they’re my boyfriend are starving for just this, for someone else’s skin in the bed, for a warm bulk. Most of them don’t even have pets, everything is cold unless they warm it. I feel guilty for being rich. I text 🥰. I text 👋. I text 💕👿🙏.