Oh Pshaw! or Woe is ME! (not).
Yup, the super-rich client in the glass tower with the body of death (must be on steroids or lots and lots of testosterone shots) didn't call again tonight (as he said he would). What a surprise (not). He did the exact same thing the last time I saw him about 10 years ago. He looked so hot but also so fake, so unreal, almost like a Charlie McCarthy doll, albeit with super-bright blue, blue eyes and super-dyed black, black hair (dry like hay to the touch). And over-built, glistening muscles. But he was pulling my strings when he was flexing that beautiful body, so passively trembling on the table he was.“Do this, do that, Oh it feels soooo good.” Oh God—then came the stench of his asshole. Oye! It smelled so frightful. And of course my passion evaporated like smoke in the air. Still, I held my breath and did my duty. He could have cared less. Sexually he was one of those "I'm fantazing you're fucking my pussy" DL bullshitters. For lots of them, this is a big lie in the mind, this fantasy of them having a pussy and "being done", but in reality, they are clueless as to how. So many straights and DLs are simply clueless when it comes to cleaning their holes. I think some of them must equate a "dirt-boy pussy" with masculinity? And how the hell could your anus smell after a shower? Unless of course you didn't use soap in, on and around it? This ANY smart queen knows. Shity-boy pussy. Ugh. There really ought to be a law LOL.
Also had to block a visiting client-wanna-be (His sickeningly, effusive texts "You're so handsome-can't stop looking at your picture!") Are you going to book or just wasting my precious time; leaving me to wait all day until just before 5 when then you decide to text me with jittery messages about your money situation and your time? Talk about bumbling bisexuals on a leash. This queen actually said he couldn’t tip me because his wife would ask him why he went to the ATM twice in one day! Jezus Shit how some guys allow themselves to be shackled by their partners (mostly women I might add) amazes me! If I hear “Next time I get to town” just one more time, I’m gonna gush from both ends. Bye, bye block bird!
I had a serious fight with my 90 year old care taking client last Monday. I must remember the HALT rule of recovery; Never let yourself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired.(or add the S for serious, sick or sad). I was extremely tired last Monday and sight-reading Debussey's Clair de lune was simply too much. I yelled at her because she yelled at me for too many wrong notes! I need to start requesting Mondays just be a "play through the repertoire" day--no more new pieces; NO sight-reading. Much too taxing on me. It's extremely difficult to change roles with a care-taking client anyway! Wearing different hats steals energy (I’m her companion one moment, her piano student the next) and it forces me to change mental modes. Which, thank you God it's much to my credit I am capable of doing that! Just the opposite of only fixing meals and helping said client to the pissoir. Oh God, the hardest part is listening to her endless, endless stories ALL ABOUT HER. But she's 90. What else do they HAVE but their lives. Is it a fear of being forgotten I wonder I have such compassion and empathy for her son. No wonder the whole family became pseudo-hoarders! The fact that she is teaching me classical piano is a double-edged sword. It’s even more work than being her Philipino nurse-maid. Work work work...$21.50 an hour. Beggar’s wages but good for the Soul (I suppose—if that’s IF I have one).
Then this massage-queen-client appeared early on Mon., still high on Mollie (or is it Molly?) and a bit squirrelly from dancing in leather all night at the Eagle. I had to escort her (like a Daddy with a six y.o. child) to the cash machine in McDonalds so she could pay me. Very anxiety-producing. Queens, always come with your money. Let’s not play Romper Room here. We are all grown-ups, yes?
Must get out of town Friday. OMG please!
This anger outburst I had in front of the 90 y.o. was mainly because I worked on two clients during the day before I rode the 120 blocks up to Morningside Drive. X-hausted. But still trying to put on a happy face. FOR HER. ALL FOR HER. I cracked! Before my shit, I had the most horrible of horrible visions as I approached the Westside highway; this oh God-awful- UGLY plumber's ass-crack hanging out troll, riding a bike right in front of me. Now a Black teenager I can understand. A 50 something bearded, homeless-vagrant like troll. Oh the pain-the sheer visual pain.
I am in a constant state of PTSD from micro-violent experiences while bicycling. Time to rebalance and renew – which means of course no alcohol for a few days. This also gives me a chance to work on my recovery (part of which is the biofeedback which comes from the piano lessons from the 90-year-old “Jungle Girl.”) “Play it again—the Brahms—but play it with more expression. Play it tenderly...” Priceless words for a musician to hear. Even if I am only an amateur.
Being sober now I’m going to try to upload and piece together my latest track “Aurora Dawn” dedicated to the Inner hot Trans girl in every man! Also, being sober helps me to feel and feeling in NYC can be a dangerous thing. Talk about the S for serious, sick or sad! The moment one mounts one’s bike it’s very SERIOUS! The armor one must wear is deadly. I envy these carefree guys and cunts who just glide and pedal away at very high speeds, yap, yap, yapping on their phones like yappy, little chihuahuas. Sometimes I get flashes of how gross and negative the shit talk is on the streets here. An absolute challenge not to let all this negative shit bring you down! It is radically war-torn; this city-living right now. NYC is being drained of its infrastructure because the US government has dumped all these immigrants on us here. So much so, that even the online process of reapplying for SNAP seems broken. So many streets are unpaved. Even 14th Street is gutted and as dusty as a country dirt road. Disgusting. Mayor Adams is too busy being a big star and making politically correct promotional announcements i.e., APPEARENCES IN FRONT OF THE CAMERA--that he is neglecting his actions as a good leader should in running this city! It seems he's clueless in running the basics. And the basics were what Blumberg and Guiliani were very good at! I knew it when I saw Adam’s face. He resembles one of those “Jumping Jig-a-boo” toy,s that children used to have, what? During the civil war. A kind of Pickinanny Doll-man with the big, badass grin and the out stretched arms touching the outstretched legs. I’m mean. Deal with it.
Often I must discern on a daily basis in fact—how the city makes me act like a cunt, when really I’m a very gentle loving person by nature—not a warrior. I’m a lover. But then with the release work of many men, I feel often like my energy is being drained...as if I were offering my blood as a sort of parasitic feed to some of these clients. How much longer can I do this? Yet, in a small town upstate I would probably go nuts staring at trees all day. I just need to feel a bit more normal. Sobriety helps. Nature helps more. Singing in the chorus, playing piano. Let's face it. They are all surrogate activities that do to substitute for love. The chronic hole, the feral heart. Wanting to get fucked by a POZ client is NOT healthy thing. But God, his cock would be such a perfect fit! I do not need to serio-convert. Can one really trust the moniker “Undetectable?” IOW is "U=U" real? The thing about the release-sex-addiction thing too is that you keep being stimulated and having orgasm after orgasm but the difficulty is functioning at any kind of higher level after cumming so much! My life=hot mess. The city has become so so (“T”)riggerized. So rough, so gangsta, it’s crazy. Time to get out of Dodge, dear friend. Or radically accept it all, like a strong, somewhat broken rag doll. A broken, hot Raggady Daddy Doll. Is that what I’ve become?
I love it. God Bless me.I’m not supposed to talk this way, ‘cause I’m queer. I’m supposed to be grateful that I have what I have. That New York makes everything possible for all old and poor soddy assed queens such as myself and I guess in a way, I am; and it does. Can’t imagine living in fuck-you-shoot-you Texas or Don’t say Gay Florida. (Ughaboo) I guess I am. Grateful. To be here. But damn it’s hard. Hard. Nothing is easy. Only maybe taking a bath or smoking some pot and having a beer on the roof. Cold stars. Cold life. Break now from that. Music production. Yes!
Just spent hours filling out tons of forms for this so-called therapeutic (“Blandon-Peal-Peel me a grape Beulah!”) institution in the hopes that I can find a queer male therapist who takes my insurance. I wonder if even therapists play the “Gay for pay” game? Probably. I need to vent; the dynamics of what I want, versus what clients want from me—I need to voice and express a lot of thoughts and feelings to another human because often, being a service person here is so debilitating. The Grind. Maybe I'm feeling it because of all the gravity of the years I've lived. Booze numbs pain. Being high has its own special dopamine effect. And factually speaking isn't that all sex is? We are making our own bodies heroin. I guess that's good! Not just writing this shit out on my blog. But God, that does help. I help me here and now. Thank you.
Bizarre—doing fellowship last week after my beloved ACA meeting, a fellow traveler confessed that his therapist was HIGH during their session. I would NEVER tolerate that. I wonder how HE could???? Bizarre. How can we work through our addictions, when the so-called healers and therapists WE are paying money to for healing are high themselves? And/or one therapist fucking another therapist (there was that story too—that’s a real movie isn’t it?). Gee, maybe they have to do that, so they don't kill themselves by having to listen to everybody's dirty laundry day after day after day. But the therapist--being high? Something’s really rottenly wrong with that. But—here are. (Are you ready?) “IT IS WHAT IT IS!” LOL. Lord knows I’ve had my shitty therapists...”It’s OK to give release...” Thank you Auntie Leonora Tint; you old toxic cunty Jew-witch you.
OH God if there is a God—have mercy on my Soul (if I have a Soul).
Good night prince of peace. Good night beautiful self. You are worthy of so much, much more that the anonymous crowds here give you credit for---and how they all wanna touch you. But who, who do you wanna touch? My pussy, oh my sweet, sweet pussy : ).
I love you.
Unconditionally...
Amor & Gracias
Saintorr