August 23, 2003
Filler 2
I have a feeling these "Filler" posts are going to mount up. When I get to "Filler 100" I may have to shoot myself. In the foot, that is. Metaphorically speaking. Guns, thankfully, not figuring significantly in my life.Various posting topics occurred to me today, but most of them were dark and/or tragic -- not sure why, it was a pretty good day on the whole. Put it down to the phases of the moon. For some -- probably hopelessly English -- reason, it seems to me in poor taste to post about other, less acute tragedies so soon after the aforementioned, even though we all know that many other even more terrible things are happening around the world with every fucking word I type -- so I'm going to put those posts on hold for a while. Their time will come soon enough. Too bloody soon, probably.
Yesterday (Thursday, that is; technically we're well into Saturday now, but I propose to ignore that fact on the grounds that I haven't been to bed yet to authorize the change of day) my friend "Max" came round to have some photos taken; then we went out for dinner, and to see Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life (which is dreadful, btw).
Max, it should be otiose to point out, is not his real name -- but it will, perhaps, be his escort name. The pics I took are part of his plan to sell his (nice, as it happens) body, and I am in so many minds about that that I don't even know where to begin.
All work is prostitution, man, yeah? And there's no doubt that there's a great deal of "legitimate" work that is just as demeaning and much worse paid. Max currently works a ridiculous number of hours a week, in two jobs, for what he could earn in a handful of hours as a prostitute, and that kind of thing takes its toll. He has little time or energy left over for a social life, and even less for working towards longer-term goals.
We can probably hold off on nasty and brutish just now, but it's clear enough that life is short. It's easy to be waylaid. Jobs that were supposed to be stop-gaps, paying the rent on the way to something better and more permanent, too easily take over your life and then suddenly you're fifty and still doing casual bar work. Nothing against bar work -- I did it, and actually I loved it -- but it's a young person's game. Only the most dedicated, recalcitrant or stupid could see it as a career. Nothing against the dedicated, recalcitrant or stupid, but...
And then, I've known one or two people who made the whole escorting thing work pretty well. (Happy Birthday, Bruce! I so wish you were happier today, but I think you still can be. Please please please don't give up on us.) There was a time (long ago, readers, in my half-forgotten gilded youth) when I thought seriously about doing it myself. (This is one of those moments when you hope your parents never read your blog, not even if you're hit by a truck and it's their only remaining link to you -- but I believe mine will understand if and when they do (and if either of you are reading this, can I just point you to this, which says all that needs to be said?)) I was already borderline sex-industry at that time, in ways that I will probably bleat on about sooner or later -- though in truth, if I don't, you haven't missed much. In any case, it didn't seem to me an especially terrible thing to sell my body, and I had plenty of evidence that people might want it. In the end I was talked out of it by a friend from Sydney who probably didn't even mean to. (No, in retrospect I'm sure he did. Robert was -- I hope still is -- too smart not to know exactly what he was doing.)
But back to Max.
I don't want to be judgmental. I want to be supportive. He is a lot younger than me, and provokes a kind of paternal affection. Also, I like him. If he wants to do this thing, who am I to slap him in the face and say DON'T BE A FUCKING IDIOT? If he feels -- and by every economic indicator is -- so undervalued that the only thing he has to offer is his sizeable cock, who am I to stop him making the most of that? I'm just someone who goes to trashy flicks with him, and swaps videogame hints, and very occasionally, you know, fucks his cute little arse. I have to help him do what he wants, even as I try to talk him out of it. And I have tried.
The thing is, some people can do the rent thing and some -- most -- can't. It's not always easy to see who falls into which camp. I think -- fear -- that Max can't. Or rather, he can, but it will make him seriously fucking miserable. And I've known enough seriously fucking miserable people in my time. So really, I wish he wouldn't. Even though I can't offer him a plausible alternative.
Anyway, I took the photos. Some of them are very sweet.
