My right nostril is burning.
I'm still inhaling deeply, occasionally plugging my left nostril, occasionally pulling my right nostril out. The amount of powder I got doesn't compare to the amount of powder I was secretly hoping to get. I'm thankful that I got some at all. But I wish I had a bit more.
I'm all kinds of high. High on energy, connection, alcohol, movement, weed, coke, creativity. I seldom go out. And I seldom get fucked up anymore, except on love. I seldom drink to excess, drink alcohol of questionable content that is likely rancid (or acrid, or vinegar, or whatever you call old rotted wine), do lines off my table, mostly naked, with a married intoxicated man, and smoke not one joint (with the client), but two (right now). Partaking of his lines, my weed, and my crappy wine that a neighbour I fooled around with one drunken night gave me. I seldom talk about drugs, and clients, and doing drugs with clients, lest I appear to be a drug-using hooker stereotype. And I feel so good.
Jazz plays on my laptop. The most amazing trumpet hops excitedly along! Being with my client was a bit blank tonight. I found myself throwing my head back just to disconnect from him and the constant commentary about my body (e.g. "oh, you're sooo sexy", "you look so hot"). Maybe I was weird because I am high, drunk, more hyper than he's used to. Coke makes the honesty want to come spilling out, all over the table. I also feel like I'm tiring of this work, of this connection-selling, this outpouring of myself for money, (of course, it's The Quintet, live at Massey Hall, playing right now!), of sharing my sexual energy with folks I can't really be myself with.
But then, I still have so much fun, especially with this client. The only regular who ever brings lines, which I never even want to do. He often asks if he can pay me the next day. I agree, and he always does, plus hefty interest, and does so in a very clandestine fashion, terrified some Italian guy that he might know is going to see him with me, and of course everyone he might know around here knows I'm a whore (in his mind). He's also often drunk, high, or both, and doesn't get hard, except for very brief erectile interludes. He's not annoying about it, nor does he expect miracles, but he often doesn't "come", and I can't help but feel a bit bad. A bit like a bad whore, mostly ignoring his flaccid penis because it holds zero interest for me. He still enjoys himself immensely. But instead of leaving relieved (and I know the relief of the fading-coke-gasm),...
I FOUND A BEER! I remembered that I bought it for fish batter! HAHA!
...he left wishing he'd ejaculated all over my boobs or stomach and seems to have left questioning what he perceives as his "manhood" somewhat for being unable to do so. But he also left happy that I put on a thong for him and let him give me wegdies, saw him for under $200, that I was genuinely happy to see him, that I faked two orgasms (which hopefully didn't seem fake to him), that I covered him in my cum, pulled myself open for him to eat me, that I kissed his lips, neck, and body, with real enthusiasm, because I really wanted to, that I squatted my flower over his face, squishing around with a finger, stopping to taste it, smiling, smiling, smiling, because I know he'll leave gently and sweetly and because he will likely keep coming back, and because I really do like him and can be most like myself with him than with any other client. In other jobs, it's OK to disconnect from clients, but my job (as I decided to market it) is to put clients at ease and build these intimate moments for us. He's hot, fun, sweet... just fucking wasted all the time. It's still the easiest gig I have. When he's not high or drunk, he has a really lovely erection that I'm lucky to get fucked with, and not for a long time, either. And when he has an orgasm, he's done. Gone. My favorite kind of client. He always says "I love this body, eh? I loooooove you, eh?". I'm flattered. To illustrate this, I tell him I cried once when he said he wasn't coming back, when he had a bout of "I'm a bad boy". I love him too, though I would never say it, because it's not a love that would ever lead to anything other than him paying me to love him.
"Ahhhh. I can't do this!" he says very lightheartedly, collapsing on my stomach. And he leaves as usual, giving me a small last line before he does, his last one. That makes 2 lines in total for me, and I can't stress enough how bad that wine was. I'm so happy to have found a beer in this rare, blissful, drunken state.
And a gorgeous lady hip hop artist, who I've been a fan of for years, put me on her guestlist today, and I got to meet her, bask in her glory, and see a really fucking wicked show.
Today was a good day.