realism

I stare down from the 17th floor of a posh hotel...and I felt my head spin in a feeling akin to vertigo...So I go back to my chair facing a drab-colored but nevertheless expensive-looking table lamp. I try to get back to my task but several images facing me coalesce to give me an almost surrealistic feeling. I say almost because they are not quite incongruous to the whole picture but they do indicate a life that seems to be one thing but is another...

The address on the paper, the hotel's name behind the useless battery, the handles of a bag, the opened tiny bottle of Bulgari lotion, an unwashed cup of chocolate and a tiny metal container with torn-out sugar packs beside it...they all somehow form one big image of a luxurious, sophisticated and tycoonic life yet the truth is startingly different. This is a miserable existence...

When you have fun in bed with someone and attend to his needs and get paid for it, it all seems fine and fabulous and ordinary when you look at it from the outside but truth is society calls you a whore, a prostitute...You are scorned at, laughed at, mocked at...all feeling of revulsion rains upon you....

It's ironic that when you are with someone, an entity called a client, they would never dare call you flesh for sale. They would say they revere, respect and worship you and even dare say they love you. Yet I can only guess what they are thinking after they have orgasmed, when their debauchery has been fed, when the act has commenced...am I not right? ? When they leave my room...when I leave their hotel room, their thoughts are mine....You know what I mean? You're trying to don and assume their thoughts in an act of curiosity and perhaps just the insatiable need for answers to a life full of queries. You want to pick their brains and see what the neurotic signals stand for- the meaning of these electrical impulses. But then again why do I say all this? Am I suggesting that there is nothing BUT negative thoughts of me in their minds when both of us have wiped the sweat, lust and letch from our bodies and they have reached for the medium of barter to hand it to me - a most classic scene in this taboo profession? Of course not! But I do want your cash.....

My existence is one of appearances, pretexts of a scheme that has long existed beyond our infantile imagination. Sometimes I feel like a counterfeit bill, I have to represent something in the color-blind retinas of people which I am not really. Similar to these images which pepper a sketch to feign opulence and royalty, the reality is they mask a being stuck in the muck of a bottomless bog, I hope you do not know what I am talking about because I hate being too open. I disdain it when people try to pick my brains. But I certainly want to study yours........................