Figure me out, Freud.

I still think about my clients right before my big moment. Particularly the image of their huge stretched out beer belly, protruding out from their over priced, wrinkly dress shirt and their pink thumb sized little cock which can barely be seen beneath all the fat and ungroomed hair. It's this image that pushes me over the edge. Even when I'm with my partner. It used to make me feel dirty, but now I simply embrace it with awkward confusion.

I'm 30.

     So I'm still working the two serving jobs. One is at a country club with lots of young families. Yesterday there was a point where I was just looking after one table. They were a couple with a brand new baby. I joked that if they needed someone to hold their baby while they ate, I'd be more than happy to. I haven't held a baby in years. They actually took me up on the offer, and we got chatting.
     "Were you in Ms. G's class?" She asks me.
     "Yes!" I say and try to scan her face for any hints as to whom she may be.
     Ms. G was our grade six teacher. She was the best. The best of the best. Our entire class was an amazing group of friends. We were like family. We all had nick names and thursdays were do-rag days were everyone wore a bandana in some sort of way. It was the greatest of my academic years. I couldn't believe she recognised me after twenty years!
     We spent a while catching up. She had become a dentist, married this very attractive man, got a puppy and a had a baby. They also had a lifestyle that allowed them the $1200/month fees to the club.  Life must be good for them. And here's me. A thirty year old server. Single. No kids. Renting a basement suite. This is not where I thought my life would be when I was in grade six. This is not where I thought my life would be when I was 20! It stings. I've been flirting with depression for the past few months, and I'm going to a doctor tomorrow about it, but I realised this evening that I am more ashamed about being a server than I ever was about being a prostitute.
     At the wine bar a regular was in chatting it up with the severs and he introduces himself to me and starts asking questions. A lot of my co-workers are going to school and he inquired if I was doing the same. I said no. I had a diploma plus a couple years of university, but I'm not going to school now. He looked at me and asked why not.
     "Because this is what I'm doing now." I replied.
     "Is serving your dream job?" He asked incredulously, like he wanted to know why I was wasting my life, like it was his fucking business.
     "No." I replied flatly.
     He stared at me, silently queuing me to defend my life choices, and I stared back daring him to continue with this line of questioning.

     It's been almost six months and I'm not very far from where I was when I started. I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life after this year is up. I feel as lost as ever. And I feel like I'm failing. When people ask what I do for a living I tell them that I fulfil my life long passion of bring rich people over priced plates of food. I don't know. Frankly, I just wish my moods were more even keel. I feel like I'm treading water as hard as I can. I would say about one in three days I feel happy just for the sake of being happy, and the other two all my faults and defects are so incredibly glaring, I don't know how the whole world doesn't see them. Today is one of those days.

Miss Alison

I’m struggling with things right now. I’m just having a day where I miss Alison. It’s been over 3 months, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t had several of these days, but here I am, now, writing about it.

I’m working two serving jobs. One at a place where no one really cares who you are, so it’s like family, and another at a high end wine bar where I work with all the cool kids. I am not a cool kid. I never have been.

Alison had power Realme doesn’t. Alison would walk into a room with whoever. She didn’t give a shit who this person was because the bottom line was he was paying her to be there. Therefore Alison had the power. Alison had control. It wasn’t about confidence. Confidence wasn’t given the privilege of being a factor. It was all about power. If Alison didn’t have the power or control of this situation it meant that she wasn’t safe. Therefor if she didn’t feel in control, she’d leave. That’s how she maintained control.

I don’t feel that I have any kind of control in my life any more. I work with the cool kids and they make me feel little and stupid. I feel massively insecure and ugly and worthless. I hate it. I miss the power I used to have.

I had a client walk into my restaurant last week. He was a regular. One of my last regulars. Even though I cut almost 10” off my hair, there was no doubt he recognised me. Oh the tables have turned. So badly I wanted to joke with someone about how that beefcake over there used to pay me thousands of dollars for me to beat the shit out of him. Although I find that hilarious, those jokes must be filtered now.

If anyone at either of my new jobs found out, I’d simply walk. It wouldn’t be up for discussion or debate or tolerance or I don’t give a fuck. I’d just walk. That chapter of my life is closed. Closed. Not up for any kind of discussion any more. I don’t want to have the, “Listen, I don’t judge” conversation any more. If that statement were true, it wouldn’t need to be said. My friends say, “Why would people talk? Why do you think people would share that??? It’s none of anyone’s business.”  Yesterday a friend of  a friend of a co-worker I have told me that he got fired from his last job for stealing. “But don’t tell anyone!” Is motive even needed for spreading bullshit gossip?

I just miss Alison. I miss getting dressed up. I miss feeling sexy. I miss being touched. I miss being found attractive. I miss being wanted, if only even for an hour.

I tried to rebound from Joseph last week, (this would be the first time having sex in over three months - the longest dry spell I’ve had in my life) and just I ended up half naked and crying. I even tried to become Alison and just get through it, but I couldn’t make it work. I couldn’t do it. Apparently I have standards now. Fuck. It’s so fucking frustrating. I have standards, but my libido is still the same as ever.  

Certain

            When I quit the first time, I was done. I just felt like I couldn’t do it any more. The thing that was in me that allowed me to do my job broke, and I had to get out. By the end of the summer I guess it kind of mended itself, and with the assistance of a shockingly misquoted dentist bill I returned to work.

            My first client back was an older man. He was gentle and in need of love. I couldn’t have asked for a better welcome back to the industry. He became a regular that I continued to see every couple months.

            This is not about the thing that was in me that allowed me to do the job. This is about my soul. When I work now I fear not for my physical well being, but the well being of my soul. I feel that there has been some sort of energy shift. It feels like there is something malevolent in the energy. So it’s not about the thing being broken. I don’t care what shape it’s in. The most certain thing I can say right now is that I will never work another job again. There is nothing in the world that I am more certain of.

            I went to see a naturopath today about some other health issues I’ve been having. He believes that the physical and mental are entirely intermingled so we talked about a lot of the emotional shit that’s been going on with me lately. He had me do some word associations.

            “Black.”

            “Ummm… Ok, give me the next word. For some reason I already had the Kremlin in my head even before you said the word.”

            “Weak.”

            I tried to play the game but I was still thinking about the Kremlin. I tried to think about other things but the best I could do was add tourists. Then there was this guy there. He looked like the Burger King mascot, only he was a real person and his hair was dark brown. He still had the stupid moustache, and puffed crushed velvet sleeves. I felt like I was doing it wrong but the doctor pushed me to tell him what I was seeing, so I described this idiot.

            Then I realised he represented my clients. I was overcome with a feeling of hate.

            “He’s such a fucking loser. He’s dirty and gross and I hate him. He’s incapable of having real relationships so he hires me. He uses me to fulfill the bullshit issues in his own life. He lives in his dirty clothes in his dirty little shit hole of a basement suite, and he can’t afford me, yet he hires me anyway, and I don’t give a fuck. I take his money anyway, and I enjoy it because he’s such a fucking loser. I hate him.”

            Word vomit.

            So there were some feelings there. Didn’t quite realise my feelings were that strong. We didn’t need to go further than that for word association.

            Yet despite this, I’m terrified to phone them and tell them I’ve quit. It’s my safety net. I have no income right now. But I will be ok. I have a small stack of cash saved that is meant to pay off debt but if it has to go to rent, it will go to rent. Some times I have ‘end of the world’ perspective. I am going to try not to do that now, because I am coming up out of a valley, and the hill I’m climbing is beautiful. I’ve got this. The scary thing is, if… if I do have to go back to work, it won’t be for just one job. The amount I earn in one job will not be enough to get me back. If I have to go back to work, I’ll be going back. But that’s not going to happen. It is not the end of the world. I have my emergency fund which might get me through a month in a half if need be.

            Some of my friends have Mom & Dad Insurance. I don’t. And I take pride in that. My family helps me out by giving me things that aren’t needed by others, ie a while back my aunts mother-in-law’s sister died so I got her 15 year old car. But they don’t give money, and the amount of strings that come with money really doesn’t make it worth while. But I wonder if I told them that I needed money if they’d give it to me. When I told my dad I quit, he cried.

            “Now you need to get a real fucking job,” he said, “Well not a fucking job…!”

            “Awww, Dad, did you make a hooker joke? That’s so funny!”

            Then he gafawed like only Dads can.

            Mom didn’t say anything. Then about ten minutes after I told her she asks, “How are you going to make money?”

            “I’ll get a job.”

            Then she returned to silence. I tried not to be hurt. I tried not to be mad. I know she just doesn’t know what to say. I just wish she’d say something. Anything. Good for you. I’m proud of you. I support you. These words are not in my mom’s vocabulary, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel them, and it doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me. It’s just hard.

            I’m still afraid to call and quit though. I talked to Joseph about it. He is so supportive and understanding. We are trying to get some emotional distance from each other since he’s now moved to the other side of the country, but I need his strength. The things he tells me just makes sense. The things he tells me feel so right and he never tells me what to do. We’re both virgos and well know the stubborn streak that runs through us. Perhaps he knows if I felt pressure I’ll just dig my heals in deeper. I’ll call when I’m ready. It’s a process. I know it will happen soon. And it will feel sooooo good!

Fuck the Haters

            Ok. Now that I’ve had my cry. I have to say this. FUCK THE HATERS! I am so excited about not working any more. I am so excited about not having to shave my vagina any more. Whose vagina? MINE! It’s my fucking vagina! And I am going to let that hair grow. It is going to be glorious. And fuck the haters. While it’s winter, I’m probably going to let my leg hair grow out too. Because. I. Can. It’s my leg hair! Fuck the haters. I’m going to get drunk in the evening, or in the afternoon, or in the god damn morning if I want to because I am not on call any more. I am going to leave my cell phone at home because I. Am. Not. On. Call. ANYMORE. I am going to stop colouring my hair and I’m going to stop torturing it with straighteners and curling irons. I am not going to spend an hour a of my day in front of a god damn mirror. I am going to rock my natural beauty. Fuck the haters.

            Well… I’m going to do all this until I get a new fucking job, which I’m sure will require a certain amount of grooming.

Never Again

            I felt like I was raped last night. If you were there you probably wouldn’t of noticed any difference between that call or any other and on the surface I don’t suppose there was but it was awful.

            I’m starting to feel like the devil is in my clients. When they’re on me, grunting and thrusting away, their face is in my face and they’re breathing their liquor soaked breath on me I feel like poison is entering my lungs. I work to sync my breath with theirs so I don’t have to inhale their air. Their eyes are dark and soulless and I know they just want to take from me. They have no concern for me or what I’m feeling. None.

            A few weeks back I was summoned to a skeezy hotel in the wee hours of the morning to see a guy. I was told he wanted someone young, so when we were talking on the phone I told him I was 22.

            When I got there and he started fucking me he said, “You’re not really 22 are you? You look so young.”

            Oh God, I thought to myself. We’re playing that game? OK, so the scary question was how old does he want me to be? I told him I was 15. He wanted me to be a virgin. He wanted it to hurt when he took my virginity. He wanted me to beg him to stop. That last part wasn’t too much of a stretch.

            I did the daddy/daughter thing once before. When he started it, I thought, is this the road we’re going down? I thought it was really stupid, but I went with it and much to my surprise I really got into it. It was really freeing. Being able to pretend to be someone else allows you to let go and you can say and do things you wouldn’t normally. I liked it.

            Playing daddy/daughter was completely different from with what this other man wanted. He was a paedophile.

            For a while I felt I could handle these experiences. I would just get through them and put them away. But as these experience grow in numbers I’ve come to realise that I just don’t want them. Simple as that. Although some of these things aren’t actually damaging to me, I just don’t want it. I no longer think peoples weird kinks are entertaining or amusing. This just isn’t something I need to do any more.

            This guy I’ve mentioned a couple times, Joseph - we were just supposed to be fuck buddies. I don’t do half measures though and we ended up falling for each other way harder than anticipated. I know I’m a sucker for romance but I wasn’t expecting something this intense. I don’t think he ever asked me to quit. He never asked me to change. He just did his best to deal with it within himself. And he loved me. He told me so. And when he told me he loved me it felt like those words just rolled off my back. I felt like he was wrong.

            Last night Alex and I were talking about how much I lack in self confidence, but I do an amazing job of faking it. Joseph said he saw right through me and he loved me anyway. I don’t believe him. I feel like if he saw the real me he couldn’t love me. And I don’t even know why. I don’t have any idea what it is about me that I think is so unlovable but I can’t shake it.

            On our last day together we made an adorable video and we took turns talking about our relationship and what it meant to us, and what we meant to each other. And if you see the way he looks at me in that video you can see how much he loves me but I couldn’t feel it.

            I feel broken. I feel unlovable. I feel like I carry around my heart breaks like they’re precious to me.

            So I quit my job. I have to repair myself. I have to heal. I haven’t told them. I’m just not taking any calls. I can’t. Just like before, that thing in me which allowed me to do this job is broken. Severed. I will never take another call. I will not be raped again.

Honesty is Always the Best Policy

            I decided not to be ridiculous and I gave the lawyer my phone number. There was serious apprehension about this. It took a week for him to get back to me.

            “You know what your problem is, don’t you?” He asks.

            “Yeah. I buried myself.”

            “I’ve been reading these documents and you are just way to honest.”

            It was that moment when Joseph walked into my apartment and dropped the set of keys into the dish by the door. I didn’t want it to happen this way. I felt like I’d been waiting all day for him to walk into my apartment with his keys. I didn’t want to be on the phone with a client. I wanted to be available to him. He came to me anyway. He walked up behind me, wrapped his arms around me, cupping my breast in his strong hand, and placed his face in the crook of my neck. I grinned at him, tickled by his new whiskers.

            “Listen,” the lawyer said, “This isn’t really my area of expertise. I’ll give you the number of my friend, he’s an immigration lawyer. Tell him I referred you.”

            I jotted the information down. I knew this would happen. I knew he wouldn’t be able to help me. Clients talk a big talk. They like to be able to prove themselves useful, to save me. It’s always bullshit. I can’t afford a lawyer, and I told him that from the beginning.

            I hung up the phone and turned my attention back to Joseph. Taking him by the hand I lead him into the kitchen, showing him, with the excitement of a six year old, the dinner I had planned to cook him. Then my phone rang again.

            “Hi Alison, it’s John again. I just spoke to you about your legal issues.”

            Seriously? He needed to re-introduce himself like that? It had been 92 seconds.

            “Yes?” I ask.

            “Well, I just spoke to you as a lawyer, but then I hung up. Now I’m calling you as… well not a lawyer.”

            I knew this would happen. This is why I never give out my phone number. I make calls like these all the time, but to receive them. I felt like Pretty Woman when George Costanza puts his creepy lecherous hands on her. I just didn’t feel prepared. And with Joseph right there! He knows about my job and turns a blind eye. A very blind eye. He doesn’t want me to talk about work at all, he just wants to do his best to not think about it. See, this is a temporary arrangement we have. We’ve been dating since early December, and February 11^th he flies back to his side of the country. He’s just here for the winter, then that’s it with us. Hence being able to over look this little detail.

            “I’m just calling you back to talk about arranging ‘payment’ for my services.”

            “Listen John. Now’s not a good time to talk about that.”

            I just couldn’t find the words to tell him to fuck off without letting Joseph know what I was talking about. I don’t think I’ll ever 'pay' him. He's not any more or less attractive than any of my other clients, but the idea of fucking him with out cash changing hands makes my skin crawl. I know it's barter, but it's just not the same.  Fuck him. I extended trust last week to a client for the first time since I was a newb, and sure enough he conned me. One Hundred. Percent. Of. The. Time. It makes me feel a lot less guilty about screwing this guy over. I just feel the dread of an impending second phone call.