I think it started when I would start setting aside a bit of my monthly salary for a gay spa visit regularly. I wanted to shift from shared rooms, hurried blowjobs and bathing rituals under watchful eyes to familiarity of my own bed (or the convenience of not carrying lube). I met you on one of my spa visits. You could have been any other - I would have been one of many. For the first time, I had actually chosen the guy on phone and asked specifically for him. I didn't plan on having penetrative sex with you. We met, we talked, we liked each other?
I have bottomed for very few. Impulsively, I decided to do it
for with you. I think in your life you come across some dicks, which not only fit just perfectly inside you, but make you feel like you could worship them. Suck them till your jaw starts hurting. Make them rest on your face while you gently caress them. Compare notes with them. Have picnics with them. Miss them when they are not around. Make you feel like that there is still good in this world.
You were that dick. The one which I wanted to get fucked from. The first one which made me realize what getting fucked actually felt like. Which made me forget that the only reason, that dick was there in the first place was because I paid for it. It became much easier for me to only equate the entire incident with just that dick. I refused to imagine that a thinking, emotional body was attached to it. I took your number, and started calling you to my house. I don't know when I started thinking of you as an intimacy (rather than a fuck), was it when you moaned out my name when you were fucking me? Was it when you kissed me and told me that you rarely kiss your other 'clients'? Was it when you just wanted to lie down next to me and hold me and break the one hour-payment rule? Or was it when you, while putting your dick inside me, said that I remind you of your ex-girlfriend? (lolz) Silly me, I started looking into your eyes instead of your balls. We talked about our respective future plans and we both opened up about our exes (lolz, again). What is with me! Why do I always have to attach these deeper meanings into moments which are....transactions...
I realized that there were only certain kind of intimacies that I started privileging in my memories. The intimacies which made me feel like shit afterwards. I started thinking that I deliberately go for 'paid sex' because it was, in lot of ways, similar to my 'un-paid' encounters. The kind of masculinity I seek, the kind where I wanted to feel like I was lost. Maybe I want to feel like shit after having sex. I want to feel even more lonely. Whenever guys would not go anywhere near my dicks, or not get fucked by me, I would immediately think of you. Think that at least you knew how to please me in bed, and how I never had to bother with all the nonsensical build up on any social media with you. Atleast you knew how to use your dick even when you refused to go near one
It ended abruptly. I started giving massages to women as a side-job to earn extra cash (I still hate and will always hate my first job) and after the 7th (or was it 17th) I just couldn't get the smell off of my hands, even after washing them 10 times. I could smell her sweat, her awkwardness while she unhooked her bra in front of me, her involuntary moans while I pressed her back. I could feel her tension running inside me when I touched her, I could feel her pain when I pressed the thumb on her spine. I just couldn't do it anymore. I thought that perhaps, you would also wash yourself many times to get my smell off of you. You would also look at our time in bed together as a daily chore.
We still talk to each other. Sometimes.
I get those occasional spa mass forwards on my phone from you and wonder did I ever transition from a client to friend?
P.S. It's taken a while for me to write this post. I have been meaning to write this post since almost a year and just couldn't find the right way to articulate this. Because? This is so fucked up. I am romanticizing something where people often don't have agency and where the profession is exploitative in so many ways.
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