It’s hard to see suffering… when your eyes are closed

Okay, so this is nuts, but the last few weeks, I have found it damn near impossible to form even a few thoughtful sentences together cohesively enough to begin to elaborate to you, my friends, how I’m actually feeling. At least, not in print. I don’t know what has so disrupted my usual venting off of all my frustrations and queries, but I am certainly struggling with the loss.

I thought today would be just more of the same. Actually, I didn’t really think I would be able to write anything down at all. The computer screen has stared back at me blankly for so long now, I was beginning to think that the words must have sprung forth from some long forgotten knowledge, and not by any hand of my own.

Silly hooker. Of course, I am fully aware that these are thoughts straight from my very own disturbed skull, but you certainly wouldn’t know it if you could see me struggling to just relay already occurred events to you now.

However, last night I met a very interesting young fellow. He had 25 years experience in real life matters and a lifetime worth of “the biz” experience. Crazy for someone his age. Don’t ya think?

I mean, we had an excellent time. I was very surprised to find him very skilled in the bedroom. But nothing surprised me as much as the conversation we engaged in immediately following the moans, and cries, and begging for mercy. (Hey. I’m pretty sure at least a couple of those grunts were his.)

First off… this mother fucker wore me out. And it wasn’t like he was trying too hard to make that the result, but a crumpled mess is still how I ended up. He was just really good at fuckin. But, there was something else about him, too. I don’t know. Something that kind of… intrigued me. So much so that I guess I began asking him his paticular view on certain things.

I was absolutely floored that he actually felt comfortable enough to share his personal thoughts and experiences with me. I listened intently for the next several hours. Mouth agape. Possibly, even, just the faintist strand of saliva forming at the corner of my already far too parched lips.

60+ escorts worth of experience. I think that kind of places him up there with the Pro Series. Doesn’t it? Well, if it doesn’t, it certainly should. 

This young gentleman surely couldn’t have missed a beat (or a cherry, for that matter) to have tasted so many of this panhandle’s precious delights. And, thankfully for me, he enjoyed being able to freely share his true opinion and gathered knowledge on our local state of affairs.  

I truly do still hold steadfast to the belief that, if there were more girls available who actually truly enjoyed WHAT they do AS MUCH AS they enjoyed that cash flow that came with it, I think it would set a higher standard for the girls making most of the money right now. 

Not that there is anything wrong with any of the providers available today (shhh… we can hear you)… But a little competition never hurt anybody. In fact, it tends to up the ante. The higher the goal, the more accomplished one must certainly feel to reach it.

Look, if nothing else, perhaps you’d hear a lot more TRUE APPRECIATION from some of your favorite providers. (Not that we ever get too full of ourselves… Na ah!) I can certainly attest firsthand to the wonders of a little humbleness every now and then.  

And, hey. Who knows? We might see a lot more female orgasms going on around these hallowed parts. Talk about something that makes you feel special. Woo hoo! Happy girl. Happy world.

Unlike most of the twenty-something year olds I’ve met in the past, my young friend has a very keen grasp on the types of lifestyles that are most commonly associated with this paticular profession.

It was so easy talking to him. And I was over the moon excited to hear some of my own views expressed through the eyes of someone leading such a very different life than my own. Before we knew it, hours had passed, and neither of us really had a clue.

I’ve always identified with men more than women. I don’t know why that is, because, honestly, I’m really just a sensitive pussy most of the time. I suppose men just seem a whole lot less complicated than women (or girls)… for the most part. Especially when it comes to sex.

Finally! A guy who could be open and honest about his extracurricular frivilties. Oh, that is so fucking rare these days. We were able to talk freely without worrying about what the other person would think, and without any jealousy of any kind. Fellas like this are sure hard to find. (I myself am blessed with a couple of these insightful gents.)

He was so honest and frank and genuine. He even told me about the few times that he’d been scammed and ripped off. You better believe that I absolutely know firsthand his frustration in those situations. It was so refreshing to be able to share my own unfortunately hilarious mistakes and hard learned lessons. 

Before anyone goes the fuck off… I am totally bragging on his ability to comprehend and communicate so easily with me primarily because of his age. (Look. No offense, but some of us are just now picking up on some of these ‘not too fuckin subtle’ clues. Hey. Nobody’s giving me high fives for my quick responses either, darlin. I’m too busy trying to blend in and not make too many waves until I actually do get better at understanding some of the crazy shit people do. Hell! Just high five me. I feel a nap cummin on.)

I can honestly say, this titilating conversation with someone I’d hardly just met, set fire to the fuel that had been building up in my gut. I didn’t just wanna write. I HAD TO WRITE.


Speaking so candidly with him, somehow, must have dislodged a bit of that fear and anxiety I’ve been stuffing down for the past few weeks. Look out now… My mouth is again open… God knows what’s fixing to fly…

Come on. Most of you know me pretty damn well, me thinks. I’m not always the most observant at first. I certainly have proven my lack of any ability to distinguish good intentioned people from the bad and indifferent. Well, not at first glance.

Thank goodness I eventually catch on. You fellas pick up on certain signs and ques much faster than I ever have. But, eventually… I do span the gap and see things more clearly for the winding path already run. Oh, but this time fellas… it is possible my lack of ability has been far exceeded by my gift of observation.  

I completely agree with the basic principles of truth in reviews. In all sincerity, I am indeed quite grateful for a website that finally highlights the enjoyable times I experience firsthand quite frequently. 

In turn, it has been very beneficial for me to finally be (ahem) judged (the only fucking word that seems to fit) on more than just the size of my panties. Which, by the way, are sexy as fuck! (Guess you’d know that if I would wear ’em more often. Eh?)

I am definitely no different than any of you. I read the partial reviews of certain ladies, and I, probably far too often, almost feel I can relate to certain providers. Like, we share some kind of an unseen lustful ambition.

Of course, I am so often so very, very wrong. I mean, some are just obviously in it for the cold hard green acquired as a courtesan of the evening (bet you liked that shit didn’t ya? Im using my fancy words.) 

But, sometimes… Okay, perhaps, more often than I care to admit, I have actually convinced myself that I understand them personally and almost feel a bit of a connection with them just from the excited retelling of the fantastic experiences they have succeeded in sharing with a new friend.    

How foolish. Well, yes. I totally see this now. Right now, really. I’ve cheered them on from backstage. I’ve smiled at their swift ability to draw a truly lustful crowd. Oh yes! That chick must be doing something right! Perhaps, we are very, very much alike.

But the conversation last night was far too daunting and eye-opening to be ignored. It was true. It was more than true. I mean, more often than not, despite the humble beginnings and lustful nature of some our best known local escorts, greed has an innate ability to corrupt and distract at every turn.

I’m not fucking innocent. I didn’t get into this biz so long ago because of my sex addiction. Hell naw. It was my drug addiction and subsequent career disposal that left me searching for a way to support my habit without having to take from others. (I know. Way to justify, right?) 

It’s 100% true. Okay. It was also my goal to find a job that didn’t feel like work. BINGO. 

Despite an escort’s initial reasons for choosing this profession, the ability to make money swiftly is quite addictive itself. Sadly, most of those good intentioned female figures have often been vacated and replaced by empty souls with only one purpose. FILL THE HOLE.

With what? Shit. With whatever. I used to stuff my big whole full of crack and alcohol. (Pssst. You shoulda seen how much I can fit in that gaping azz thang.) Only to find out eventually, that I was steadily dropping all of my preciously placed stuffing right out of my very own hind end. What a mess!

My friends knew. Oh, trust me. They knew. Despite my people skills and strong ‘work’ ethics, you can never truly hide a drug addiction for very long. It’s just not possible.

I sat idly by and witnessed someone I used to have so much in common with dropping weight so steadily these past 8 months that it even kind of freaked me out. I was already very aware of the deadly demons she’s fought daily since long before even I knew her real name. It is an uphill battle, at best.

Unfortunately, her newest pics are beginning to show those many restless nights etched broadly into her deep penetratingly, beautiful eyes. I know she’s been going through something. But we never were that close, and now… I have no idea how she would even react to my upturned palm of friendship. (Plus, I promised myself no new friendships until I get much better at pickin ’em.)

Anyone who’s ever been near enough to hear her story, has to have witnessed it as heartbreakingly as I have… through her very own selfies. Her monsters may go by a different name, but they injure and cause pain just as formidably as the ones I myself know so very well. So, I watched in silence.

However, my disappointment abounded today as I swiped at the small purple marks that, I assumed, must be stuck to the screen of my phone. They didn’t budge. 

Even then, pushing at the little pinpricks I refused to immediately recognize the undeniable scars made by the sharp object that had punctured an unmistakable bright purple path of addiction along the veins in her delicate pale hands. 

I was sad and, altogether, let down. I’ve never traveled this particular road, but the destination is the same. It’s only the speed with which impact actually occurs that truly changes the overall damage done…

And, oh God, is it ever so much worse when that slick path is paved with stacks of green paper. How could I have missed something so completely obvious in almost everyone of her pics?

I love you guys, but let’s finally get this straight… I definitely don’t know people as well as I think I have convinced myself that I do. But I have a real problem seeing someone in pain or hurting. 

Despite the fact that the victim is also the assailant, no one benefits from this battle. And it is a truly terrible thing to watch. Like a coward, I turn away.


8 Replies to “It’s hard to see suffering… when your eyes are closed”

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