"You're going to start a fucking war one day."
Her assertion interrupted my varied tales of loving and fucking and whatever else had occupied my week since my friend and I last met at the coffee shop. I stopped for a moment, sipping my beverage in silent consideration of the idea. A war. Well, it isn't totally beyond possibility. I'm hardly flattered by the fact that my attentions have incurred bloodlust among my suitors, I've been accused of being a "force of nature", but I have to be self-aware. If I'm not careful, a war may in fact be in fate's cards.
But let's be honest, I have no capacity for real manipulation. I'm an open book, a terrible liar, I can't keep my own secrets to save my life, and I don't keep much from anyone. Some choose to keep their alternative lifestyles and socially subversive interests under wraps, but I lack the discretion and modesty to be anything other than out. One of my coworkers surprised me the other day:
"You know, everyone at work knows your a freak."
"How?"
"You look like a freak and you walk like you can take a dick."
I would say that this guy is a proponent of radical honesty if I didn't know better: he's a sociopathic asshole who calls them like he sees them. I don't disbelieve him - nightclub bartenders talk like that without blinking an eye.
I work in the service industry along side perverts, addicts, thugs, slackers, and entrepreneurs. I'm an artist and my top creative outlets are flirting, fucking, and being filthy, flithy kinky. I hold down the job for structure (read: sanity) and of course, enough cash to do as I please. I'm exposed to wealthy trash and rich vagrants daily, but the job is a weak context framing my experiences: my real profession is living as a madame cassanova, an emotional, physical, and geographical conquerer of sorts.
I hold lovers, I travel the world, and I light shit on fire. I am Helen of Troy: I offer you my thoughts and stories.
Her assertion interrupted my varied tales of loving and fucking and whatever else had occupied my week since my friend and I last met at the coffee shop. I stopped for a moment, sipping my beverage in silent consideration of the idea. A war. Well, it isn't totally beyond possibility. I'm hardly flattered by the fact that my attentions have incurred bloodlust among my suitors, I've been accused of being a "force of nature", but I have to be self-aware. If I'm not careful, a war may in fact be in fate's cards.
But let's be honest, I have no capacity for real manipulation. I'm an open book, a terrible liar, I can't keep my own secrets to save my life, and I don't keep much from anyone. Some choose to keep their alternative lifestyles and socially subversive interests under wraps, but I lack the discretion and modesty to be anything other than out. One of my coworkers surprised me the other day:
"You know, everyone at work knows your a freak."
"How?"
"You look like a freak and you walk like you can take a dick."
I would say that this guy is a proponent of radical honesty if I didn't know better: he's a sociopathic asshole who calls them like he sees them. I don't disbelieve him - nightclub bartenders talk like that without blinking an eye.
I work in the service industry along side perverts, addicts, thugs, slackers, and entrepreneurs. I'm an artist and my top creative outlets are flirting, fucking, and being filthy, flithy kinky. I hold down the job for structure (read: sanity) and of course, enough cash to do as I please. I'm exposed to wealthy trash and rich vagrants daily, but the job is a weak context framing my experiences: my real profession is living as a madame cassanova, an emotional, physical, and geographical conquerer of sorts.
I hold lovers, I travel the world, and I light shit on fire. I am Helen of Troy: I offer you my thoughts and stories.
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