A love affair never ends.

2:07

Nothing else but fear. I was dead. Might as well have been. Lying in the planes of the universe, up and down. Shards of light streaming in through the cracks of the ... Of the doors and walls that were all askew. I moved closer, look closer and realise. The wall and floors of this coffin are my family, my bedding, my painting, my places my past. If at this point some curiosity still remained, it disappeared once I realised I was dead. This was it, for ever. If life is infinite and ever changing, death was finite and never changing. I was now on the inside of all the things that were me, in the negative space between it all, nothing but fear and me could fit there. So I screamed. Short, loud and utterly incredulous. A few times and I manage to touch a pane of my vessel, much as you would draw a curtain. Screams. Somehow, I am scared still more. Could anywhere be any worse than this? My racing heart does nothing to bring me back to life, but behind that curtain is a dark night sky. A moon and cool air. I can feel it, am I still screaming? Am I still in my coffin? Am I actually in bed? My mind is surprisingly slow considering it's flooded with adrenaline and my heart beats even faster realising I'm alive. Still terrified, but alive. Terrified to even move, from fear of.. Breaking? There is a dread of forbiddenness about the situation that makes my movements heavy like pulling a paddle through silt. As if realising I was alive was a sin and should be hidden from the greater force that governs me. I slowly know now that I was never dead, but if the world is but a figment of my imagination, might as well have been.

Pennies for my thoughts.

Sacred sex irritates me, because it conveys the idea that all the rest is sacrilege. Immoral.

I was about 13 when I first showed my boobs to my friends, saying "I don't care, I'm desacralising my boobs so we don't have to be ashamed". I'm everything of a slut, in the most slurring way of the term. Yet -anecdote- to my knowledge it has never been used to shame me.
I won't contradict anyone saying that sex can be a life changing, plane of consciousness-shifting-experience. I have lived some. Some immediately positive, some positive on the surface, then deeply worrying, but all have deepened my understanding of the matter and made me want to know still more.

I'm infuriated with the idea that, yes you can have unimportant sex, but that as time goes by you will learn to find and give deep meaning to it. A true ageist and condescending idea that is.
The idea that sex work, no let's call it what it is still is, even if you chose it - prostitution, can only end with the worker realising her/his wrongs. Falling in love, thus stopping sex work altogether and forever to become the perfect housewife. She has been saved.

It is not the work in itself that is a problem, yes the very personal and social nature of it is tiring, even for an extrovert, but it's the stigma surrounding it, the constant injunction to question your sanity in doing it, and the need to stand up to others who will forcefully try to save you, rob you or rape you.

Yes, this is coming from a 23 year old, the only unit of measure you can understand, for I have no means of measuring my experience. This is from me, 3 months in, and you will discredit me undoubtedly, but in matters of love and sex, I have always been quite sure.
In the same way I have always known a life of monogamy will never be for me, I know, sex work, is for me. It seems I am earning my living in a way that truly makes sense, seems that my searches for meaning are starting to shine through.

If I could curate my love stories into a museum, you would see that I have had my share, nothing more of food for thought, experiments of what is needed when I am offering a service. The service I offer is a dilution of who I am, what it is to be in love with Joanna, a homeopathy of me. Absolute bullshit but works none the less. I am an experience, who I am doesn't matter, it's what you/they do with it that counts.

As I enter this new cycle, exponentially bigger and more important than any before, I can not see how it will end for I did not even notice its beginning yet here I am: self proclaimed sex worker.

I am part of this new group. A group who doesn't know I'm part of them, but I am. You can't see it on me. It takes test runs to say it. What do you do? I'm a sex worker. I say it to men, easily, to the ones I'll never see again. My Uber drivers. I don't even say it to those who employ me. To them the link between their money my time and our bodies is unclear, they don't want me to exist. To them I'm young, I'm a student, I'm an artist, I'm struggling, I'm in search of adventure... anything but willing to exchange time for money.

-----

I'm crying. I'm shaking and I'm cold. I've just lost someone. As absurd as it may sound, I just lost a lover. My fastest ever lover, only lasted about 30 minutes. We didn't even touch, were never even in the same country. Never heard his voice, only saw letters and smiles on screen. But I miss him. He came 3 times, me only a half. But we had smiles, laughs, carresses, feelings, discussions, sex and goodbyes.

-----

I love the


how to
can’t even


feelings. Oh my god, the feelings we get sometimes, and I’m not talking about the emotions that can arise from situations, more the physical sensations that we can make occur within our fleshy bodies.

Flicking back to last Friday. I spent about 3 hours with an all encompassing hood-mask on. And I can hardly remember anything about it, because I was not meta-thinking. I was just in the darkness of my eyes, with a tiny beam of light sometimes sharding through the holes in it under my nose, my only link to life at that time, if my playmate were to leave his hand on it a few seconds too long... I also had duct tape around my mouth, forbidding my speech, the glue slowly loosening from my sweat. I was in no hurry for it to come unstuck.

Or before, or after when I didn’t have the hood on, but my arms were bound behind my back, my ankles were shackled to a cane, legs spread. Any movement meant contact with the carpet. Transitioning from kneeling to lying tummy down meant scrapping my face on the soft, blue fibrous carpet. As any kid playing knows, carpet burns. I had ample enough reasons for my cheeks to flare red, but this was the main one. It also meant trusting my abs to hold my body long enough to cushion the fall, my arms not being allowed to hold my back, my Player mercifully held my shoulders and lowered me softly.

I often think safewords should be renamed to dangerwords, to express what they truly are. I use all other words while I’m good, I use no, I use stop. Say it’s too much, say I can’t take it. But when I say Red. That’s it, that’s my mind milliseconds before freaking out like it does during my night terrors. Red is arms flalling trying to fly before the fall. That's a dangerword. Safewords should be inching the other on, the “No don’t do it” implicitly but quite overtly to anyone in the know saying OMG YES PLEASE.

A poem of two pens.

Listening to his intoxicating laugh through his chest consuming the room
Feeling like I am melting into an oasis with no escape.

Every turn being more and more indulging with no way out.
The pink Himalayan salt light is all we see if not each other and the darknenss
It's carnal and intuitive
It's all I want and nothing more
I can pretend it's love and cry
Then once I'm crying I'm not pretending
And it's all I want, it's the green eyed monster. He wants something that I'm not able to gasp.
I'll show off to his friends because that's who I am and for once, I don't want anyone else, I can dance with him. His body his hair his fingers all night. But what I don't know he doesn't want this. He just wants a connection that's electric and a gaze that can not be broken.
As long as his smell is there I'm good, it paralyses me, having my heart in my throat. That's how I know I don't want any one else.
Now I'm content. Now I'm a peace. I know what I want.

Lack of sleep is cold. It's like screaming from inside a sound proofed walk-in freezer.