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.

I don't even know your name
Yet I wanna spend bright nights with you
Moaning to dhamma, knowing this is not it
I wanna spend dark days with you discussing the divine and the devilish somewhere in between
And yet, I wanna show you the quintessence of my body writhing somewhere beneath you in you
It's the apotheosis of my imposture somewhere beyond the line

Finish the night walking the words, painting the lines
Working on them and dancing between them, only to find that where we belong
and long to be is where my voice cracks as it calls to you,
in the uncertainty of what's up and what's on, I know I am.

-----

Tonight I am an invasion. A poison headed spear
Tonight I am same no NO tonight I am different
I am not the others, I have no kin

I am unfurling Sprawling my sorrow
I am a jack of all, an arrow of none
None the less, none less than me

I am my own queen I have no people
I am the fuss in my pores
and the puss on velvet paws

I miss. I'm his.

I miss the hot, warm, alcholized breath on my neck
The swarming balance, falling onto me
No worry of invading me
I miss the consent we no longer need to give but could refuse in a second without any bitterness
I miss the looks, the eyes creating an emotional motorway for our personal language
The personal, dual jokes, the history
The understanding.
The understanding for carnal mouvements or for reflected philosophy.
Both equate each other and lead to Rome
Earthquake each other as we cave in
No one in, no one out.

I miss, so strongly, the presence of that other person I trust as if he was me.
Because I know him almost as much as I know myself. Or, I have a better understanding of him but more knowledge of myself.

I miss, once again, our eyes and our smiles, together. One
I miss the daytime schedule, lived in separate parts of the city but experienced as part of our own day. Knowing what the other one is doing at any time, not stalking just... Mutual implication.

I miss couch cuddling and being able to move without fear of bothering the other
I miss shuffling on music till even a magician couldn't tell us apart.

I'm a part of him, but we're apart
We're apart but both part of the bigger thing.

Flying so high the sky goes pink

Writing the songs I need to hear
No one is faithful
Writing that love is not binding
Hearing that I'm not insane, I'm not immature I'm not keeping too many backups
Hearing this sang to me, singing I'm not alone.
Every. Single. Person. Is. Different.
Every moment is different and none of them compete
I know this, but sometimes, when the sky goes pink cuz you're flying too high things get cloudy and you're not so sure.
I don't want another mirror in a mirror. A mise-en-abîme. That damages.
I don't want a reflection, I want the glass to clear and show me in my brightest hour, as I really am. I'm nothing without the light.

I don't wanna hear that I can't focus, can't settle down. Don't wanna hear I have to chose. I'm not wasting my time, not scrambling my chances at the happy never after 3 room flat tabby cat.
My people are inside me. Without them I'm not alone, but I'm lonely.
When I touch myself I think of you, and when I touch someone else...
Me too, I'm looking for this solitary serenity. This self supporting position, but I've got balancing ropes. Like a suspended bridge, I'm nothing without my strings attached, but I won't fall if you cut one down.

Maybe the vision through the joannalookingglass is that. My many ropes are what make me I. They don't bind me, they balance me.

Making new habits with new people

Remembering when our habit was that marshy lake outside the Auroville sunsets
Lighters passed around and jokes thrown in the air
Now we -and I'm the only one who's the same- are gliding over swamps lined by cliffs, the Commute-playlist rolling on our car stereo
The mundane we create, start to love and end to hate
As landscapes change from being picturesque to being home and as people pass through, time passes over to the other side.
One day our habits become memories and become the stories we tell over community diners where the "we" I talk about is a bunch of strangers to everyone else but me.
We will never be reunited because we is a changing and bordeless group defined by who I'm focused on at that point, formed by the negative space of those my radar doesn't pick up.
We is an entity absolutely implaceable, because even I don't exist anymore.

8 mars.

Oui oui, journée des luttes des droits des femmes.
Oui, c'est bien aujourd'hui que j'ai fait du sexe avec un homme alors que j'en avais pas vraiment envie.
Oui, dès que j'ai ouvert la porte, ses copains qui partaient, la pièce pleine de lui uniquement et vide d'échappatoire, je savais que j'allais le faire.
Dire que j'ai mes règles? C'est vrai que j'ai une serviette qui dépasse de mon sac.
Mais il me toucherait à travers mon jean, verrait que y'a pas de couche.
Dire que j'ai un tampon? Non, je crois que je pourrais pas tenir le mensonge.
Ma morale, vipassana m'en retient.
Dire que j'ai envie? Que va-t-on faire de toutes ces heures devant nous alors? Alors qu'on parle pas la même langue et que les rires ne véhiculent qu'un contenu minimum, insuffisant à un moment.
Je l'aime bien en vrai.
Il est adorable.
Ma mère croyait qu'avec sa religion, il était innocent et vierge. C'aurait pu. Ou pas. Vous avez pas vu les messages groupés qui s'échangent des contenus NSFW. Vous avez pas passé une nuit avec lui qui ne comprend pas le mot non.
J'ai même pas eu le temps de boire mon thé. Des bisous menthe-thé. Aimantés.
Il enlève mon haut. Ok, jle laisse juste toucher les seins.
Et la brassière, ok bon c'est vrai ça va les seins. Et le ventre.
Ah, tiens, bon. Mon pantalon s'en va.
Jpeux pas vraiment lui dire là, que j'ai pas envie. Pourquoi je suis venue le voir si j'ai pas envie?
C'est pas clair, il peut pas comprendre.
J'ai le droit de boire mon thé avant?
Il est chou quand même, ce garçon. Calin et rigolo.
On a le droit de se re-rencontrer avant d'être peau nue? Jpeux pas lui dire que j'ai envie plus tard mais pas maintenant. Sûrement que j'aurais envie plus tard, mais comment je peux expliquer ça. Pourquoi j'aurais pas envie maintenant si j'ai envie plus tard?
Ah tiens, des coups de doigts. Ah, il efface ma mouille. Bon au moins il va me lécher du coup, ça va aider. Joke's on him parce que jvais pas le sucer, il va pas aimer.
J'ai vu dans ses papiers médicaux qu'il a été traité pour une IST dans le passé.
La dernière fois, la capote a "glissé".
J'ai pas pu me faire tester encore.
Est ce qu'il a fini son traitement? Est ce qu'on guéri de ce qu'il a eu?
Est ce que je vais réussir à lui en mettre une cette fois ci?
Oui.
Oui, c'est ça ma lutte pour les droits des femmes aujourd'hui. Juste ça, mais au moins ça.
Ca m'assèche, la capotte, j'espère qu'il va réussir à jouir quand même, ça ira plus vite.

Et puis ça a été, je m'y suis faite, j'ai bien aimé on s'est amusé et j'ai eu du plaisir. Il a fini.

Quand j'ai du désir, quand je suis lustrée je deviens comme bourrée. Jfais des choses que je devrais ptet pas.
Il a fini et il a appelé ses potes, que je connais. Nous deux, tounu sur le lit encore, ses potes sur whatsapp.
Et il me montre, montre mes seins. Sachez que j'ai pas jouit à ce moment, donc que mes doigts me touchent encore et fuck c'est bon.
Il montre la capote utilisée, rires. Je sais que son pote me kiffe. Je sais que je propage le mythe de la blanche débauchée qui baise n'importe qui. Acclamations. Oui ça c'est moi.
Je tourne le téléphone vers moi, ça lui plait pas ça, hein, que je me montre à ses potes en entier. Pour lui, je suis sienne. Je leur demande s'ils ont envie que je vienne pour eux. Ca plait pas à quelqu'un, l'écran est détourné. Qu'ils me voient ou pas, je vais imaginer qu'ils me regardent. Oui, je vais orgasmer, sa tête sur mon torse pendant qu'il parle dans une langue que je comprends pas avec ses potes sur whatsapp. Je sais pas s'il a senti, je sais pas s'ils ont entendu.

Comment une fille qui fait ça peut avoir pas envie des fois? Il le dit pas mais je sens qu'il le pense.
J'avais ptet pas envie au début, mais au moins, à la fin, j'ai jouit moi aussi. Ca arrive pas à chaque fois, moi jvous le dit.

I'm upstairs.

There's something quite exhilirating in standing no, crouching, bottom up to the too blue sky, and having the first wee of the day. The hot liquid melting the ice on the grass, only just splattering my shoes.

And then I walk back indoors.
To my mum, shreeking, and crying and agonising in her head.
I want to make it all stop for her. End her life, get her a new one. This one, her head, is broken, just like her heart.
Every minute of her body is aching from a breakup. But it's more than that. It's a life of no horizon.
It's a life like the one I glimpsed when I took mushrooms and was stuck in a lifetime-hour of dispair and blinding darkness.

I can see the hoziron for her, but I can't make her touch it. Can't show her it's there. I've just got to watch herself drag herself, on her tummy, through  shattered glass on the floor, while I'm up here, standing, with shoes on saying "don't worry, you'll get through this, the glass stops in a bit." "When?" she asks, "I don't know, but it does." I try, encourage her to stand up too, but she must put all the weight on her hands for that, and oh the pain, things will get worse still. And once up, yes, maybe standing is better, you can see the end but there's still a hell of a lot of shards of glass to step on bare foot.

So smoking helps, it numbs. Sleeping helps. At least she's not moving, not rummaging through fresh wounds. But time to get moving always comes.

I can hear her weeping downstairs as I write. I should go, I should assist. This isn't a daughter's role, but it's mine.

I roll her joints. It would be cruel not to. I didn't smoke last night, maybe tonight she won't too. But I'll roll it if she asks.
I found her a therapist. I cook her food. I encourage her spiritual practises. I try and follow mine, I often follow her. I drive her around, I listen to her, try to find something different to say, a new twist on the "you're not alone, you'll get out of this"
I get irritated.
I'm going downstairs, my presence will calm her weeping, relieve her body from the bad thoughts, they'll still be in her mind, but just that bit quieter.