Monday, May 19, 2003

Sex trade

NOTE: I decided to write more on this topic, to give it more justice.

Simone, my best friend since age 9, and I are finally driving into West Palm Beach. It's getting dark. We left Toronto two days ago to spend the month of January on vacation, in her mother's condo. Just before we left Toronto, a friend gave her a hit of acid. Simone has never done it before. I did it a few times in high school (in fact I wrote a trigonometry exam while stoned) but never enjoyed the chemical, acidic high it creates.

"I dare you to take half a hit with me," she said. Simone has a devilish smirk in her eyes.

"What? While you're driving?" I asked, dumbfounded. "Okay." I say.

She's always daring me to do things, push my limits and loves embarrassing me. Ever since we were children. I tear the square piece of paper imprinted with Homer Simpson in half, and we place it on our tongues at the same time.

We're still driving after 40 minutes - we thought we were closer to West Palm Beach than we are. I'm starting to feel a little buzzed. I'm freaked out that Simone is driving on acid, and she's never done it before and doesn't know what to expect. Fortunately she isn't feeling anything yet. The street, apartment and car lights beginning blurring, like a camera taking a picture with a long shutter speed.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes, I'm not feeling anything yet," she says. "Doh!"

It's typical. Whenever I've tried to do drugs with Simone, they never affect her. We tried half a hit of "e," and mushrooms together on different occasions, and she swears she never felt much. I'm sensitive to drugs and end up being stoned by myself.

We arrive safely.

Grieving from the end of relationships, Simone and I decide to get away for a month. I had just moved out from Les' house two months before, and Simone's marriage has ended. My 'grief-diet' has made me lose most of my body fat, so ironically I look better than ever. Simone has been over-eating, and so we decide to spend our time working out daily, eating very healthy and spending time at the beach to recover.

Simone is an Amazon. She's six feet tall, with long, luxurious chestnut hair, and has an athlete's body. Her husband was into working out so she joined him and developed abs, biceps and the most sumptuous breasts this gay boy has ever seen. She's always been naturally athletic - we did gymnastics together growing up, and diving. She modelled for a few years before becoming a 'dancer.' 'Dancer' is the politically correct term for "stripper."

Simone put herself through university, bought a house, a photography studio and went on several world-wide trips being a stripper. She didn't have sex with men - just danced, and also did lap dances. She comes from money, being Jewish and from Forest Hills, and seems to attract it, like a magnet. While in West Palm Beach: she finds a $50 bill in the parking lot; we're playing pool and a guy offers her $20 to use the table; after staying at a motel on the way to West Palm Beach the owner offers to give us the room for free because we found a cockroach in the bathtub.

I tried to kiss her, once, when we were 12. We'd been playing in my father's church, pretending there were secret passages that lead to mysterious places. She was exhausted from climbing over church pews, leaned up against the altar, and (I thought) pretended to fall asleep. I loved her, and even at age 12 she was gorgeous. I leaned into her face, testing whether or not it was okay to be this close to her, pressed my lips on her and held. She burped in my mouth. I blame her, to this day, for making me gay! She swears not to remember this, and that she actually was asleep. Being Jewish, she feels a lot of guilt for making me gay. Guilt is the commodity Jews trade with.

When I moved to Saskabush, Simone sent me the book, "The Happy Hooker." My mother opened it before giving it to me. I didn't get punished, of course, but I was embarrassed (doesn't embarrass sound like 'bare assed'?).

Most women have felt like fatty blobs when I touched them. Not Simone. I would massage her, and felt like I was with touching an athletic man. Even her breasts were firm. She groaned in pleasure from my touch, but I no longer felt like kissing her.

Now in West Palm Beach, she wants to make some money for our vacation, and decides to check out some strip bars. I go with her.

The first place we go to looks like a chain restaurant. She talks to a swarmy guy, sets up a deal, and dances that evening. I have the honor of watching her perform. I've seen Simone naked countless times, so it's not a big deal. I like her body. But I see her in action, twirling around metal bars and humping. She's raw, and dances like a rock chick, so much more than the other breast implanted, plastic surgery enhanced blond chicks. Who I find out are typical of the trade.

A handsome, middle eastern guy approaches her, and asks her to go for dinner with him, for $3000. No sex. Simone says, "yes." I take a cab home. I'm jealous that she makes so much money, when I'm so broke.

"Why don't you try dancing? You've got a great body, and could make some money on our holiday," Simone dares me.

It goes against my grain, but I do need money. Also, I've decided to expand my boundaries, after Les, who preferred a non-monogamous relationship. I've decided, in my fragile state, to learn how to be openly sexual, share myself with lots of guys, without getting attached. To learn how to enjoy being purely sexual. I did affirmations. "Sex is a wonderful thing. Sex is free, a connection, it doesn't mean much, it's two guys giving pleasure to one another." I was raised Christian - I must deprogram myself from heterosexual philosophies of monogamy. I must practice the Buddhist concept of non-attachment. I'm only jealous because I'm afraid of abandonment and need to 'own' my partner like a piece of property. Also, I never want to be hurt again.

Simone can do it. I can too.

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