After the Newsweek story that I wrote on Letters from Johns and Spitzergate ran, I was inundated with letters from johns. Since this is not a scientific study, and I am a human being not a robot, I will tell you that if I read too many letters, I get funny in the head. There's something about reading stories like these over and over again--I fucked her. It was good. It was bad. The end.--that can be a bit much for one woman to stand. Also, I got a fair number of fake letters that gave me the proverbial heebie jeebies. There's something particularly disconcerting about reading letters written by men who are pretending to be... female sex workers. I am mystified by this unique strain of male transvestism. Someone who should know about these things suggested these men are gay, pretending to be women having paid sex with men as part of a homoerotic internal narrative. Having read more than a few of them, I don't think so. I think they're fantasies about male sexuality that the male writer can only tell by literary cross-dressing. I don't know. I hate to judge... Oh, wait! I love to judge. But it reminds me of this Playboy TV shoot I did years ago in which I got dragged by ferry to this mansion on Staten Island where we spent the day in a tranny B&B watching the den mother in drag convert regular guys into their alter-ego female fantasy selves. Of course, the problem here is not transgendered types. (Yo! A shout out to all my trans readers! Of which I am sure I have none. Or... do I?) The problem is me. Since I've forever been too tall--my pediatrician once showed me a chart of where I fit in terms of height compared to other kids and waved at some point that was off the page--I think I overidentify with trans folk, rather than seeing them as something as Other. Apparently, I've never gotten over my freakishness, not even now, at nearly six-two. In any case, these letters from men pretending to be letters from working girls, or so I've found, frequently feature a "woman" who invariably tells a tale of how sex work was, like, the greatest thing that ever happened to her, and they invariably conclude with the statement that the thing about it that she can never get over is this one guy who had, like, the biggest penis ever, and that penis in her mind, she has written to testify, will haunt her forever. So, a man sits at his computer to write me a letter as he pretends to be a woman, and his idea of what a woman is is someone who wanders around unable to forget... some guy's penis. Conclusions? I got nothing for you, baby. Anyway, I have gotten some great letters as of late, starring true love, Cerebral Palsy, and the man who wouldn't shut the fuck up.
She told me she dropped out of high school - but after umpteen years in college and grad school all over the world, I have met very few people who could keep up a conversation with her. She discusses philosophy, science, music, literature with effortless ease. Every time I talk to her she surprises me with her insight. Did I mention how beautiful she is? -- "I Met This Girl"
A few years back, I was hanging out with a few other disabled guys who were less physically able than I was. They mentioned that they regularly used a pro because it was the only way they could get the release they craved the most. Most of these guys couldn’t lift their heads up on their own, let alone have the ability to please a woman the way they wanted to. They would go to a brothel and get a hand-job once every few weeks. One of them described his first time with a pro in a way that will stick with me for the rest of my life; he said that "It was the first time I felt like a real man." -- "I Have a Physical Disability"
Giving over $100, $120, $250 of my hard-earned non-profit salary for disinterested hand-jobs, blow-jobs full of teeth, or a quick fuck is the pinnacle of self-hate. The 60 to 90 seconds of orgasm is the only part that feels good. The rest--withdrawing the money from an ATM, handing it to someone else, pumping a drug-addicted, Marlboro-reeking twentysomething who couldn't be more disinterested in me, the walk of shame, the residual condom smell, the distraction of regret, the three or four days of beating up on myself, sneaking in the shower so my wife doesn't smell the rubber, smoke, hairspray, or cheesy perfume--is hell. --"I Couldn't Shut the Fuck Up"
