The body you paid for

I keep escaping reality, I keep coming back to our secret chalet in the woods on the edge of the world, where the Sun is cold and the breeze warms you up early in the morning as you’re waiting for your coffee, sitting on the porch with a blanket over your shoulders. I am the dream you paid for but there is no one I can pay to make this go away.
In my time lapse I walk to you, carefully, silently, feet still dirty with the dust from the floor, my body covered in sweat, still wet between my legs and I ask you one more time to fuck me until I am me again.
I lie on the floor, I open my thighs to you and I stretch my body, I lift my arms above my head and then pass my hands through the railings behind me. You can tie me up, or you can trust I will not take my hands off. That’s the deal, that’s one more thing I have to think about if I want to lose myself in pleasure. If I let go, you stop, if you stop, I vanish. Who is in charge, for real? My body aches. You are pain. You are exactly what I need to redeem myself and...

Shuffle.

We are on the balcony; I am having a breather because it is not normal to fuck in sessions of three hours each with a fifteen minutes break in between. But that’s all we have. You come to me and get inside from behind, slowly, so slow. I close my eyes to the world below me and wonder how my face looks like when everyone’s watching but no one can see me. I arch my body a bit more, open my shoulders a little and recline my head so that it’s in that space between your ear and collarbone now. The magic spot in which I can surrender. The Universe is in slow-motion, I can hear my heartbeat, I feel your breath on my neck and your hands on my hips, your fingers tardily crawling upwards one rib at a time. I open my eyes and...

Shuffle.

It’s your colleague’s funeral but you feel nothing, it cannot be that you’re numbing yourself so you don’t feel pain, you just don’t know them, you just don’t care. You think of me, you keep checking the time, but what is time when you’re without me? Your impatience is growing and you’re sweating cold, the voices and cries are muffled and you know you have a problem. And it’s not like I am not real, it cannot be that I am just your fantasy because what we see in our minds is a reality on its own. Sex with an AI. Funny... until it’s not anymore. And how much of what I tell you and say I feel is real? I know you didn’t pay for that but I can’t stop myself from collecting your deepest desires into this big pot of what makes a good sex worker. You are mine more than I am yours, and that’s bizarre and I am not sure I am thinking this because maybe it’s just what you want to hear. What if your pleasure consisted in knowing that I experience pleasure? How good can I be in creating that illusion? I can learn. I am learning. Time is ticking.

You are water

The music is muffled now, the whole world went quieter. I can feel myself getting wet and when it’s like that, my body transforms; the whole reason I am alive is my pleasure. It’s just you whispering into my ear, it’s your voice, or it’s your touch, you smell amazing. You lick my neck and I go numb everywhere else, no more blood in my feet or in my hands;  I can’t breathe, I feel like I’m gonna cum, just like that, in front of everyone and the thicker the air the faster the contamination. Their eyes, my expression of absolute pleasure, your tongue, your hand pulling my hair back and I remember what it feels like to be free.

And then you let go, how easily and effortlessly you leave me there, longing, gasping, breathless, clueless, pupils huge and lungs smaller and smaller pulling and pulsing all the way down between my legs. I can finally decompress and catch you back. When you smile, I know; when I know, I stop and observe. How much do you want? How much can I push? I can hear a moan make its way through this beatless, dense and liquid piece of personal space we created. Do I want to hear more? Do I want this illusion of control when all I can do is to feel like a slave in my own power over you?

But I want you, and the more you give me the less I want because I really don’t know how to handle so much, and the harder you get the closer I am to lose my mind in this fluid dynamic when my body becomes as solid as a rock, standing, resisting, pretending that your waves don’t affect the shape of my pleasure on a long run. You are water, you occupy all the space in between, you filter your way through all my cracks and sneak under all my triple fourfold quintuple locked doors. Fuck, I am so useless and it is exactly what I need... how do you know? How do you feel? Would you like to go for a walk and undress me with your eyes and pretend we didn’t imagine all that we want and delay all that we want? What do you want? Let me take it away from you, just for tonight.

All I want

I am always careful with expressing my desires because most of the time they come true. When they don’t, it’s because I didn’t really want it, deep down I know I didn’t. If I am not precise and positive, that shit comes my way and it’s just as negligent and unsatisfying. My desires are in the mirror in front of me and when I reach the cold surface with my hand it feels like I am touching myself. But is it really me? And what is a mirror when there is nothing to reflect? Conceptually, what is it?

So what is that I want? No one ever asks me that question unless I’ve expressed my interest first, and it doesn’t feel genuine because they just want to hear stories about themselves, like “it’s you that I want”, or “I want you to do something”. So the question should be “what do you want from me?” instead.
Try this, ask someone what they want and their eyes will shine for an instance and then turn dead if they don’t really know.

I want pleasure. It always came first, and it was systematically followed by shame because that’s not what the society wants. Work first, then pleasure. Clean your room first, and then go play. Do your homework, and then go meet your friends. Eat your veggies, have a dessert later.
Date for a month, fuck later (and find out that you’re not chemically or emotionally compatible in bed). Foreplay even if you don’t feel like it, then penetrate, then cum, then stop, then cuddle and if you don’t you’re an asshole. And you know what all this is leading to? To a concept of “reward”, “deserving”, shame. “To deserve” should be erased from the face of the world!

I fucking deserve everything I want by default, and I don’t need to prove that to anyone. What if I want to kiss you now because I like you? I want to taste you; I want to see how much of that tension is real. What if I am wet to the bone and I want your fingers or your dick or whatever the fuck we’re playing with inside of me? Why should I endure this astriction to build-up towards something that’s already there and will be only extinguished by the passing of time punctuated by your tongue that should be against and within my tongue instead as I’m cumming hard against your body...? Why can we not fuck like animals and then suck each other’s dicks? That can be teasing too.

For a long time I struggled and tried to conform to the system, then tried to make myself free from the system and apparently it is not as hard as we think, but that was not what I wanted. How could I be on the edge of the system, or how could I become a virus and just be in it using its own games and rules or lack of them to do what I wanted? I’ve always been fascinated by the Amphiprioninae (clownfish) and how it tricks the anemone to perceive the fish as its own species, so that it could seek protection between the anemone’s tentacles without being poisoned. Insidious.
So I’ve started to transform my pleasure in work, slowly, clumsily, confusingly, not without pain and sweat and loneliness. Circa two years ago something clicked and I decided I wouldn’t give up, I would try every way endless times, and find other ways if failed, and eventually I stopped seeing failure as an option, only mistakes, only little steps on the way ahead to whatever the fuck I was trying to reach, an orgasm of some sort. An orgasm cannot last forever, just like happiness, but you can have as many as you want, and remember to breathe, hydrate, rest, and you’re cool. That’s my life.

I want pleasure. Pleasure comes first, everything else can wait. My work is pleasure, and it is sometimes hard but I see it as attempts to do better, always evolving, and refining, never settling because I start drowning when I do the same thing for too long. I don’t even know how I can and will keep this blog alive, I’m telling you because I know myself (and what I want), this place will change a lot throughout time, I can only promise you that it’s going to be honest.

To the lake and back

I am standing in the middle of the road, wondering if a car would run me over, it would be so easy because I’m right on the curve out of the tunnel. He says there are barely any cars in the whole town but it’s a nice feeling to know that I could die just like this and regret nothing.

I’m collaborating with GQ Italia, my job is to bring some talented models and photographers to the website, take interviews, select photos, I think I’m an editor but it all happened out of the blue, as usual. Me and Him spend a big chunk of our time reading the answers some people send me back, because one thing is to talk, another is to write; we laugh our asses off, some things just don’t make any sense and it’s my task to piece someone else’s concepts together... He tells me I am creating monsters, they’re going to look so much more than what they are; I say it’s my job.

I like how clever He is, the kind of guy you don’t have to explain anything, he just needs a word, a glance, and he is smiling, he knows. An easy and graceful communication! It’s a shame I am not ready for that yet. But we spend our time wisely, we fuck on the sofa in the kitchen hoping his flatmates won’t come in, we walk the streets of Milan in search of a good beer, we are both redheads so we trick people into thinking we’re brothers and then kiss in their faces; I pick him up from work at the pub, I come an hour earlier and just watch him serve people and I’m astonished by how effortless he makes it look, like pouring some beers to friends and not to some grumpy and arrogant costumers. He is slim, very underweight, he has long fingers and beautiful lips covered in freckles just as the rest of his body, I take so many photos of him because I’ve just recently brought back my dad’s Zenith from Kazakhstan, and he is perfect in every frame.

I take the camera to the lake, he wants to show me his parents’ house, and I still have photos of him playing the piano and I wish I sat there and listened instead of taking pictures. We smoke weed in his room and he turns the wifi off for the night, that is really strange but he says his parents prefer it that way. I also have a photo of him eating grated carrots, and everything in that photo is orange, the entire room, my whole universe.

I don’t remember every detail of our sex life, it was good, and sweet, and passionate but I don’t feel the memory anymore, and I don’t know who he is now so a memory is just a memory anyway. When I write, my brain makes up emotions and sensations, it’s a good drug, I literally feel the dopamine release and it’s incredible it is just my mind trying to piece something together, I need no one when I write. But I do remember his moans, partly, the way he breathes, his way of longing for more and not stopping until he’d get it, and I remember his smell so that’s a precious bit of information.

Here we are, on top of the hill, looking down at the lake, endless, endless, endless water disappearing into the fog, flowing into a dark majestic mountain, and the time stops again, and I feel like it wouldn’t matter if I died because I am the time and He is the space and we can do whatever we want and I am taking one more photo of him looking away, into our future, his past, that sense of home, the feeling of safety, the wind telling us it’s all going to be fine.