Tuesday - February 26, 2002
Absence and Adoration

Where exactly have I been?

This diary seems to keep asking that question, doesn't it? I mean, why the hell did I start a diary if I didn't want to keep it up, right? Well, it turns out that having the time to plan these things is a lot easier than having the time to maintain them. Hopefully, once my day obligations are complete and I am once again returned to being a creature exclusively of the night I will find myself tapping on the keys and posting here more regularly.

Although, to be honest, this long an absence wasn't entirely my fault. No. Really. I have a note.

There was a rather bad thunderstorm, which struck the Tampa Bay area some days ago. It turns out that a rather inconsiderate bolt of lightening took out a Comcast cable relay station. So, I was left without a cable modem or cable television FOR FIVE DAYS.

You never realize how much Oz and Sex in the City mean to you until you lose them. Luckily HBO shows them 100 times a week. Otherwise I might have been mightily put out.

There is an amusing scramble to contact people when such a thing happens. Sifting through notebooks for phone numbers - constructing bizarre temporary phone tree systems. So-and-so tells so-in-so who passes it on to what's-her-name until everyone in cyber reality knows that I am not laying dead at the bottom of a ravine ala Wile E Coyote. Rather I am sitting in my living room staring at a perfectly good Dell system with no cable modem access and swearing colorfully over the fact that I haven't gotten around to fixing the dial up modem that got fried some months ago. It's enough to make you do something desperate like take a hostage and climb a bell tower. Or, worse - READ.

I remember books vaguely. They were in my life before the computer. Before the internet. Before the History Channel and HBO and DVD players and the evil Playstation monster. I used to read voraciously. I was, after all, a communications major with a minor in English Lit. I used to read Hamlet to relax for Chrissake. Now, I honestly cannot tell you the last book I read. Well, that's not entirely true. There's those Harry Potter things, but that doesn't count. Those are the guilty pleasures of social pressure. However, I am happy to report during this unwilling bout of withdrawal, I actually managed to lay hands on a novel and read it. Yay me.

I also played around with my animation studio and made a new banner. Banners are turning into something of an enjoyable hobby for me. But, I promise that these few will hold me for the moment. I don't expect I'll have the time to tinker with them much for the next few weeks.

The Johns have been steady but nothing extraordinary. Andy has found a new infatuation for the moment. Which is a relief. Aside from the raunchy details of his peculiar tastes, he can be painfully repetitive. Once the shock of his nasty fetish wears off, it actually manages to get boring. You can only be fetid in so many ways before you start to parody yourself. Kinda like Friday the 13th part XIV - Jason Chops Liver or whatever it was. The numb cunt can only wander into the closet alone so many times before you just don't care if she loses her head or not.

I do have a few new johns. The tree has been dropping them rather oddly. The latest batch of newbies have all been lonely men looking for sweet affection as opposed to hardcore nastiness 101. And with them comes a somewhat odd problem. Many want me to tell them I love them.

Now, I have no problem lying to men. I have no problem uttering any manner of gritty, disgusting vulgarities or gory details. But to tell a stranger calling a phone sex line that I love him is outright SICK. It makes me want to shout at them to seek counseling. And I hate to play into that pathetic request. What tact I take usually depends on the john. Sometimes I just play off like I didn't hear him, and offer some other terms of endearment to smooth over the moment. Sometimes I play it into a substitute for sex. "You love me baby? Come on, show me that love. Give it to me."

But then there are the guys who keep you pinned in that corner asking over and over again to be told they are loved. It's sad, really. But, often times I wonder if it's also a test. The first regular I ever had was a Daddy. He called two - sometimes three times a week, all half-hour to one-hour calls. For months he'd say "come on, tell Daddy you love him," and I artfully dodged the punch. Until finally he insisted and I sucked it up and answered "I love you, Daddy."

That was the last time he ever called. I've always wondered why. If he was embarrassed at forcing my hand, or for so blatantly needing the validation in the guise of role-playing. Or if that was the test - the challenge, and once he had it, the quest was complete.

It makes me feel cheaper to say "I love you" than it does talking about pissing into someone's face. Maybe it's cheesy, but when I say those words to my friends or family - even as a goodbye from a telephone call - I mean them. And, saying those words without meaning them - well, that's the only time I feel like a whore in this gig.

Still when all is said and done, I don't say it for the money. I don't swallow my objections and lie because I'm willing to do anything for a buck. I do it because it seems cruel to deny them the moment of pretending that they seem to crave. For all I know it's the only time any of them hear a woman express love - even if it is forced and insincere.

I guess we all lean on different crutches of self-deception.

Denial, Extra-Strength: Strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.


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