—Thoughts from My Thalassic Lair—
How Not to Win My Favor
I’m going to say this, here, now, without apology: I’ve been fantastic.
It’s a strange time, one during which it can seem almost crass to admit publicly to enjoying oneself and one’s day-to-day life too much. I’m not usually one to censor the expression of my own triumphs and joys, but in conversations with family and close friends lately, I often wait to check the conversation’s temperature before glowing all over someone who may be addled by tragedy or financial ruin or both. I may be ruthless, but I’m not heartless.
But, hell, I wanna gloat somewhere. If not here—where?
Every day’s been an opportunity and a source of fulfillment. I’m continuing to run from zombies on the reg. My pull-up game has never been better than it is right now. I’ve been gifted a Zoom class from a brilliant commercial photographer. I’ve just learned to make fried chicken and, after a day of brining and two and a half days of trying, made the best I have ever had, on my first try. I’m getting really into coding. I’m creating a sexy chainmail garment inspired by the Periodic Table. I’m disciplining a lovably neurotic German Shepherd. I’ve just received the fantastic news that a submissive I regularly chat with [who vanished a couple months ago—I assumed the worst] did indeed contract the virus, but has now recovered. And so on.
While, for everyone’s sakes, I hope testing becomes widely-available enough to allow society to safely re-open, and while I’ve typically defined myself by my love of aimlessly imposing myself onto open roads and traveling freely…speaking solely for myself, I’d be quite happy to observe lockdown measures for a long, long time.
Okay. Change of topic. I’m still getting a lot of email from men who seem, not defiant, but unaware, that there’s a pandemic on—asking, as if it were currently the most normal thing in the world, what it’d take to get me across state lines and into their house, or, better yet, how much it’d take for me to host the match at mine.
To which I say…well, nothing, actually. I don’t respond to those emails.
Either, A. these people just want attention and think baiting me on the pretense of booking a session [at a time when that’s clearly not viable] is the way to get it [if making my acquaintance is what you want, there are legit ways to do that, even now]; or, B., more concerning, they truly don’t see why an in-person session between two humans who’ve never met before might be inadvisable right now—the sort of thing I’d need to be either stupid or destitute to accept [also: my heart goes out to anyone who may be struggling so much financially that they reasonably feel they have no choice but to accept unsafe non-essential work].
Look. I get it. Times are wacky. Just about everyone is some mixture of bored, broke, grieving, scared, angry.
But if you’re someone who has the income to burn on sessions right now? Consider tributes to the session girls, models, or sex workers you like, whose income streams might’ve been disrupted [if not altogether derailed] by present circumstances.
And if you’re bored? Speaking for myself, I oblige those who re$pect my time with regard and attention. A couple fun facts about me: A. I’m not just nice to look at and am as equipped to dazzle you with my rhetoric over the phone as I am with my thighs in the flesh; and, B. I have a serviceable camera, a refined eye, a bodacious meatsuit, and know how to employ the three to great effect.
Or not. But fishing to see whether I, or any peer of mine, is financially constrained enough to meet up right now will not land you in my good books. Be frugal, or be indulgent—just don’t be obtuse.
Watching:
Tales from the Loop
Merchants of Doubt
The Great Hack
2040
Reading:
Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
Bad Blood by John Carreyrou
Deadeye Dick by Kurt Vonnegut
The Disappearing Spoon by Sam Kean
