Once a dork always a dork except me of course


I wear glasses, I have for a long time, my mother blamed books, those infernal things about the size of a small handbag with lots of words in them – often – shockingly – without pictures. I had a thing about staring at these things for hours on end, sick I know.

My mother, faced with the problem of having a four eyed child set about organising at least designer frames, which at that stage in history were difficult to find for children, but she had internets and a will of iron, and of course a double metallic credit card.

I didn’t care too much for them, and I sulked, complained and generally did what children do until their parents are forced to compromise, she got both what she wanted and what I wanted. I preferred the thick rimmed black heavy look, studious I thought, that made her skin crawl, she went for the bejewelled Gucci. I never wore them unless it was with her, that was the eventual deal after I ‘accidentally broke’ four pairs.

Still, I was four eyes at school, it doesn’t matter about anything else, if you have a flaw kids exploit it, I didn’t care, my dad wore glasses, your argument is invalid. I liked having glasses, it was like a shield, its true that they make you less cool and I liked it, probably just a little more because it pissed my mum off than I’d admit to her.

I saw myself as ‘Geek cool’ as opposed to jnr slut which I thought all the popular girls were, and how they dressed in out of school time, and I pursued that – again causing my mum yuppie anguish. As I got older though my plans of being cool in my own way hit an impasse, I did a great job – overall – of not getting attention from not only the class cool girls but boys.

So when I was twelve I agreed, I’d get contacts, I have to say it worked quite well and got my mum off my case. That wasn’t the silver bullet I was looking for but I felt more confident that my specs were not frightening off boys.

So all that is for the sake of Google Glass - what the fuck were/are they thinking?

For most of my childhood and teens Google has been a giant, with so much cash and nothing to do with it, the tech giant has been pouring billions into cool but useless projects, for example Youtube – sure its awesome but money? I’d hate to see the returns on that. Maps? My favourite nav, but its free. Chrome – don’t use it. Gmail, yes thanks I love it, but its free.

The problem is Google is the dork, and they want to look like apple, but Apple has cool kids working for it, and they had a marketing Genius in Steve Jobs to run it, Google has, well dorks really, they often buy a new hot shot marketer or business manager to try and be more than the world’s search engine, they want to be more.

So iMac, iPod, iPad and iPhone later Google is crying itself to sleep at night after dressing up as Steve Jobs and standing in front of the mirror – just as I did to Britney as a child – but don’t tell anyone right? I’d hate the shit out of that one becoming public knowledge.

So Google gets into ‘me too’ products, an OS to drive phones – an iTunes store – play and so on, but they are unsatisfactory, what can they do to be an innovator  like Apple?

At this point some dork decides to pipe up and say we need a mobile internet, a cool one like the displays on ‘minority report’ and “matrix’ that pop up in front of you like a hologram!

Genius everyone in the boardroom at the Googleplex shout!

But how, holograms are not that advanced yet!

How about glasses, you beam the internet onto them and so you can access it while you walk or drink soy late!

More geniuser! Lets pour fuck tons of money into it! Yay! And they do, and produce something that kind of works and is kind of small enough to wear.

Only it looks dorky and stupid, like bluetooth headgear only old men past their 60’s and programmers who never leave their mum’s basement think its rad.

Unfortunately glasses make you look dorky, and the latest iPhone is still a lot sexier – oh well, we only spent a jillion dollars on it, any more ideas from IT?

Google zimmer frame? Fuck yes, get over to R&D right now!

Mater Familias


She configured to me a sparse, dead heart
This these blue veined thing impressive as Jocasta

Hard hearted harbinger of Hermes, lovely all the same
This is the surface of things, my love, its all that really matters

In dreams she closed my mouth with a safety pin, monster
“This is what they used on babies, before the due diligence ran out”

In time comes more pins with threads, gossamer or webish
Open handed is kind, close fisted is for times beyond redemption

This and that, all things are relative to the viewer, a pin or a punch
And so it goes, and so it went and some day hopefully it’ll end

In dreams I watch you, need, ambivalence, hatred, passed.
A happy face turns to the sky, heat and rain and things outgrown

When the sound ends, the roar, to the delicate shower of crystal
A fade, a note passed, the stale sound of nothing at all

Various offences


Years ago

Out of a cab window

Near dawn

I saw you pass

And years had passed

Near dawn

The sky wept with indifference

The cab kept going

So did we

Others, mothers, brothers, fuckers and stars

Deadpan lives

Behind veneers and Laura Ashleigh

Cold and wet and against the wall at DSE

Blood bags

Pretty smiles, dresses, lacerations and acid

Running barefoot down Grey

I thought I saw

Can’t be

Dark and LED rears of cars

Sleep will make it better

The ghost of harlots past


Last week was my 2nd anniversary of not being an escort, officially. I l always remember it as a Friday the 13 but it was the 14th, 9am I went into the offices of Bastard & Bastard Pty. Ltd. and explained to my solicitor that I really didn’t care to go to work that night, nor any nights in the future – how much was it going to cost me?

Typically of hell spawn he ignored the question and began to assure me of his skills, and that of his team, true evil can smell how much money you have and will be surgical in its removal. Six months it took, for the fireworks to be over.

First I had to hand back all possessions that belonged to said employer, which I did. then I wasn’t to take any calls from them, which meant getting a new phone, avoiding them ringing on my intercom was more hairy though.

My lawyer said – “Really, what the worst that could happen?” I do this thing when I want to say stupid question I raise my eyebrows and stare, I did that until he moved on. Eventually my ex boss and I worked it out but I lost close to a months pay and that’s pretty much your years wages.

I was nervous as hell for most of that time, there was a slight sense of relief, but not what I was expecting, what I wasn’t expecting was withdrawals, and that’s what it was, I’d been getting more than my share of trouser snake since I was in my early teens, almost without a break, suddenly stopping made me climb the walls.

I did go out and get some in the manner normal people do, but that felt like I was cheating, I basically did cold turkey until I stopped obsessing about it, and that only came after I had something like a break down and my friends hauled me off to the doctor(s).

The worst thing for me was not working, not that I need the money but I’d been paranoid about becoming destitute for so long I think that working, for me was a way of feeling better – more secure. I became introverted, I hardly left my house, eventually I decided I needed to pull my finger out (cough) and do something radical.

So I sold my beautiful home and I moved to a friends’ farm, where I’ve been for two years – ish.

It is said that your job does not define you but being an escort – a whore, well that s just impossible, its one of those professions like priest or hunter, its primordial, accursed since people invented curses, I was used to and comfortable almost with being a pariah.

Again though, it was working, purpose, structure this is what I lacked, and taking the laughably modest pay of my current job was the best thing I’ve done in years. True I was more happy with myself when I went to uni, but I wasn’t there for the right reasons, at my job now I have little pressure, other than what I have to do, quite easy to me anyway.

I’ve long been aware that you spend to your income, so I have tried to be more modest, actually I’ve hardly spent any of my pay, it sometimes surprises me that the only transactions to my account are pays, to my work account, in the past I’d have hundreds of those every month.

Eventually the cravings became manageable, now I’m not so motivated about the whole sex thing, nor am I so motivated to chase love, I’ve become even less interested in that. The net effect is I care about less, I don’t watch TV any more, I don’t care about world politics, and I’m happy, not ecstatic, just content, contentment it seems to me was very expensive to earn, it’s taken me a good ten years or so.

Not now I have a headache…


So I was surfing porn last night and – wait what? Well, you know, it’s been a week now and uhh… Bluntly I’m not a fan of porn, I have issues with it, which is funny right – barring in mind I was an escort for years, but this is the thing, I find it tacky at best and at worse really gross. Not as in I don’t like naked people fucking like dirty pigs – did I say that? (Blush), it’s when I look at it, I just feel a bit vile, I find a lot of porn casts women in a trashy dumb slut kind of way, they more look like a desperate implement of cock abuse, like that’s all the chick(s) want and the men – they mostly are creepy types who I imagine like to beat up the skank when they are not tea-bagging them.

Yes I did a lot of that kind of sex, and I was more than likely paid much more than these women to do it, business, albeit a rude and crude kind of trade, and the most primal one known, other than religious extortion in my humble opinion. That’s not the bulk of what I did, most of it was at the very least quite easy (for me) – physically and mentally. So here is the thing, not all men are monsters, not all men want to bend you into painful positions and painfully fuck you while slapping you around then drench you in man milk. So why is so much porn like that?

Fantasy, it’s all about fantasising, and let me tell you the stuff that goes on in a woman’s mind is probably no less extreme but the thing that separates the two is that women realise the difference. Hence the popularity of that shitfully written and utterly crap book “Fifty Shades of Grey” I lasted two chapters and all the way through I was thinking I could make a fucking fortune writing better stuff than this dribble.

Women don’t spend all day chewing their lower lip, on slow boil for their bf/gf to get home and aggressively fuck their brains out. Men would love to think so, and I think its because men are highly geared to sex, they think about it a lot more, from adolescence on, they fantasize constantly about what its like. Us, we have hobbies, likes, interests and they take up a lot of our time, our sex drive isn’t less, I fucking love fucking but even having done what I did, I spent almost all my off time and even a lot of my ‘on’ time not thinking about it. Most of the time I was with a client even fucking I was occupied by something else, and I was good at my job, good enough to retire two years ago and frankly I probably could live the rest of my life without working. But I like working, I like being around people so I do.

In my idle time I think a lot, about any number of things, yes I’m jaded about sex, but even when I wasn’t, even in my early teens I was more interested in fantasising about relationships – if I was fantasising about males at all. Now, with the vast lexicon of my past adventures I recall them far less than you’d imagine, unless you’re a guy of course – wink.

Its summer, I’ve just (kind of) ended a relationship and well, it’s quiet here, I didn’t feel like reading, writing or a movie… I’m at my physical peak I think, I don’t have a problem getting in the mood, I never do, maybe that’s something I trained myself to do, but I think its more my age and hormones.

I was looking for something to set me off, something fap worthy, so I goggled some laughable terms and got general rubbish. I did six months of a marketing degree at uni, and enough to realise that webmasters load the shit out of metadata, porn is no different so practically anything you type in that has a vague sexual bent to it will lead you to *cock hungry sluts from hell dot com*, yes but I don’t want that. I really really don’t want a POV of choking some poor meth addicted skank with a ridiculously huge cock. The money shot at the end of some sex scene that I found mildly hot tends to end in her getting it all over her face – which might be hot for you but it reminds me of how hard it is to get out of your hair, how gross it feels when it cools down, how it shrinks in your skin and that stuff fucking stings when it gets you in the eye. Gah, girl version of soft-on.

Don’t get me wrong, I actually have exhibitionist and voyeuristic tendencies, I like watching a woman getting it, or someone watching me get it, hell, the more the merrier – literally! With porn the strike rate is way lower, most of the time it puts me off so much that I just give up, being put off completely.

Oh well, at least there is always Dita Von Teese, on whosay – gah! Look at those boobs, bitch…

Welcome to normal, please stop hyperventilating.


I know I’m a snob, I was bred to be, according to my grandparents our family invaded England in 1066 and from then on we have looked down on all and sundry from the security of walled castles. Things never improved, everyone I was related to looked snobbishly at the proles and even though I felt that was rude and uncalled for it obviously rubbed off because I have a little secret.

I’ve never been to target before.

Or Kmart.

Or whatever your equivalent is.

Now that my weekly wage is less than my previous hourly rate, and by a significant amount I decided — bitch get off your high horse.

When I got back from Melbourne two days ago I noticed I’d left quite a lot behind in a suitcase I’d left in Em’s bedroom. Shorts, bathers, thongs (you call them flip flops, jangles or sandals where you come from) and various other hot weather clothes. Don’t you categorise your clothes? What – you don’t pack three bags of them for a weekend? Wtf!

So I got in my car before and drove to town, the ‘Country Target’ store was open and my immediate reaction was, fuck me, look at all the bad hair dos! I went to the bra section first because my every day bra’s have seen better days and I needed something modest for work.

After looking for 5 minutes and not finding anything I asked a helper for help.

“Do you have anything plain in a 10c?”

“You’re not a C.”

“I am.”

“You’re a B.”

This went on for an irritatingly long time, I know my tits bitch, in fact half of Melbourne knows my – no stop there. So I said ok, fine get me what you think fits.

She walks me over to the plain cotton push up bras, in the kids section.

“I don’t want a push up bra.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want my boobs thrust up at work.”

She looked at me like I said I rode a unicorn to the store. This wasn’t going anywhere so I asked her for a normal bra, begrudgingly she took me to the adults section.

“Good luck at finding one in your size.” She grunted, and yes she was right, I eventually gave up and went looking for shorts.

Same deal, forget the adults section, try kids, OK this sounds like ‘white people problems’ to you but according to Target I am a child, the children’s range tops out at 16 and that’s where adult starts. So I can choose from fucking bananas in pyjamas, nana’s little angle (yes I shit you not typo, it didn’t specify degrees) and some kids show I’d never heard of.

Then I had a quick peek at men’s… They have a far more basic system without so many confusing numbers.

I’ve never even seen 7XL I mean what the fuckerty fuck does that mean, I have no restraint by seven? This fucking is the number of the O’beast!

kids shorts – that’s what I fit in, forget adult according to Target I should be six politically correct sizes up by my age, and lucky me because there were a whole one pair, one white pair of pants with M&M’s on them 1 pair of pants, obviously ordered by accident – what sane woman wears white pants? Give up, just give up, I decided to go back to the adults section and I found one pair of size 6 thongs – no not the arse flossing kind the foot kind.

Why does everything in the shop have logos and stupid prints on it? Why is it that nothing is plain? Is this the secret – plain clothing is expensive? Fuck it, I’m going back to buying online.

On the up side all of this cost me $21 and I can’t remember anything other than a pair of knickers costing me so little. This is going to take some getting used to.

I hadn’t smoked all day, I smoked 3 ciggys on the trip home. It possible not to enjoy shopping, sadly. One thing I have noticed about shopping – I used to love it, it was like a little reward for performing but now, it’s borderline trauma. This is what it feels like to be marginalised maybe? I’ve been out evolved, soon mutants like me will be relegated to fossils, Christian fundamentalists will point to my bones and declare me an impossibility and use me to brainwash children, who by that stage will be twice my weight.

This might be a slight exaggeration for comic effect

The Devil May Care


I can’t even guess at how many relationships I’ve had, the long term ones I can remember, and for me, long term is anything past three months, of which this is number four. The end to this one is remarkable in that it was peaceful and more a change than a full stop. Have I matured, I wondered? Why are we not hating each other, why don’t I feel bad for a litany of things undone or done? We kiss, hug, that turns into passion and so on.

A break up week, as much fun as the first week, as opposed to two months wind up, spark, ignition and explosion. Maybe it’s girls? No, the difference here is that my head wasn’t in the clouds, I saw no distant pickets, dogs, growing old and debating literary thematics in our dotage.

I have, in the past had some ultra-fucked up ideas of what is normal, what I should be striving for, I credit my recovery from depression with a large slice of giving up, not caring and of course an end to ‘must see TV’. Life is – well I have no fucking clue there but I know what it’s not now, and that is everything I have ever been convinced of up until this point.

Live without the big picture, leave plans to mice and men, they seem to like them, they have had a dubious effect on me.

One of the bang my head against the wall moments I had with Em was over my now impressive collection of books — “The fuck do you keep these for, you can’t possibly read all of them and the others, you’ve seen the art books — why keep them?” “I love them, each one, it’s a world — “

Hello epiphany. Meh, I knew that anyway, escape is intrinsic to human beings, as is delusion and the almost orgasmic relief that comes with finding one’s own personal favoured flavour of it.

How can she go through life without loving books, without even reading? My love has read exactly how many books were prescribed by her high school. Fuck me, how is that possible? Is this what religious people think when they come across a non-believer — utter shock and a deep lack of comprehension?

She and I, we have a past, she loved me for caring for her, I loved her for her nativity, simplicity, I joke that she’s dumb, but the thing is it’s more that she doesn’t give a damn about things that are high brow, they bore her. There is a lot to love about her, brash, unashamed selfism, but within that there is also a deep child like love of life, simplicity, I like I do.

She’s a few years younger than me, I rarely date down, but I see the attraction, to me though it’s envy most of the time. In this I realise that she’s helped me recover too, to have someone close that is just a happy person, she was a guide back to the light, my lighthouse.

Did we ever have what I would classify as a relationship? Maybe, just maybe its the first mature one, all along we were blunt, honest to each other, it is significant to me that it was a girl not a man. Would I have been happier if she’d been a man, I doubt that, but I’d like a male lover now. Finding one is a fucking task though, there seems to be a vast divide between shy and creepy and outgoing and self-interested, maybe I’m looking in the wrong places. Actually, I’m not looking, most of the time I flat out can’t be bothered even trying. No, if I admit it, I think I’ve learned to live without needing.

I still have some of my stuff at Em’s, and I’ve almost persuaded her to give the place back, but I also have two storage containers of the last ten years of gathering moss. I had to move my clothes out of the ample closet space for Em’s ample supply, so before I left I went and visited the most recent deposits.

In the last year – plus – I have learned that not only is it possible to survive with last season’s rags its also possible to live with four suitcases of clothes. Around the farm I have two changes of clothes, which is gobsmacking for me. In the absence of anyone to shock with my consumerism it went crazy, now without anyone to impress its gone the other way.

So I opened these large cardboard boxes, lined, and bubble-wrapped, took out the vacuum bags and it was somewhere between presents and meeting old friends again. Things I know I will wear, things that I will give to the Salvos, including a pair of jeans I used to love, big strategic designer tears and lime green stitching, they are soft and comfortable, I’ll wear them today, when I get around to actually putting clothes on.

Maybe I’m a Vulcan – or a Borg?


I swear that just because I am shagging a girl I’m not becoming some man hating lesbian right? Please you have to believe me when I say that I do like men, they make awesome pets, and it’s really cute when they think they’ve nailed you mentally, isn’t it ladies? When they get that grin, puff out their chest and tell you that they are the smarter gender.

If I had a dollar for every time – no wait I do, shh.

My shift finished Thursday so I went, as usual to see Emma, we had a great day drinking and not sun-baking on the deck in the back yard because we are pasty ladies, being drunk we decided to go not do another thing that day and invited some friends around, who invited their friends, and people they happened to be with.

I’m not sure where or with whom this man came from – uh did I say man, sorry I meant person. This man person thing was playing with a Rubick’s cube – you know those retro things that where the thing to do when our parents were our age – (yes lol as if that was ever like true – right?).

Being the wonderful and charming hostess I am I went over and sat next to nerdy-mc-nerd and asked him what he was doing, yes I know that sounds like I am stupid because he was obviously struggling with a maths puzzle – but what I meant was – wtf dude, this is a party get munted and congenial!

“I’m doing an advanced Rubick’s cube obviously!” How clearful-upness of you!

“I can see that, I mean, why, at a party and they are so – Atari and stuff.”

“Uh?”

Blank stare.

“Well this is an advanced Rubick’s cube – it’s a 7×7 cube.”

“Really?” Snark “That must be better than beer and chicks!”

Hostile look…

“It’s a maths thing, you probably think is boring and pointless” (Zing!)

“I bet I can do it faster than you”

The guy snort laughs.

“No I bet I can get all the sides the same colour in about ten minutes.”

“I’ll give you a hundred if you do.”

“Done, gimmit.”

I take the cube and begin peeling off the colours with my new ceramic nails.

“Hey what the fuck! You’re wrecking my cube!”

Argument ensues, which I win. This is something I think is a girl thing vs a boy thing, and why most engineers and autistics are men. The point is to get the sides the same colour right? But then some idiot invents a way to mess up the colours so that it takes forever to do it. It made me think about religious fanatics for some reason, no you have to suffer this way and not get what you want, because because and that’s the rules.

Fuck that – problem to solution in quickest, most stress free way, amen.

Guess what, I got, more drunk, laughed for hours and had perverse unmarried sexual activity –  he  didn’t, and he didn’t finish his fucking stupid cube thing either.

To be fair, I know smart guys who thought of doing the same thing, it just seemed something that appeals to introverted geeky men types.

La Peste


One of the things I have come to think about blogging is that as it serves my purposes, my love of writing, my interests in several areas and my enjoyment of the act of being entertaining but it is also shaped by audience. This seems contradictory on the surface, the writer – writing for the joy of it, but to an audience. I like to tackle new things, I like variety, so then I’m not the best of bloggers, I’ve noticed on WordPress with writers who have massive audiences that they are topic specific, or theme at least. Then there is networking of course, I’d do that but I don’t have the time. I like to read almost as much as write and that’s a very big almost, so there, people will drop off, thinking maybe I don’t care but the truth is I learned early in life that you need to have a life to be interesting enough to be engaging.

I used to think I was a Nihilist, then I discovered I am an Absurdist. That might be the theme to my blogs, if there is one. Meaning is like all things relative, to the situation, the moment, the joke and not at all.

It seems the more I let go of things the happier I am, I no longer think too much about searching for love, I don’t stress about the world and the end its headed to, A personal contentment with where I am, what I have become is enough. A few days ago I was having dinner with friends, friends who think I am the orphaned inheritress of a small fortune who decided to leave the city on a whim. I came clean to them, and they didn’t recoil in horror, since then I’ve been walking on air somewhat,

I started this post after I received a follow and a personal email from Hard4u wanting to hear more stories about myself and my clients, in depth, descriptive, and for pics and my number. Interesting that I wonder what I’ve written that would make him think I’d be interested? He’s not the first, not by a long shot, but it makes me wonder about removing that blog entirely, about, you know, moving on.

“The habit of despair is worse than despair itself.”
- Albert Camus

Cigarettes will kill you


A few nights ago, near the middle of a night shift I sat outside under the large insect attracting light looking into the inky blackness of night, truly enjoying a cigarette, rather than the usual smoking it for habit or something to do. It was a hot night out

As usual I fall into assessment of my life, I’ve consciously made it my habit to force myself to be frank to myself about this since my exile out here, but moreover I’ve also tried to be positive about it as well, you know the clichés about smelling the roses, looking on the bright side, that kind of thing.

I turned my face up to the sky, removed my glasses and in the hot humidity of the dark night I let the first large and infrequent drops of summer rain hit my face. I love to do that, it tickles, and its a relief. There is something quite cleansing about the rain that comes after a long hot patch, and now, being officially in summer it will be very infrequent.

Here is something that I credit with a great part of my convalescence, the little things in life, the small joys, little pleasures, which in the absence of friend or lover I have to celebrate on my own, and I’ve done so. Removed from the many distractions of my home city – out here in the sticks I have learned to make due with the smaller things, warmth then heat of summer, log fires, going to friends places, the sweet scents of the clear country breezes, and I’ll spare you the rest because I’m starting to sound like a hippie, I’m not.

It is not something that has gone un-noticed to me that to get to this point I’ve had to give a lot away, and to work diligently at my own personal healing. To me it’s the same as looking after your body, I loathe the gym, I don’t particularly care for strenuous exercise, I’d rather laze, sleep and luxuriate, but I do it, yes you do feel batter afterwards, but the body shaping results come after time. Endless, excruciating time, but, like all things that are worth effort it must be done, as a matter of fact.

Part, and no small part is the bare, warts and all reflective or maybe introspective way to recovery, its all fine to admit ones flaws, to acknowledge areas of hurt or damage, but the undoing – if that is possible of damage, the road to recovery is as difficult. I’ve had to retrain myself, not to be seduced by my own groans for leniency, to do that another day.

Strangely, after a while it seems easier, all things that are difficult at first are like this, first you deny, struggle, ache, but over time, all actions become easier with practice, like learning, actually this is learning. At points where I look back it seems as laughably simple as at the time of dark thoughts the light seems unreachable, pointless, a struggle far too long and without reward as possible.

No one sentient, honest can say that these things are easy but you do find enough gems in the dark dusty coal mine of the soul that you do find the odd gem, its just important to not grimly push on, look at it, appreciate it, and the efforts it took to uncover.

For those people who have suffered harsh lives at times like these you do realise that the path is arduous but this makes it a worth while endeavour. Sometimes its nothing more than perspective and the willingness to force yourself to think long tern, people are not given to this idea, possibly a recent cultural development, it’s difficult for me to say, this is my small gem of wisdoms for the moment.