I just became Facebook friends with a guy I telemarketed with when I was 15. We were the only children employed at this location and would sneak away from our desks to make out on the clock–once against the manager’s office door.
The telemarketing place was next to Subway on 11 Mile, and I felt obliged to accompany the guy there on our dinner breaks. He would order a 6-inch meatball sub. I tried to time it so I could smoke 3 cigarettes.
The boy’s preference for Subway’s hot sandwich menu was the only evidence I needed to know that he grew up east of I-75.
We were both too young to drive but somehow I wound up in “his neighborhood” after work, shirt up, in a tree-house, sucking his dick. He pulled it out of his American Eagle boxers–Just more proof of his second-rate, meatball sub, K-Mart Plus, post-war, cul-de-sac eastsiderness.
I noticed a blemish on the skin of the guy’s penis and alerted him to it. He said he didn’t know what it was, but discouraged any concern. I didn’t trust the guy but I trusted my instincts even less, and so with a great deal of anxiety I continued to blow him, though not to completion.
He had a small, clammy eastside dick.
It was the first time I fraternized out of my school district, and the second place I worked as a telemarketer.
The most difficult part of sex work is getting comfortable with feeling like a field nigger.
I have no doubt my clients appreciate me and perhaps even love me, but I will never be invited inside the home. No one wants dirt in their home, especially not the house niggers.
It will always be obvious that I sleep outside on the dirt. If you can’t tell by my cheap make-up, bottle-dyed hair, and dirty used shoes, then look a little closer at the bags under my eyes, the rot behind my teeth, or the chips on my shoulder.
I think that my masters really do have compassion and really do want to help me off the ground, but the one thing I need is the one thing that can’t be given to me. It’s the way of the world. Pleasantry is all that one can expect from oneself.
You don’t want to invest more than that, anyway. Not in a field nigger. They’re ticking time bombs, ready to explode their “drama” wherever they happen to be. Just one of the reasons we’re not allowed inside.
Smoking keeps me from having a relationship with myself or anyone else. At least one that is attentive, intimate or mindful.
Tonight as I was edging myself into a hot bath, squatting with my ass just above the water line, I picked up a cigarette to smoke while waiting for my body to adjust to the temperature. My lighter had gotten wet on the side of the tub and didn’t work. I found a matchbook on the toilet but it immediately got wet from my hands. I tried three or four matches before I ran naked to my bedroom to fetch more matches but couldn’t find any, and then out to my kitchen where I had more success, but not without spending a great deal of time and getting distracted by at least one other activity. Finally I ran back into the bathroom, lit up, and dropped my body into the water, which of course wasn’t as hot as it was before.
As I stretched into the water I became aware that I wasn’t relaxing. I was working. I was thinking about taking a hit of my cigarette, exhaling the smoke, ashing, keeping my cigarette dry, neighbors complaining about the smell of the smoke, how the new matches would likely get wet, too, and I’d have to go find more, etc.
Bath time is supposed to be my repair time. It’s where I come back into myself.
But if I’m smoking, I’m smoking.
Just like smoking keeps me from being intimate with myself, it also keeps me from connecting fully with another person. Smoking is my priority, and it will always be the first thing on my mind. I am always thinking about when I can leave you and go smoke a cigarette.
Smoking keeps me running–running away from you so I can go be alone to smoke and ignore myself.