Wednesday September 27, 2017
I think people have a hatred toward acquaintances who are rising in the world. We don’t want to see people we know succeed and become well-known, because it means they’ve worked harder to achieve it. Or were lucky. Either way it hurts. So it’s predictable that toxicity and discouragement would follow. Or at least, the lack of support. Indeed, in a world where everyone can be equally lucky but unequally ambitious and hard-working, every degree a rival rises is a degree of difference between our competences.
These are just afterthoughts of Evil Editor’s peer revision process. The query is always never good enough for the dozen or so cynical trolls who haven’t better things to do with their time than to discourage someone so nearby from propelling into significance.
And I wish I could write this in Arabic. I was reading Souhaib Ayoub’s Facebook posts, and he is rubbing salt in the wound I made when I tore Arabic out of my heart so long ago. The hoes have planted small shrubs with comedy and action, but he would be a prime pollinator.
Ken dressed me in drag and it was super. I could unleash the femininity that domination gagged and tied up. I looked so innocent and angelic. My name: Cash Only. Shall I pursue? I don’t know…
These are things I can worry about after Saturday. I plan on entering Inkubus’s Stroking Alter Egos anthology and this damn story won’t finish itself. Life drags me through the tales of my destiny but it is I who must finish my own tales.
I’m sitting in the room of Dakota’s brother, in Shimo-Kitazawa Tokyo, a place where I, symbolically, am unable to decipher in Kanji.
Tokyo is fucking huge.
Tokyo is where Japanese are most alive, and where Japanese are most dead. Day and night, Salarymen march in their pedestrian way side by side with goths, punks, and loud people. Suits and ties brushing shoulders with spikes and piercings and blush and hair-dye. Perhaps symbiotically. Hard-edged high-rises, some a single unit of business, others broken into floors—windows, of separate establishments. Pockets and drawers and endless shelves of bars, restaurants, part-time jobs, branding, funny English, obscurity, desperation.
The desire to succeed under/over the weight of a billion people. Interwoven into the darker fabric of grave visitations: rent and insurance and mortal needs.
Nagoya is prim and pleasant. Tokyo is intense.
It’s also humongous. You would know it’s my third time coming here and Tokyo owes me money. Today, I was happy to receive part of that.
I had an early morning date. A first-time sub. Wasn’t keen on my feet, couldn’t take my dick from mouth or ass, and I was suggesting the termination of our date before I asked if he has any last requests. He wanted me to lick his nipples and help him masturbate.
I asked him “what’s in it for me?”
One thing led to another and we settled on 2,000 (Yen). I presumed to lick his nipple and he guided my arm under his back so that my hand reached his other nipple, and I felt like I was playing a most uncomfortable brass instrument. I was blowing on one button, and calibrating by hand with the other button. Meanwhile, with both his hands cushioning his moaning head I realized he’s not going to jerk himself off. He’s gonna fully enjoy his measly 2,000. I grabbed his dick—that fit cutely into my fist—and jerked him off my damn self.
3 uncomfortable minutes later, he cums, wipes off, and puts the money on the table. I told him I’m leaving Friday. Would be nice to have another efficient transaction like that.
I then went to the bank for a trivial bureaucracy, dragging poor Dakota with me. Damn banks.
I hope the documents I assembled will be enough to get my damn visa. God. What hatred visas muster up in me. Who’s to blame: my fucked up warlords or the idea that any traveler from country A has the potential to be worse than someone from country B? The anger is conjured and I don’t know where to toss it.
But I had an EPIC date afterward. A big, buff Jap. Oh it was heavenly. He liked me! He even took pictures of my dick. I was so flattered. I was so happy to be embellished with all the warm muscle. Oh it was the stuff of things I only write about. His arms felt like there were steel pipes inside them. So hard, so hot, so jagged.
Organic power. I’ll elaborate later. He’s coming to Nagoya next week.
Also, today I found out that someone I don’t know liked my Facebook page. I have never felt a formal responsibility to write until now.
And remain, classy.