Touring is like living in a pressure cooker for a period of time. You are under a great amount of stress, in unfamiliar surroundings, and are connecting intensely with multiple people per day for weeks on end. You lose yourself in your work, in every sense – scrutinising every part of your hustle like an insect under the microscope, writing and rewriting 10 ads per day just to see snare the interest of as many lustful men as possible. You spend hours in front of the mirror. You know what you look like from every angle, as you put on makeup, as you smear it on the pillows later mid-fuck. You know exactly what faces to pull at what precise moment to get the results that you want. You always get what you want.

I fly into the tropical mining town mid-afternoon, the smoke from the various bush-fires mixing in with the clouds and giving the illusion of the horizon being slightly higher than it should be. I’m suddenly overcome with the feeling of drowning and I can’t seem to shake it off. I love this place, it reminds me of when I was a preppy 18 year old living a bit further down the coast. That was a long time ago now. I checked into the apartment that my best friend and I had rented for the week and we got straight to work, posting ads, booking in clients and taking turns screaming the house down as the other one stifled their giggles in the next room. When we were done and showered, whatever poor sod had booked us booted from the room as soon as their time was up, we reconvened on the balcony, coffee and cigarette in hand. The warm sun feels so good I get goosebumps.

Sometimes we manage to con them into booking us both, and I bind them with rope while she uses them as an ashtray, or flogs their arse with a thick leather strap. I love those sessions, the intensity and perfume of the room, the sound of a grown man squealing and begging like a fat, balding baby. I’m wired from the energy, my pupils large as I seduce my victim into drinking my piss or fucking himself with my strap-on. We stuff our asses into their faces and kiss each other on the mouth, more for our pleasure than theirs.

I use the term ‘lose myself’ because that’s exactly what it feels like. For weeks after I get home and unpack, I can’t seem to recall what it is that I’m supposed to be doing with my time. I walk around my apartment aimlessly, half reading books and spending all day on my computer until I collapse exhausted on my bed. When I am away I become whatever that person needs at the time – girlfriend, confidant, therapist, slut. I do this so often and become so many different people, even my accent and mannerism changes for a time.

That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy it, I enjoy it perhaps too much that I give myself over completely until my mind and body are in such a state that I have to be nursed back to fullness. I still haven’t learned how to balance myself and my work, I’m not even sure that I want to.


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