8: I Am What I Am

He was a retired professor and I am a whore. That's what I told him. It was on our first date and I tried hard not to answer truthfully but I couldn't. We had first met at the B&N on Union Square. Edward was 63 with a neatly trimmed moustache and large hands. He caught me looking at him and smiled with a confidence that suggested it wasn't unusual for boys to be staring. Our conversation was brief, culminating in an arrangement to meet that evening for a drink. I was excited. I telephoned Josie and all she said was "be careful".

It was a natural question, I suppose. Edward was taking an interest in me.

"So what do you do?" he asked. I paused. What do I do, I thought.

"Well, I'm a... I work as..."

Oh go on, I was thinking. Tell me. It's not like you've ever been reluctant before. Why the shame now? Is it 'shame'?

"I'm a whore," I said quickly, before adding unnecessarily, "I suck cock, among other things, for money. That's what I do."

His response was composed.

"And do you enjoy doing what you do?"

"You know something," I began. "I really think I do."

And this was true. I was enjoying being a whore. I even liked the word. Whore. And I love the fact that I was wanted. Even if it was just for my ass, my mouth or my cock. It's all yours. And it didn't matter if being wanted only lasted for an hour before rejection came. All that is remembered is being needed.

"It's good you're doing something you enjoy," Edward said. "That's fortunate. Not everyone does."

I nodded and silence fell over the table. Then came the inevitable question and my subsequent irritation.

"So what is tonight?" he asked. "I'm not paying."

"I wouldn't ask you to," I snapped and this was not going the way I'd hoped. Silence one more overwhelmed us. It appeared our date was over.

"I'm not, um, comfortable with this," he said, as he rose from his chair.

"You don't need to go," I replied.

"I'm not really comfortable with this," he repeated.

I looked at him and spoke. "Ok. Goodnight then."

I telephone Josie but the only reply was her answermachine. She must be working. I left a message: "he asked me what I did and I told him I was a whore and I said I enjoyed it and he couldn't handle it and left me and I am pissed and I am proud because we are what we are. Take care."

While playing pool later a man asked me what I did. I told him anything you want. He laughed and later that evening I did exactly all that he wanted. Edward was forgotten. As I say, being wanted is easier to remember.