Pissed

Sometimes I wonder if being a friendly person, or at least being someone able to put up a relatively convincing front of interest, attracts a certain type of person to me.

I'm being gentle.

On Saturday, I spent a fruitless afternoon trying to solicit some work through the internet, only to get my hopes for a quick, well-paying job dashed by the countless fucking flakes trolling craigslist's erotic services. Everyone wants something for nothing, everyone wants to know how they can get the most for the least, and that's me included. And I, the worst haggler, the most awkward seller-upper probably in existence, have a hard time trying to be diplomatic about telling dudes that they better pony up lest I take my wares elsewhere.

I did at least score some potential jobs for this week. Of the three or four guys I chatted with that afternoon, all of them (I repeat, ALL of them) wanted me to pee on them. One of them, in addition to delighting in the occasional golden shower, also wanted to pee on me. A pissing switch, you might call him. Let's rent a hotel room and piss and fuck the afternoon away!, he proposed.

Not that I particularly mind earning money by unloading my bladder's contents. As far as actual work goes, once you get past the taboo of it, it's not that bad. Because really, who am to give a shit (har-dee-har) if some random dude enjoys drinking my pee? The lines that I don't want people to cross, however, have slowly been inching backwards. I declared in a recent post that I would not ever shit on someone. And I won't. That won't change. But one of my clients wants me to watch him jerk off. That's easy enough. The easiest of all jobs, in my very unprofessional opinion. But then (isn't there always a but?) he emailed to ask whether or not I minded if he shat in his pants while he masturbated. Sigh. I guess not. Will he pay me extra for having to endure the stench? Probably not, but such are the compromises one makes when one is dead broke.