Confessions of a Male Prostitute

For the same reasons I despise certain actions in mother, I despise those actions in myself.
Why couldn't she, why can't she?
Why can't I, will I ever learn to trust?
Promise though they may, promise they do.
But they never change, they're always the same.

Idly standing by in the meat-packing district,
Johns go, Harrys go, Toms, Dicks, Franks go by.
In their gleaming tombs on wheels, they slow to a steady cruising speed, promising fancy and grandeur with eloquent words rolling off their slivering, slippery tongues. Do I get in?
Or will you just take me for a ride?

To allow one, two, three people to cross that barrier that not many people have been allowed to walk near.
But yeah, you were lucky, you're lucky. Who was playing the game here, was I playing the game, was I just being greedy?
Were you being gluttonous? Were you a little lost?
In your showroom new car, you're clearly out of your 'hood.
Am I the lost one?

Why did you come to me, are there problems back at home?
Your problems are too much for even for me!
Yet, you come whenever it's convenient for you.
You grope, feel, and touch . . . Pathetic little simpering.
You initiated it all, I did not ask for the attention.
But of course, who doesn't love attention? Not that I'm starved for the attention.

Standing on my corner in my battle fatigue, you approached me.
I didn't approach you! What were you running away from, who were you running away from? Are you running away from yourself, are you hiding from yourself?
Does your wife know that you're quite fond of boys?
What would she think of that, just a momentary lapse into Haedes? Does she know that you're a chocolate lover?

As I sit in my modest studio that not only you, but also others have paid for hoping one day to retire in a penthouse.
Not having to walk the beat, not having to sell myself because you're in heat. Suicidal tendencies of a male prostitute.
Each time you leave, I feel cheapened, not even worth the gum that gets stuck on the bottom of my shoe during rush hour.

Each time you leave, I feel less, each time you leave I feel less than the time before. Each time you leave I feel nothing.
The way you tricked me.
It takes two to tangle, three, four, five there's an uprising.
The battle is within, the battle is always within until it's voiced on the outside.
How dare you, you potential johns, you grotesque johns, how dare you invade my space.

Through no fault of my own I am out here peddling my wares, displaying my seemingly ageless spirit, my seemingly ageless form. Well-preserved, like those creatures of the night that feast on the blood of humans. I couldn't stand to be as immortal as they are thought to be, and maybe are.
Male prostitutes are a dime-a-dozen.

What makes us so, what makes us?
Each time I say to myself, tonight will be the last time, tonight I'll score big. All it would take is a simple, swift, painless blow to the cranium. You, those potential johns who want to savor the flavor of chocolate left on your tongue. You like having your cavern explored.
How do I do it all, why do I do it all?

How did it all begin?
Original hatred of something that I dare not become, dare not be.
Original hatred having me hate myself.
For all the lies I've told myself, for all the lies you told.
It was fun while it lasted. Suicidal tendencies of a male prostitute. Left feeling empty, left holding the bag, left with a lie. Why does it have to be a lie?

Just phone home to California, Alabama, Kentucky, tell the family what I'm doing for a living. I'm making more money in one week than you'll make in six months. But where's it all going? (Laughter.) It's going to my therapist, it's going to my tailor, it's going down the toilet.
When will it all end?
Can I end it, or will it put an end to me?

Turn a cold shoulder, walk away from it all, am I strong enough? Do I just need you, you fucking johns, just as much as you desire, crave and lust after me? What power do I wield, what power do you wield? Is it power, or it just physical? Who else have you slept with? Which of my colleagues have you played the same mind games with?
Woe is me . . .woe is me . . . you, the little lost boy.

Not knowing want you want, I can't begin to give you what you so desperately need, a swift kick to your ass, is what you need. Your brown, black, white, green ass, a sharp kick to the mandible, a roundhouse kick to the groin.
As I lie and lie in my modest apartment, or was it a motel you left me face down in that I reflect upon my life that's gone.

Organized confusion.
Are there methods to my madness?
Why do I torture myself, why do I give you the time of night?
Come clean, come clean to the world.
Time shall be no more . . .
Friendship is totally out of the question, how can I as a male prostitute befriend any of my clients? Stupid.

There's no special privileges, there's no friends involved.
Do what you have to do, leave the money on the nightstand, don't let the door hit 'ya. Thanks, buddy!
You with your simpering, sobbing eyes like a doe looking nonchalant. Don't you have the chutzpah to look me square in the eyes? It is you who came to me, it is you who steal away in the night to me. Trust me, here today. . . not tomorrow.

You left me and leave me emotionally drained every time each one of you come about. Why can't life be like those country songs mama used to cry to, why does life have to be the way it has to be?
Can't there be a different way of doing things, why does history have to repeat itself? Each time I lie next to you, I hate myself, but yet there are times I yearn for you.

As with a battered wife, she can't leave her abusive husband because there's comfort in what's familiar.
One day look for that light that may be shining brightly, nothing's guaranteed.
To walk away and have a clean slate, easier said than done.
I will get what I want, I wanted you to stop that night.
How can I, an old card, be taken as an amateur?

I knew the risks, I knew that there were no rules, play it by ear, play it again Sam.
What goes around, comes around!
How could I have known, of course, it was after the fact that you had been with my friend that works on Twelfth Street and lives in the building adjacent to me?
Neither of us deserved to be on the street.

All the same, with your slobbering, snobby upbringing, your class and savoir-faire, you to a point had your way.
You mistakenly left no way for me to get out.
Suicidal tendencies of a male prostitute . . .
The lame excuses you offer to escape into the night.
Run, run while you can, run before the wind catches you.
You little pervert, you.

Wanting your cake and eating it too.
Didn't your mother tell you better, you have a choice, bake, decorate and display, or just eat the damn thing.
When you do all, the calories add up.
Run, run fast as the night, run, run fast as you can into her outstretched arms, but I know your favorite charms.
I don't enjoy what I have to do, but do it all the same.

Is there a way out of this madness, or am I forever spiraling downwards into the bowels of hell.
Of all the fools that came by, emotionless, you seemed different somehow. I felt nothing until it was over.
I can't feel the pain anymore, if there is pain.
Never mix, never worry.
Soon it will all be over . . .