How Could You Know? A Response to a Friend Who Suggested I Prostitute Myself to help with my Financial Woes

Thank you so much for your apology. I, of course, accept your apology and I know that your comments were a bit tongue-in-cheek and not intended to cause offense; so I am not sure if an apology is necessary or if apology is really the requisite word. However, I was saddened ultimately by our conversation that day, as you now know, so it is appreciated that you have extended yourself here and have been so sweet about it, too. I admire your poise and I believe it is constructive to have the conversation.

Part of this was beyond your control: I am feeling really vulnerable these days - it has been a tough two and one-half years here - and your quips hit square in the middle of a tender button for me but you couldn't know that. I would have told you straightaway that your words confused me but, well, I was confused and not able to articulate my feelings in the moment; my failing.

What I would like you to know is that I am wired a bit differently than you might expect. I am not all that interested in everyone else's exterior and in particular, not fascinated with my own, although I do try to take care of myself as I would any vehicle with increasing mileage. I am an admirer, too, of the male form, so I can understand the spirit in which you expressed some of my potential options for financial gain, which can be summed-up quickly: blow jobs for bucks on the beach.

A little about me: I was a complete nerd in school; a straight-A student, I won several scholarships, excelled in trigonometry, creative writing, advanced biology, art and other interests. I once suffered from a most devastating ugly complex and I suppose I should be relieved that this often comes as a surprise. I also received some inappropriate attention as a child but much of this has lost its charge. I only mention these things not to inflate myself nor illicit pity but merely to illuminate some components of who I am a bit more for you.

I have always been fascinated, surprised and occasionally offended (or all three, at once) when I feel I am being objectified because I don't really have the soul or mind of a plaything, regardless of how someone might perceive my appearance. The experience for me often results in a somewhat deflated feeling and the wistfully dark thought, "Is that all that he/she/they think(s) I have to offer?" That said - more power to the playthings out there, if being objects of desire is a happy experience.



It can be daunting for anyone to have the goodies inside overlooked because so few will look past the wrapping, a covering which is ephemeral in nature, at best. Difficult in particular for me, given the fact that I don't tend to agree that I am "all that." I am happy with how I look but I would rather develop my heart, mind, soul and my connections to those things in others than swim in the shallow end of the pool. I just don't find the physical as interesting - it can be an extra gift, that's all. And yes, it is powerfully fun to feel attractive but that feeling in me is usually generated from within.

Would it sound too tragic and spoiled to say that I suffer from 'flirt fatigue'? One could argue that I am a lucky man to have these problems and I would agree, in general. But what can I say? My mind is often somewhere else and I am completely clumsy when it comes to handling the attention and generally humbled by it: it does not appear that is going to change.

Anyway, I am just offering a glimpse of why your suggestions, although apparently in jest, hit a nerve. Put simply, it was the old "I'm being looked at but not really seen" feeling again - a sensation I thought I had left behind a long time ago. Again, so much of this is not your responsibility - how could you know?

Like any misunderstanding between friends, navigating this one will only serve to deepen our connection, so in the end, I am glad we got to know each other a little better in the process.

It's Time for An Upgrade

Hi. I'm a Realtor. I would like to sell your home. I know, it's forward of me to say that but I am a young man building a business here. The only reason I am here today is because I am driven to succeed. I don't have time to dance around the subject. My time is my stock and trade, and I'll sell my time and expertise to you for a 6% commission. But I have to know you're serious or I'm not interested.

Like, for example, what's with the For Sale By Owner stuff? Are you serious or what? Do you really want to sell your house or are you just working something out?

Is it a threat you made to your wife during an argument? And now you have to live up to it or she won't ever do what you say again because she will no longer respect you?

Is that it? Because that's the only reason someone would decide to sell their home on their own. Do you realize the potential liability you are exposing yourself to?

And I've got to tell you, buddy, judging from your furnishings - and I have to guess they're furnishings or assume something is incredibly wrong with my vision and that frightens me - you can't afford a 1/8th butt cheek of exposure.



What do you say in your head Mr. Married to Mrs.' We'll-have-to-use-the-paper-plates-once-everyone-gets-here-because-we-don't-have-enough-glass-dinner-plates? Do you say, "Oh, if something comes up after the sale, we'll take care of it." And I suppose that kind of confidence comes from the fact that you have a team of impeccably dressed lawyers waiting in your one car attached garage for the slightest hint that you're in trouble and at such time they will unleash such an assault on the perpetrator as to forever change the criminal justice system as we know it today? I hope it's warm out there in the garage for those lawyers or did you just give the team a space-cadet heater?


Why am I being such an asshole? Because I don't think you're serious. I think you're pussyfooting. I think it's some kind of passive-aggressive bullshit you're putting out to the world and I'm giving it right back to you, aggressive-aggressive style. Because, you know, when you put a For Sale sign on your house, you get people's hopes up. There is no other way to slice it.

For example: a woman drives by, sees your house. She's recently divorced, from an abusive husband and living in a motel. She's depressed and angry and waiting to get on with her life. Night after night she's living in the motel room with the dark brown wool curtains so full of cigarette smoke that if you bump them, they ash. She squats above the toilet because the seat is so old and filthy she can't get it clean, no matter how hard she scrubs. And then there's the deeply disturbed industrial orange carpeting festering beneath her feet that she swears can move on its own it's so stained and full of DNA. And she's living in this shit-hole all because she has taste and she can't find a house with enough charm so she wants it so much that she makes an offer. And she has the money - that's why she's living in this petri dish. She knows she has taste and that taste costs money. She only got so much in the divorce from that asshole. He was abusive but he was rich. And so traumatized is she from his abuse that she never wants to be married again, so she's hanging on to that money like a shark to a surfer's leg. And she's feeling all this, and has gone for a drive, right into your neighborhood because she feels drawn there for some strange reason and then she sees your sign. She's in love again. She knows, while looking at your house, that if she can love a home this much, she can love a man again this much. She sees it as a sign. And she chuckles to herself, "Oh, how funny - it IS a sign. And here I'd been asking for a sign from the Universe and the Universe has given me this SIGN!" She's talking about your For Sale By Owner sign. For the first time in many years, the healing has finally begun!


So she gets out of her car then and there, marches up your front walk and knocks on your door. And you answer it and she says, "Hello. I absolutely adore your house. I must have it. Let me give you $50,000 over your asking price. No - don't say another word, just accept this cashier's check. Please!"

And you can't believe your eyes. You've done it. You've not only sold your house for a ton of money (you knew when you priced it that you overpriced it), you're right and your wife is wrong. Then there are things you know are wrong with the house, too, but most importantly, there are things wrong with it you don't know about.

So you accept her offer and have her sign the ten-year old sales contract you bought at the stationery store the last time you threatened to sell the house during an argument. Then you and the divorced-lady-on-the-verge are in contract and in escrow. So you say to yourself, "Ha-ha, much man am I! Ruler of my domain and layer of the law! I'm practically a lawyer!" And your wife is not only no longer pissed at you, but she's happy with the extra money and impressed at how you handled it. Not just impressed with a little "i" - impressed with a big, erect, pulsing, long, hard ejaculating "I." And you feel like you're fuckin' Tom Jones again man. Suddenly, you've got a big cock, tight pants and you're humming "Kiss" by that little purple faggot in your puny little head. And the sweet little divorced buyer is thinking to herself, "My, what a wonderful day - and how wonderful that I feel so lucid for it even though I have stopped taking my medication."

And escrow closes, without the benefit of one Realtor's eyes on the contract, and you've moved out, and you meet with the sweet buyer lady to give here the key. And you're both feeling so good, you give here your new address so she can stay in touch. You hug and say in unison, "Goodbye! It was SO wonderful meeting you!" And you laugh together.

You buy a bigger house with the extra money. You stretch yourself a bit - why not? - you're a big real estate tycoon all of a sudden. You can afford it. The wife wants to remodel the new house a bit - add a deck, a pool with a cabana for entertaining. She's suddenly interested in cooking as well as fucking. And she wants the best possible stove for the cabana. She's going to cook out there for parties. So the cabana needs nice teak French doors that can be opened up while she's entertaining next to her tiled black bottom pool. And you say, what the fuck! We're rich now! But really, you're broke now and months have passed and your wife is getting ready to host her first party in her new entertainment pavilion. Thankfully you didn't spend that money on a Realtor's commission or lawyers or anything.


Meanwhile, the gay divorce' is enjoying your old home. It has a nice, vintage charm. Like your wife, she has a vision. the woman-no-longer-feeling-the-need-to-take-her-medication-anymore-or-call-her-shrink-because-she's-so-happy decides it's time for an upgrade. She starts with the kitchen because she feels it is the soul of the house; the warm womb that took her in after such a trying time. Physically, she hasn't been feeling so well lately. She suspects she has bronchitis, but she's never had it this bad. She believes the house is healing her, clearing out old, destructive energies. She begins work on the house to get her mind off her illness. So she starts with the kitchen, which is directly below the upstairs bathroom. Good thing she doesn't know about the time your wife left the bath running and flooded the whole goddamn place. And you decided to just mop it up and forget about it.

And as her contractor, the wannabe building inspector, the one who's brother is a real estate attorney, opens up the walls in her kitchen, he comes across the most toxic mold, the likes of which he has never seen. The mold has spread throughout the walls. The entire house will have to be taken back to frame.

The gay divorce' is not feeling so gay anymore. She's coming after you buddy. She is sick as hell from the mold, and the fungus is the salad that will soon be covered with the blood from your bank accounts as dressing. And so is the contractors' real estate attorney brother whom she is now fucking. She's going to start getting in touch with you again real soon - or, at least, her boyfriend-at-law will.

And that, Sir, is the anal-thrusting style kind of liability that you are exposing your little tight virgin ass too.

With a Realtor on your team, you may still get it in the sphincter a little but at least you'll be practicing safe real estate. Think of me as a condom for your next escrow.


So, for the last time, are you serious ab out selling your home? My time is precious to me. I don't have time to dance around the subject. My time is my stock and trade, and I'll sell my time to you for a 6% commission. But I have to know you're serious or I'm not interested.