I love cities at night, especially when it's warm. Walking to the corner shop, when the street is quiet and the air still, is an enjoyable experience- I feel sometimes like I'm the only one in London, or that I'm moving in stopped time. There's an intimacy to experiencing the city in that way, when you're not going anywhere, or doing anything important, just walking down the pavement in your comfy pajamas for some strawberries and Coke. It's almost enough to tip the balance from the tired girl I feel I am to the serene girl I know I could access if there was ever time to stop.


I've been feeling kind of burned out recently. It's definitely not the first time, either, and somehow it tends to happen around the same time. Some of it is the event I run- some of it is my tendency to volunteer for everything under the sun, as I feel passionately about many things and want to help- some of it is trying to reach equilibrium with my lover- some of it is trying to remain a contender in that crazy world called sex work. I want to work, need to work, but at the same time find myself too drained to go to west London for an outcall at 10pm. I want to see a support group for other sex workers, to refuel by talking with others who understand, but know that ultimately I'd have to organize that if I want it as a resource. Escorting in London can be a lonely business, and no one really talks to each other. The last time I took a girl under my care, well... she learned from me and then fled to start her own domme service, and barely spoke to me again. Such is life and female competition, I suppose, but it still stings.

Perhaps I need a day at the seaside. Maybe I need a thrilling new encounter. Or maybe I just need to make more time to sit in my room and read silly books that have nothing to do with sex, or sex work, or queerness, or activism- just fluff and nonsense. I don't know if I want to spend more time with friends, or just hole myself away from them- I can't tell what would be better for my mental state right now. My boyfriend is trying to help, and I can see that he doesn't want me to be sad, or anxious, or exhausted, but I don't know what to tell him, don't know what I need to turn this moodiness around. I thought maybe service submission, where he could draw me a bath, serve me breakfast in bed, tend to me, but I'm not sure. Sometimes I forget that I do struggle with mental issues, and that I, too, only have a certain number of spoons to spend, though my supply is larger than most. I see more and more why Londoners use alcohol so often- I care less about all of this when on a downer, when my brain shuts down and I can just coast mentally.

I keep feeling torn between the desire to have more- more sex, more work, more money, more fun nights out, more clothes, more sexy underwear, more more more- and less. So much less. Less worry, less organization, less power, less responsibility. I feel myself a domme in crisis. I am desperately aware of how easily this work can go from being fun to being precarious and frantic, especially as rent day draws closer and I'm spending my last tenner on strawberries, Coke, and the cigarettes I keep trying to cut down on, finding myself clinging to them because, as vices go, smoking alone doesn't carry the same stigma as drinking alone. I feel myself becoming a stereotype, and I hate it.


It reminds me of a poem by Marge Piercy, one of my favourites. And, if you think it's about you, it probably isn't, so stop that right now. :P
The Friend

We sat across the table. he said, cut off your hands. they are always poking at things. they might touch me. I said yes. Food grew cold on the table. he said, burn your body. it is not clean and smells like sex. it rubs my mind sore. I said yes. I love you, I said. That's very nice, he said I like to be loved, that makes me happy. Have you cut off your hands yet?