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How to not feel sick when prostituting yourself: 15 tips

Someone suggested I write this post. Note: I only had to use these techniques the first time. After that I enjoyed it a lot more and was right there in the moment. So, this knowledge comes from just 45 mins/an hour of experience of doing stuff I didn’t want to do in my buyer’s company office. (When he spanked me, I totally loved it, of course.)

1. The obvious one – imagine it’s someone else. I imagined a friend’s friend, a guy in my class, then a friend.

2. Pretend it isn’t happening. Try not to look and instead focus your attention on something you enjoy, such as a kinky scene or BDSM story (or whatever makes you happy).

3. Talk – make sexy conversation or tell a story to distract yourself. This can totally work – I told Roland a sex story that I was making up as I went along, and he liked it and thought it was really good, plus it also took my mind off what I was doing/calmed me down. It can totally work if you hold your buyer’s gaze and speak in a sexy way while telling the story as if it were true, widening your eyes and doing expressions where appropriate. Tell it as if it amazes you and also saddens you.

4. Keep thinking of the money and reciting the amount in your head. Say, “I’m doing this for £x” in your mind over and over. (This also works for doing a crappy low-paid job; I got through part-time work by saying this mantra over and over in my head.)

5. Try to enjoy it and learn something from it like how to please a man or take the chance to really hone your knowledge of comparative anatomy.

6. Try to distract him by pretending you hear a noise. Note: this doesn’t work if he owns the flipping place.

7. Close your eyes and focus on the sensations – this will please you sexually as you’re biologically programmed to like this. It will also help with imagining your buyer looks more gorgeous/less old or with imagining a surrogate person.

8. Have a drink first.

9. If you have a kink, get him to perform it first so you get turned on and are at least partially ready to perform. I got Roland to smack my bottom which turned me on (it’s like a big, squashy sex drive button!). The female sex drive is an on/off switch and is easily aroused.

10. Pretend you’re somewhere else.

11. Pretend it’s not real, or a dream/fantasy/illusion

12.  Detach yourself completely from what’s happening and let your body take over. Your body, or the minimal amount of your conciousness left in your body, will know what to do through instinct. You might actually perform better without nervousness, embarassment or being self-conscious. As you get acclimatised, you can gradually allow yourself back into your body. (This sounds very hard, but it’s not like astral projection, it is all psychological. I learned this in like 1 second and I don’t have a psychology degree, so it’s not difficult. I suspect it’s some sort of primal defence mechanism.)

13. Focus on how you look to him – the position of your body, your facial expressions. This will help you provide a better service and also take your mind off what you’re doing.

14. Put yourself in a state where you don’t feel anything (emotionally numb). I’m not sure if this ability is unique to me, though – maybe not everyone can do it. I wouldn’t know.

15. And, most important of all: Relax. It might be boring, uncomfortable or just plain nauseating at first, but at some point your sex drive will take over and make it a LOT of fun. And even if your sex drive doesn’t kick in, remember that no matter how horrible it was, once it’s over you’ll be really pleased and proud of yourself and it will become a fond and amusing memory.

 

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Roland thinks I love him and I don’t know why and didn’t make this happen so why is it happening?

This is my first non-ecstatic post. Roland thinks (or thought, maybe he believes me now) that I am (or think I am, or soon will be) in love with him. I don’t know why this is happening, and things that happen outwith my instigation or control really irritate me. I wish he’d grow more hair so that his accusation would be less ludicrous. I think it also reminds me that Roland is a real person, not just my buyer, client or sex toy, with real independent thoughts that I cannot control.

I like Roland, which is of course very unusual in the sex industry, but I have heard that it is not all that unusual with regular clients. Anyway: I like him but how could I love him? He’s not bad looking, but he’s way older than me and has the hair thing going on. And even if I did fall in love with him, he’s in a polyamorous marriage and I’m polyamorous and a commitmentphobe so what would be the difference? I’d just let him have me for free, which he’d like of course. The only difference would be that I’d miss him when it ended, but I’d get over it just like everybody else.

Just because I text him more than twice a month doesn’t mean I think I love him. And there was a point to that particular text, and the ones before it: That Belle de Jour knows about us; answers to his questions about how I met Dr Magnanti; and a text saying I forgot to say I discovered I like being ‘forced’ to give blowjobs, which is true.

I don’t feel any more of a connection with him than I do with Glasgowsexworker, who has a blog on here and is a friend’s friend (wasn’t going to give out this information, but it is already in the comments on a previous post so people are going to know) i.e. a connection of ideas, interests, etc. Yes, I like him. He’s funny and very knowledgeable. But I don’t think I love him, and I won’t in future either. At a time like this, I would think “Hmmm…what would Belle de Jour do?” but I just met her 2 days ago so her persona has lost its magic; I know she’s a scientist and former call girl who had the same experience as thousands of other call girls and was talented enough to write a great blog and get an award, then lucky enough to get her book published. I look up to her but when you meet someone in real life, you realise that however intelligent they are, they are just a regular person. (Actually, hearing her talk and reading her book made me realise she is even smarter than what I thought before and I like her even more now, but I also realised she is just a regular person.)

Our texts while Lochlan and I were in Browns [he uploaded a pic of me to Facebook, updated his status and ‘liked’ my status, as well as texting; I updated my status, ‘liked’ the pic, and texted – what is the world coming to? We are so reliant on social media and texting instead of being social in real life!]:

Me (trying to appear like I’d drank more than I had – I’d had 5 or 6 drinks- so he wouldn’t think me texting him was annoying]: I met Brooke Magnanti/Belle de Jour and I told her!! Not using my real name or identifying you obv. Isnt that amazing?!!! Its so good being me, it must suck to be anyone else! Yeah! Go Kalika! Go Kalika! Yeah biitchezz!! [I think I surpassed the brief here!]

Roland: Wow! Where did you meet her?

Me:At a talk my friend Lochlan, whos into sex activism as he has sex worker friends, took me to in glasgow. I told her i got the idea to blog about the adventure from her, that she is my inspiration, and i got a copy of her latest book The Sex Myth.

Roland:Btw you were discovered by a hair, a sequin, a toe or fingernail, and a neighbour while we were in Leigh 🙂

Me: Oh. Really sorry about that. Did u manage to lie your way out of it? Hope America was fun. Lochlan bumped into a sex worker friend at the talk who has a blog too that I’ve commented on, shes seen my blog and told him that I’m unusually sexually self-assured for a virgin. Miss your cock, Queen Tut xxxx

and: Sorry. Is Leigh the part of Newcastle we wer in? I think your wife lives up to her name [a Scots pun on her nickname]

Me, the next day: Sorry for loads of txts, just forgot to mention the last time I saw u that i found out i rly like giving blowjobs and u completely humiliated me and dominated me and made me your bitch, and i like being debased and my mouth used as a cock-hole because it’s so embarrassing and dehumanizing like I’m nothing. I like a warm dick thrust into my mouth until I gag. Also, I guess the sequin was from the knife, I won’t bring it again anyway.

Roland: Well my dear, humiliation and domination are two sides of the same sexy coin. I enjoy, primarily, giving you what you want and finding out what you need. The chaste whore in you is obviously in need of something…

and, separately:

Btw please remember what I said. Women want to seem to be the way they think the men they think they love want them to be…

Me: I’ll remember that if I ever fall in love. Not that I will, because that would be cheating on my reflection, with whom I have a monogamous relationship.

Roland: This applies whether the man is their daddy, their lover, their teacher, or a total and complete pervert 🙂

Me:I knew what u meant the first time. I’ve never thought I was in love, except with myself of course. And if I was in love – not that I’m capable of commitment-love – I would say so. I don’t play games like other women. I just want my Ferrari and private jet, not some hubby to poke in the missionary position.

And, later: Why would that even be a possibility? [I will keep the rest to myself – not for anonymity, just because I’m not sure if that text was the right one…I am confused.] I don’t want to annoy my most precious source of income, but what if I have? Confusion is alien to me. I am always utterly sure of myself. How can Roland confuse me, when no-one else can? He’s so unique and unpredictable. I hope he tells me to wait somewhere for him, then beats me and ties me up, stuffs me in his car boot and drives me into the woods, spanks me until I cry and rapes me. He’s probably quirky enough to do it. Perhaps I should suggest this to him after the consummation, but I don’t know if that’s his kink. I’d ask him for a nude pic, but it’d probably just convince him more that I’m in love with him. Why does he think this? He has no evidence to support his conclusion. I’m not entirely sure of the next text I sent, either. This was the last I sent:  I appreciate your concern tho, its nice that you care about me beyond sex. You’re like Brooke’s clients. Well u are a call girl level client, so I suppose it makes sense. I bet streetwalkers’ punters are totally different.

He hasn’t replied, does that mean he’s just bored of texting me, or is he annoyed by what I said, or doesn’t believe me, or he believes me and has dropped it? Why can’t I build a spanking machine like Kane did and put him in it? Actually, I’ll build it in a few weeks. Heh. Also, why do men have a thinking/talking function when you just need their cock?

It would be easier if we’d been talking face to face. Roland has said similar things before – that this blog is potentially obsessive because it’s about him – (it’s not, it’s about me and my adventure), that I might make myself believe he loves me, etc. I think he has a Moulin Rouge fantasy where the hooker falls in love with the guy. It’s one of my favourite films as I love the soundtrack and the theme of prostitution. Did that happen in Pretty Woman too? I don’t like feeling confused. I shall eat chocolate to make this all go away. Why is getting paid 1000’s to fuck so complicated? If I was Queen Tut I’d kill somebody right now.

 

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Spanking, lies, and Paradise

Roland got the phone and we walked a bit. I was still wearing my purity ring, just twisted round so that it was plain silver except for a little Christian fish that was barely noticeable, so you couldn’t tell it was a purity ring. On my other hand I had a snake ring I’d got for £1 from Hillary’s Bazaar in my bellydancing days. It goes with my Egyptian(-y) style, though my looks are also influenced by Goth and Steampunk as well as current trends. I’m currently thinking of trying out a Steampunk-inspired ‘adventurer’ look with combat trousers/cargo pants, corsets and utility belts. (I can afford to experiment more now because of Roland.)

Roland’s neighbour walked right past us. Ah, the thrill of discovery! Roland said, “It’d be a good idea if we didn’t talk too loudly about what we’re doing when we’re inside, because someone might recognise me,” and this delighted me for some perverse reason. I couldn’t resist teasing him, saying “You know, if you didn’t pay me the 8k I’d go to the media with this story and then everyone would know. Like everyone you work with and your neighbours.” (Not good call girl etiquette, of course, but sometimes I just gotta be Kalika, and she is one nasty fucked-up li’l bitch.

(Going to the papers is plausible, as there have been media stories of girls selling virginity and we have yet to have a story about this happening in Scotland so the Edinburgh papers would be interested. Though I’d go to the national ones too. I could remain anonymous, and even if I didn’t, it would look bad for Roland more than it could for me.).

“If I didn’t pay yu the 8k?”

“Yep. Well, not just you, I mean before I met you I figured out that whoever it was that I sold it to, if they didn’t pay me I’d go to the media.”

“And what if I pay you?” he asked. He was amused but I knew inside he was worried a teensy bit.

“Well, then I wouldn’t, of course.”

“You wouldn’t?” he said. This was delicious.

“Of course not.That would be wrong.”

“That would be blackmail,” he said, grinning. He has a special Roland grin.

I have a short attention span, so while this conversation was riveting, I was also a little irritated at the way that Roland continually and persistently wore clothes the entire time. But I reasoned this was only natural, since if he had walked around naked that would be quite a scandal, and he would therefore be impervious to my go-to-the-media/blackmail-after-I-get-paid-8k ‘threats’.

DIRECTOR OF £4m COMPANY STRIPS NAKED IN BUSY STREET

Now that’s a great headline.

We went into a little place to eat. When we were sitting at the table (next to the window) Roland said he liked my jacket; it was a cropped black faux leather jacket that I’d chosen to give a bit of edge to the dress/tights ensemble. It doesn’t keep me warm at all, especially since I wear it open. (I was wearing a bronze-coloured choker and a gold headband too.) If anyone is wondering if I dress sexy for Roland, the answer is no. I just make sure I look good, but then I do that every day anyway; the way I look is important to me. I always try to have a nipped-in waist and slim silhoutte so I like dresses/long tops belted over leggings, tights or jeggings. If I wear shorter tops I like them to be fitted and I like layering. I love corsets, too, and they make great layering options when worn over a shirt, long knit, or t-shirt especially if they are underbust corsets. Actually the only time I can remember having a less ‘feminine’/’elegant’ look was that time I told Leanne about Roland, when I was wearing a long red knitted hoodie over black combats/cargo pants. However both items were quite fitted though, unlike the average combats or hoodie.

Where was I? Oh, yes, we were sitting at the table next to a pane of glass through which a canal and office buildings were visible. Roland had to answer a couple of calls, which was very hot and business-y (is that a word? No) and I just watched him being all Boss Guy and dealing with business stuff like he isn’t sat here with a prostitute. He was telling the guy/girl on the other end that “I’m not here right now, I’m out of town, so I can’t actually see the [piece of technology I haven’t got a clue what it is]”.

I told him that this was the first time in years that I’d sat with my back to a door, because usually I won’t. He said he’d heard of a belief that evil spirits could attack you if you did, and asked who I thought would attack me.

“I dunno, the Russians?” I said (I just got that out of another wonderful WordPress blog, The Vulva Revolver, a fiction about a delusional who thinks he’s a historical aristocrat. In the first post I read, someone knocks at the door and he wonders who it is: The Russians?? As in the James Bond sort of Russians, I presume (i.e. not ordinary citizens but the KGB or something).

Roland says, “Why, what do you have against Russians?”

I explained about Mann Smoothe’s blog/not being xenophobic towards Russians. (Actually if I did hate Russians, wouldn’t that be racism and not Xenophobia, since I’m not white?? Questions, pesky questions!)

I said I knew his friend was Russian and I didn’t mean him. He said that his friend was a slut when he was young and now that he has a daughter, instead of encouraging her to be a slut like he was, he jealously guards her from men. I aked if he’s the same to his son and Roland said no, and I said that’s just the double standar. Roland thought the whole thing was really funny, and he said, “No, he doesn’t…but the mother does!” He thinks that guys know what other guys are like, so guard daughters, while girls know what other girls are like so they guard sons. Interesting.

A slightly incestuous illustration of paternal possessiveness (and other sexist gender-role/parent-role stuff. (Obv Mummy hasn’t got the balls to be a hero.)

He thinks kids are the opposite of their parents and that’s why I’m selling myself in direct contrast to my mother who only ever had one man and is very chaste.

Our food came; I had chicken.

Roland also said I’m a psychopath and a cold-hearted bitch; he finds this very funny.

Roland said that the employee he sent home got sent home to have a think and come back on Monday because he kept refusing to do his tasks and saying he wouldn’t do them. If that’s true, I quite honestly think it’s ridiculous and he should be sacked. If I can obey my insulting, offensive boss’s every instruction in a crappy one-day-a-week, 5-hours-a-day job, then why can’t someone listen to reasonable instruction in a good job? I would’ve fired him if I was a boss.

“Did you want to fire him?” I asked.

“Well, no. I’m sorry to disappoint your ideas of me as being cruel, but I wanted to give him another chance and I don’t enjoy firing people [blah blah blah non-hot waffling].”

“If spanking was legal, would you spank him if he was a woman?”

Roland laughed. “Well…yes, then I think I would, if it was legal to spank employees. But of course it’s not, there’s lots of things you can’t consent to. I think you would like to spank him, or maybe if you were his boss you would put him in Paradise [the British government’s torture machine in a story I wrote. It’s in the fiction section of this blog] wouldn’t you? ‘You’re being sent to Paradise for two weeks!'”

“If I was like an intern at Luxor, and I didn’t do my work well, would you spank me?”

He looked at me with bright eyes and a thoughtful, satisfied Roland(TM) smile. “Yes, you would be spanked,” he nodded, “Oh yes.”

We talked about the cases in America where bosses got jailed for spanking consenting employees for not doing goodwork, and I told him about a guy in England who was only caught when he tried it on a 15 year old girl in a work placement, who told her teacher.

I also learned this: When Roland was a toddler, his dad let him stick his fingers into electric sockets and taught him which one was the earth wire that would kill him. This frightened his mother. (An extreme example of the ‘challenger’ and ‘protector’ parent gender roles which I learned during Higher Psychology at school. I thought it was utter nonsense then, and also now. Gender roles and parental roles are created by society and actually they have lapsed quite significantly in these two or three generations.) Unfortunately his tale of nearly being electrocuted through sticking a part of his body into an electrical outlet did not do anything for me at all, because my mental picture was of course of a baby-Roland (awww, cute!).

Baby Roland almost discovered the basis of Paradise’s technology.

I also saw his passport cos he had it for some reason (and he saw mine which is usually in my bag in case I get ID’d at a bar). Anyway I was right that he’s 46 and not 42 as he claimed, because I could tell from his passport. (I know this because, before the photoshoot, he said he’d seen pics of me on the interwebz and one of my poems when I won a poetry competition. So I decided to stalk him on the interwebz and see how he likes it!)

Roland got another call from work and pretended to be in a lawyer’s firm; as we left he was saying “Yes I’m just at their office right now; I’m just leaving”.

I’m doing work stuff! Honest!!! What do you think I’m doing, skiving off work to see a prostitute?Hahahaha…

Coming up….smut, smut and more smut.

 

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Rolanding

I came down the steps to Buccleuch Place and Roland’s black BMW convertible was right there. A man who appeared to be him was pacing around next to it and then I did recognise him, though he looked less ugly from this distance. His face (but not hands or neck) was reddish but then it will go back to normal and I don’t know what the scientific explanation is for this. Maybe only Roland can do that, or perhaps it is a rare condition? Or is he doing it deliberately? I’ve noticed he tends to do that when he’s excited which would suggest it is involuntary. Anyway, I came down the steps. I was wearing a cream and navy short dress with a tie under the bust and black tights with black and gold dolly shoes. I had on a gold-coloured choker, a blue and gold bangle and was carrying a small brown and tan handbag and a large leopard-face print bag.

He said he was sorry to have kept me waiting and I said that I’d used the time constructively to buy whipped cream and update my blog. He looked less tall this time but also less fat.He had on a black t-shirt which I like; I like men to wear tight black shirts that show off their muscles. I shoved my bags in the back and got into the car, and he got in and his face was normal colour now which is just really weird, but it doesn’t bother me now, and actually I’ve been told that when I’m unhappy I’m darker and when I’m happy I’m pale, so maybe I can colour-change too. Roland said that anytime he tried to see me lots of things would come up with his company Luxor, but he didn’t want to cancel this time because of my sexual frustration and cos he’d cancelled at the last minute last time. He was grinning at me and I was telling him about the strawberry and cream sauce I got from Ann Summers and he drove out of Buccleuch Place and on into Clerk Street and then forward, heading for Leith.

I said “I think it’s really hot that you fired someone.” And that he’d lost weight (I said it in a positive way) and he said he’d also stopped smoking. (So that explains the yellow teeth, then. I’d thought it was excessive coffee drinking or deficient genes. Though he didn’t need to stop smoking, just get cosmetic dentistry.)

His teeth didn’t bother this time, even though they’re crowded and uneven; maybe I was getting used to them. Roland pointed to a road on the right going slightly uphill. “There’s a brothel there,” he said (he’d mentioned doing a ‘virgin in the whorehouse’ shoot there before we made the deal, and had thought about doing the film/consummation there after we did. It’s a massage parlour).

He said he thought we should consummate it there. Sounded good to me.

We ended up talking about Baudelaire, and Roland recited nearly all of ‘Allegory’ which is quite cool cos I haven’t met anyone else who can accidentally memorise poems except me.

Roland seemed surprised at the way I think about my father (purely in financial terms) and my expression of noninterest in contacting him as no financial gain could be derived from it. His surprise confused me, as I had explained to him what my father is like, and anyone with a father like mine would not think highly of their father. Although, as I told Roland, it pleases me to know he was a political revolutionary who helped overthrow his government like the Arab Spring people and I get my writing skills from him (he’s a professor of English literature). It’s great that I have the DNA of a political revolutionary.

“Did you actually say to him, ‘send me £5,000?” he asked.

“No. I just said I didn’t have enough money to live in accomodation this year so I had to live with my mum. Because at the time, I didn’t know I could get student overdrafts, I just thought an overdraft meant an unplanned overdraft. So I stayed at home instead of getting a flat in Edinburgh [and therefore access to all the hot intelligent boys I could fuck].”

Anyway it wasn’t all about lack of financial incentives, it was about lack of wanting to contact him. I do not waste my time on pointless activities or contact those I despise. It all seemed to surprise Roland for some reason. Maybe Roland knows that under English law my father can disinherit me and he thinks I was nearsighted and stupid for annoying him and thus potentially depriving myself of inheritance when he dies? But I don’t think that was the reason. I don’t understand Ro sometimes. He understands me more than I understand him. But he is a little wary of me, I think. He believes I am capable of anything. That is, of course, entirely true.

Roland has crinkly blue eyes. They are droopy because he’s old, but he’s not old enough to be called a coffin-dodger yet. Still old enough to be practically mummified, though. Actually, that gives me an idea: Should I put him in the next Kemet story as a character who is a friend of Queen Tut? His hair really bothers me, though he has more hair than Prince William. I can’t look at his forehead without wanting to puke, but one day I will touch his hair close to the bit where it is moulting off. I’m not touching the no-hair bit where the pink skin is there instead of hair. Yuck. But maybe he’s okay with it, because he hasn’t had a hair transplant like I was hoping for so it’d be easier for me if he didn’t look so gross. The weird thing is, his hair didn’t bother me that much last time as it does today. I like his voice, though, and the way he looks at me. And, in general, he looked more attractive this time than last time. I felt really happy and relaxed.

Roland stopped suddenly as some people crossed the road and I said “imagine if you ran them over, that would be pretty hot.”

“You have a different sense of humour,” Roland observed. “You joke about suicide, you think me firing employees is hot…”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t find it funny if it really happened,” I clarified (it’s true. It’s why I can’t watch the news, I can only read it.) “Like, if you really did run them over I wouldn’t find it hot. I’m not into necrophilia. We wouldn’t end up fucking in their bloodied intestines.” I paused to let that image sink in. I like the look on Ro’s face when I say certain things. I liked the pause over the phone a few weeks ago when I said, “imagine if I told someone [about our deal] and a journalist got hold of [our story] that would be bad for you.” Deee-lish. But Google “mental torture” and all that comes up is emotional abuse. Come on, guys, this has to be at least as hot as being stamped on by a pair of sweaty feet?? Or eating shit?

 

 

 

 

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Waiting…

I’m in the Main Library, waiting for Roland, who is going to pull up round the corner near the steps on Buccleuch Place. He’s texted me while I was on the bus that he’ll be late cos of something at work. I just replied to Leanne’s text but it looks like it didn’t send so I’ll resend it after I type this.

He just called me a second ago, after I wrote that sentence, but I won’t type what time he’ll arrive now because I’m utterly paranoid that, if I do, someone in Edinburgh who reads this will arrive in Buccleuch Place first to intercept us. (See, this is why I don’t watch police dramas or spy movies – I’m quite paranoid enough as it is.) Now, all you kids out there who are reading this disgusting x-rated blog without proper parental approval: WORK HARD, GO TO UNIVERSITY AND BE SUCCESSFUL. Because then you might end up being a) the boss of a company and b) well-off so that c) you can leave work whenever you want to pay someone less than half your age to have sex with you.

Dear God, what has happened to good old-fashioned values? I bet people like Lloyd George, Thomas Jefferson and Marilyn Monroe weren’t skiving off work to sleep with people…oh, wait…

What I’m afraid of (as I texted Leanne but it didn’t send) is that Roland (if he had his shirt off, which I haven’t yet seen) will look like a blancmange…wobble-wobble. And then I might vomit. I don’t like wine (love vodka) but maybe I’ll have some to prevent throwing up later on. It might be better if I’m out of it a little bit laer on. I just worry he has moobs (man-boobs) so yeah if I have something to drink I’ll do better. But he’s not actually fat or probably even overweight so maybe he has a stunning body and I’m worrying over nothing. At least he is tall, and has broad shoulders and a nice voice. Nice eyes, too. I like the way he looks at me. I’d better go now, dear readers.

I’ve come back into the library cos he’ll be another 20 mins.. I was half-suspecting he is doing this deliberately to get me more sexually frustrated so it’ll be easier for me and better for him, but then he told me someone got fired!! But he didn’t “directly” fire this person, they’ll “see how it goes”. Obv I sympathise this person and their children if they have any, and I hope everything goes well for them. But Roland actually firing someone is really sexy and I think it makes him more attractive. So no more worries about throwing up now! Yay! I wonder what he’s telling his colleagues about why he’s leaving? “Just off to fuck a hooker” doesn’t sound very professional. Maybe “just off to see my girlfriend who’s young enough to be my daughter and won’t do it unless I pay her” would sound better? Somehow, ‘girlfriend’ always legitimizes things, it sounds better than ‘FWB’ or ‘some woman’. Anyway, toodles.

 

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