Press 1 to sell your soul. Press 3 to decline.

I have absolutely no energy to post, but I felt I should let you all know I'm still alive, and perhaps even give you something amusing to read for a bit. Here are some entertaining phone sex experiences I've had in the last few days.

*Caller requested that I put my panties on top of his penis (penis, not cock, mind you) while I jerked him off. Caller then I requested that I mail him said panties and a pair of my thigh-high stockings.

*Caller talked to me for ten minutes about his mother's anal sex antics with the landlord. Caller did not seem at all interested in having a wank, or listening to me.

*Most callers don't last more than 6 minutes. This isn't surprising considering the average male can only handle 3 to 5 minutes of continual stimulation.

*Numerous men like to send me their webcams completely unsolicited. They are always jerking off in them. I keep wanting to ask if any woman has ever found that sexy.

*I've decided I'm going to make shirts that say "Pay to Play Only!". They will be ridiculously hot. Let me know if you want one.

*Everyone thinks they're smooth enough to get something for free. One guy told me I should call him for free because he was in Iraq, protecting me and it was my patriotic duty to get him off.

*Think of the most mundane everyday act. There's a fetish for it. Think of the most disturbing sexual act you ever heard of or participated in. Now double it. That's what's going on while we're all looking the other way.

What, like it's hard?

Phone sex is much more difficult than one would imagine. The talking dirty is easy, but getting people to call you, there in lies the difficult task. I'm desperately in need of clients, so if you or any of your friends are interested, post a comment and I'll get you some information. Imagine, only a $1 a minute to talk to little old me. That's cheaper than buying two drinks for some skank at a club, and I'm twice as much fun as she is.

The District sleeps alone tonight.

Well fellow bloggers, we've reached the end of an era. The huskateers have disbanded. We have graduated from mere debaucherous college students to somewhat alcoholic, desperate 20-somethings. The bed on which I've entertained so many lovers finally couldn't take anymore. I'll be giving it a proper Viking funeral soon, as it was much like a good friend who knew all my deepest secrets.

I feel very indy rock right now, laying on a matress on the floor in an empty apartment, virgin cigarette rings and bad metaphors lingering in the air. Change is everywhere and certainty is somehow out of reach.

But I'm not indy rock.

"I want so badly to believe that there is truth, that love is real."

***

Last night, I gave into the lonliness of living alone and invited a stranger over for drinks. He seemed nice enough, despite having red hair and blue eyes, which I consider to be the most dishonest combination. Of course I fucked him, over a significant amount of debate about wearing a condom. I have no idea why I'm bothering to commemorate him with a post. There was nothing noteworthy or memorable about what happened, and were it not for the remaining condom wrappers, I would probably not believe it happened at all.

I know there is some debate over what has become of the hussy in me. I think I finally have a better grasp on my dilemma. It's not the casual sex that has been bothering me of late. Casual sex has never bothered me, but it seems as though it once had the air of intimacy. Or at least, of friendship and kindness. Granted, they were always just strangers, but once they were strangers who were still people--we were both still people, together in a moment. Now, when I look at whoever is fucking me, we're both objects and sex has become so commonplace that I can barely fain interest once I've come. Sex is in everything around me: it's my job, it's my volunteer work, it's in the decor of my room. I read the narratives of crystal meth users, and I know exactly how they feel. I have transcended from recreational user to complete addict. I act now more out of behavorial patterns than of desire. And as soon as the high wears off, I cannot understand why I did it the first place. I now understand that it's not the act that concerns me, but the motives behind it.