June 24, 2018 11:20 a.m. sushi post Pilates “Hates & Wishes”
I had a rough night last night. Fear about my financial future and self-doubt about all this hard work ever paying off. I looked for cheaper rentals in my area (non-existent). I hate this high cost of living I feel locked into. Suicide has actually crossed my mind. Not in a real way, don’t freak, but as in: my situation feels dire. For some reason, I had it in my head that my angel investor said he’d help me for a few years, but he said a year, which is fast approaching. Coupled with the precarious nature of my current standing with The Texan, I’m not feeling that confident about my future. I wish I didn’t have to rely on anyone. I’m losing faith in the TV pilot I’ve been working on. Only because I don’t have any real way of making it happen. I wish I had a real connection in that industry. I wish I felt sure-footed about my looks; I need more viable income. Losing Baby Bird was a huge hit, and being too old to strip: I’m not setup for the bottom to fall out. This leads me into the last Texan visit. I’m suddenly insecure with him and I never used to feel that way.
I blame a few factors, but what I really hate is looking at myself through his eyes. I see a woman who’s aged exponentially since we met. I feel him judging my body. I don’t like changing clothes in front of him. He’s also gained weight since we met, however, that fact doesn’t matter when he’s the one paying and prefers women with the bodies of twelve-year-old-boys.
I made the rookie mistake of talking to him about it the other night. I should know better, but I thought my teary eyes would make him happy—he usually loves it when I cry—turns out, he only likes the tears when they’re relationship-related (if he thinks he’s jeopardizing my relationships). Garden variety insecurity isn’t sexy. Why did I tell him? He listened and was sweet, for the most part, but said it was unbecoming. One thing men love about me is my confidence. A chink in my armor, a moment of self-doubt is too wife-like for the arrangement. I’m such an idiot. Ten bucks says he’ll have a hard time getting that conversation out of his head. He said I’ll know when he doesn’t want to fuck me anymore because he’ll stop booking trips. Pretty simple. He added that his dick won’t get hard for the wife anymore; it’s an issue. An issue I couldn’t care less about in that moment. I sucked it up, shoved it down, and promised him I was over it and he’d never hear about it again. Funny thing about that is…I realized the day after I got home that I had had a similar conversation with him two trips ago. Fucking wet brain. I need to lock that shit down. I can’t do that shit when I see him next week. I gotta be old school Sita. I’ll have to dig deep. Keep the mantra going that I’ll be homeless if I lose his money.
Here’s another rando bit of fuckery tied to this new fun-time issue: my wardrobe. I wear what I call “client clothes” when I’m out with The Texan. Half me, but mostly some other person. I don’t wear bando dresses, but it’s blouses and heels. However, with all this age shit lately, the garb suddenly feels Bravo TV. As if I’m fifty trying to look twenty. I’m neither, but this thing with the Youngster has me all twisted. What does she wear when they go out to upscale restaurants? Half-tops and flip flops? Why am I in competition with a child? I hate this. Why did he feel the need to bring her into my fold? Why is my life coming down to such a razor-thin wire?
I wish I had another Baby Bird. I think about hunting but the sites are screwed with all this recent government shit, and I’m not sure I feel confident enough for it anyway. The thing is: I’m fun to be around. I’m kind. I’m smart. For the most part, I like my job. I like making people happy. I’m good at it. Maybe that should be my ad: straight talk about my body, that I’m looking for someone older who wants great company and doesn’t care about a perfect ten. Ugh, turns out, being an aging hooker isn’t all that glamorous.