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So a PSO walks into this bar…

I did this little out-of-the-way comedy open mike last night. Why? Because I have so much fucking free time. Seriously, I'm learning to do stand-up as an extra artistic product that I can peddle on the Phone Whore 2010 tour.

It was going well, I thought. The five bar patrons were really paying attention, and I wasn't using cards or anything (unlike half of the other performers). People laughed at my BBC joke--this lovely little layered confection of race and homoeroticism, which I thought might be too much for the rural-suburban rundown hotel bar--and the loudmouthed barfly on stage left didn't heckle me at all. I felt pretty lucky, actually.

I ended by taking three questions from the audience. They jumped all over that shit, so not a bad way to wrap it up. But ladies and gentlemen, if I'm going to do that again, I need a quick, smart-ass answer for a common question that really chaps my ass:

Do you get off?

Right there, see, the assumption, the stereotype that every sex worker is just a nymphomaniac with a good manager.

The true answer for me is, occasionally. Once in a while, a regular stumbles upon something that's interesting to me, I'm bored, and I'll jack off. That's happened twice in the past seven months. More often than not, I just enjoy setting the scene, even if I don't get off. (As a slightly co-dependent top, when my bottom is coming, I get a rush anyway, and a little burst of twisted pride: I did that!)

But see, when I say "occasionally" to a caller, that's marketing. He's asking because he wants to be special, and my answer tells him that he is.

When I say "occasionally" to the drunk dude in a bar, I'm feeding a fantasy for free. He's not special, he's clearly a douche. Watching the guy last night elbow his friends and sit back all smug, I knew that the only payment for me, in a situation like that, would be to make him go limp, metaphorically speaking.

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