cuddling in bed, i pulled the Elk in close. his back to my chest, his head curled up into my neck like a kitten. his antlers gently rubbing my beard. it was a beautiful scene. tender and touching. sensual and erotic in that acidic-vomit-creeping-up-your-throat filthy homo way. then he asked me about my day
“how was work?”
i took a deep breath. “he. shat. everywhere.”
“he shat. everywhere. he shitted everywhere.”
“in every room of this apartment.”
“oh,” the Elk feigned a little empathy. and although he faced the other way i could feel his belly laughing.
“don’t you fucking laugh at me.”
“is that what the job was meant to be?” he was still fighting back laughter
“No!” it was no scat job. at least, it wasn’t intended to be. was it? “he shat in one room. i moved him to the next then he would shit again. i moved him to the next… and… his legs in the air and it was like the mincer just ran out of sausage skins but that wet meat just kept grinding out.” it was like a cement mixer of filth pouring shit out his arse every time he breathed. “i wrapped a towel around him and shuffled him in here. he showered while i frantically ran around opening up all the windows.”
in sex work, you think every day is like a porno? trust me. it’s no goddamn porno. i’m a glorified nurse! wiping their arse with one hand while keeping my cock hard with the other! a sexy nurse. a well paid sexy nurse.
this client was fine. he was actually a really nice guy so i didn’t mind so much. it was an accident. a really gross reoccurring smelly accident, but an accident all the same. another client who inadvertently took me on a trip through willy wonka’s chocolate factory had the nerve to brush it off saying “oh well workplace hazard.” i immediately jumped up, and not because i won no damn golden ticket. years ago, i pulled out of another client and it was like i just removed my finger from the only crack in a chocolate hoover damn. in slo-mo matrix bullet time i saw an explosion of liquid feces reaching out for me. i lept metres backwards to watch it splash at my feet and seep into the carpet. the only thing more shocking than a kamikaze turd lying on my bedroom floor was the client still on his back holding his legs in the air waiting for me to continue
“well? did you keep going?”
“of course i did. because i’m a fucking trouper!”