a whore’s guide to tasmania

where do you take you boyfriend on their 43rd birthday?

where do you take someone that has been around the world? for fuck’s sake, he has even been to easter island!

for many, i doubt the answer to this question is Tasmania. but that’s exactly where i took him. to a place he had never been before. look it’s all beautiful and shit

the first time i came to tasmania with my motorbike stashed on the ferry i was all excited. and it sure didn;t take long before i heard some traveller innocently ask the old lady at the tourist information desk ”excuse me, do you have a map of tasmania?”

i nearly choked, sniggering my tits off and quickly staggered out. no doubt the old lady wasn’t stupid and got this all the time

(for non-Australians, because they both share a triangular shape, a ‘map of tasmania’ or ‘map of tassie’ refers to a woman’s vaginal bush)

Mount Wellington. get a load of that shit. fucking nice, eh?

bribie? i don’t know. some fucking island thing. it even had a lighhouse and shit

yeah pretty stuff is nice, but more importantly, i wanted to take him to MONA on his birthday.

MONA (Museum of Old and New Art) is the art gallery for people who don’t like art galleries. and even those that do will jizz their pants

free for residents of tasmania, $20 for everyone else. that sort of thing might piss me off it didn’t out to be the best thing i have ever seen. also, i recently paid $25 to see a Picasso exhibition in Sydney that was underwhelming as fuck. the only thing i learned about him then is once you find the tits in a Picasso, the rest of the female figure just falls into place. MONA also lets you takes all the pictures you want

if you want to read what some boring old fuck thinks about MONA go here. but if you’re not a miserable old cunt, look at these photos. it is worth flying to hobart just for this museum. we were there all day until it closed

Hobart isn’t the most exciting place to be. it’s a nice quiet little city but it’s also a little bit of a shit hole. so instead of pussying out and flying back to sydney after a couple of days we drove out to the most remote part of the land we could find. Queenstown. smack in the heart of the national park, this former mining town is the bloody fissure on Australia’s raped asshole, a grim reminder of what happened when tear up the land. the land was once beautiful, but after a 100 years of mining there are enormous holes in the landscape, hills stripped so bare it looks like the surface of the moon and a river so poisonous it will stay that way for over a thousand years spilling out into the ocean

oh, and Hobart was shit for work. there was little interest because of recent law reforms making it illegal (but not really illegal) but illegal enough to scare everybody off. cunts

becoming a man

ever since i was a little boy i didn’t want to grow up to be a man

men were arseholes. men behaved like wild animals. men ate like pigs. they were selfish bastards who satisfied nothing but themselves. uncaring, violent and angry. bad lovers who take what they want, dump their load then roll over and go to sleep 

my father was the perfect role model of what role not to model myself on. he was a cunt and did nothing but reinforce the opinion of men i had grown up with.

i was determined not to be one of them

as a teenager growing up in the 90s you moved with the trends. grunge was easy to adopt - the white kid’s revolt against their middle class upbringing. being a poor kid the grunge fashion was easy to adopt. i already ready wore shitty clothes. there was no irony in my ironic t-shirt, it was just the crap i ended up with. 

then punk in the mid-90s because of the fucking incredible music. shorter. faster. louder. hopefully with a message. if i was going to be a man, then i would be educated and i would be different. i can’t stop being an angry young man but i would use my angry powers for good. i attended protests. i loudly defended the the weak, the oppressed, the minorities.

“i’ll never call it Uluru,” my grandfather said over the dining table, “it will always be Ayer’s Rock to me.”

“are you fucking kidding me!?!” that breakfast had been quite a calm affair until i threw down my spoon in a tantrum and tore into my ‘white invasion of 1788’ rant.

of course i wasn’t always sympathetic. some radical feminism had worn me down. “dead men don’t rape” a widely used slogan that was disappointing because they’re admitting they had just given up on their cause altogether and resorted to threats

so the front was “dead men don’t rape” and on the back was “dead women can’t cry rape”. it was not a very popular shirt, but i wore it around my hometown for a few weeks much to the anger of the local yokels.

as i got older, in my late 20s i learned being the sensitive male means fuck all. it gets you nowhere. women are still attracted to arseholes and nice guys get fucked over just as much as the mean ones mamma warned me about. 

now in my early 30s i discover that’s not what anyone wants anyway. they want the rough mean son of a bitch that occasionally shows a bit of kindness but really treats them like shit most of the time. 

especially gay men. 

when i started as a manwhore i was conscientious, agreeable and kind. i wasn’t screwing them for extra charges and i treated the job (and them) like a genuine business. now, 17 years later into being a cock-for-hire, i’ve learned men want to be treated like shit. they want to be used. they want to think you’re screwing them then pissing off and blowing all your cash on crack

i was fucking a client. he likes to be slamfucked so now i’ve hit 100kgs i can slamfucked him until his ass caves in. i did. i slammed him. i blew. in a pool of sweat i slid off of him and rolled onto my back. he loves hair men so he curled up into my armpit and started sucking on my beard and grooming it. i closed my eye to enjoy it then heard this horrific noise, like a walrus choking on a penguin, and my eyes snapped open. suddenly the client was sitting on the other side of me

what the fuck happened? my eyes were a bit squinty and my teeth were a bit numb, sure signs that i had fallen asleep. therefore that horrific noise was me, snoring.

“did i fall asleep?” he nodded. “oh. i wasn’t asleep for long was i?”

“well…” he looked at the bedside clock. i was afraid to look. “rest if you need to.”

so through my work i begun to give them what they wanted, and in turn, learned that carrying that into my private works a charm. i have become an arsehole. 

when i go out i behave like a wild animal. i stand pissing in full view of everybody i’ve begun drunkenly swearing at and men flock to me like whores to a crackpipe

as i get older and bigger and jab steroids in my bum i eat like a pig. the client request i be a violent, angry and uncaring. a sexist racist selfish bastard who fucks them, satisfies himself and leaves

now, and this is definitely due to the drugs and weight gain, i fuck like a machine, blow my load then roll over and go to sleep. in the following weeks i did this 4 more times - falling asleep on clients then waking up to the sound of my own snoring. they loved it. they thought it was so hot that they just got their arse pummelled by a pig of a man who fucked them like a bitch then rolled over and went to sleep

i have made it now. i have become a man

WHORE OFF!!!

not all jobs are sunshine lollipops and rainbows. sometimes you even get hired by other escorts. that can be shaky territory. 

are they just seeing how you operate?

are they trying to score some tips?

are they checking out the best in town? well, fuck, of course…

some will be up front and tell you they’re an escort form the beginning (and sometimes want to ‘exchange’ services). some will wait until the end. some probably won’t say it at all

“i get hired by other masseurs,” my friend said yesterday as we sat sitting in the sun by the pool. two manwhores kicking back by the local pool on a wednesday lunchtime while all the other suckers are in their 9 to 5 jobs. “sometimes they want to exchange massages. they give me a massage first, then i give them back an equal or a really crap massage. crap by my standards. i’m not giving away my secrets!”

i was hired by another escort in Sydney. i tell him i only accept cash and that i will see him in 2 hours. i was skeptical, not because he was an escort, but because in all his emails and texts his spelling was fucking atrocious. missing letters. missing words. sentences making no sense at all. this all equals one thing - crackhead

still it was a daytime job not far from where i was staying. i get to the hotel. 2 minutes before i get to the elevators he send a text. “i wasn’t able to get the cash yet. can we cancel or postpone for later.”

“no. i am already at the hotel. i can’t alter my plans.”

i have his room number, but unfortunately i need a card for the lift or get reception to buzz me up by calling the room. 

“give me your bank details and will transfer the money into your account.”

sure. i am going to text my bank details to someone, then trust them to be true to their word and pay up? not fucking likely. there’s a tedious exchange of more messages - angry texts from me demanding he answer his phone - indecipherable texts from him 

so what do you do when you get fucked over? although prostitution isn’t illegal in Australia, it’s not like i can call the cops and demand he cough up money. it’s not like i have any right to get him to pay on the basis of a verbal agreement. so what do you do? do you suck it up, avoid a confrontation and just dismiss the inconvenience? do make a confrontation, teach the cunt a lesson and hope he’ll never do it again, or worse, make trouble for you in the future?

i choose confrontation for $250, thanks Mr Trebek

i decide to be own hired goon. i straightened my shirt, tear up a smile and chat up some old ladies in the lift area, ”oh, after you madame… mademoiselle “ they blush and swipe their cards and from memory any card can get you to any floor of this hotel

i knock on the door of room 432. i hear shuffling inside and it abruptly stops. i knock again and he shuts the music off

“i can hear you. open the fucking door.”

he shuffles a little bit more then opens the door and pretends there is nothing wrong and invites me in.

“okay. so what are your bank details. i can transfer the cash for you later.” he sits down at his desk and looks up at me with expectant but wild chem-crazy eyes.

he is very different from his profile claiming to be an ‘aussie bloke’ with all the pics of him in footy shorts. with none of the musculature of his pictures and none of the masculinity he claims to posses he skulks around the hotel room like and effeminate and emaciated version of the singer from the Pet Shop Boys. he’s fucking rotten and abides by the look of an early 90s gay. no doubt from the meth, he’s so thin and sickly looking you question if he’s barely two T-cells to rub together

“no. you will give me cash. you had hours of warning and you leave it too late to cancel.”

“i have a new credit card. i don’t have the PIN yet. so i couldn’t use the car at an ATM. i had get to a branch to activate it-“

“there’s one around the corner on the next block”

“that’s too far! i’m not going that far! i’m too wired! i’ll call the front desk and see if they’ll give me a cash advance on my card.” he calls them. unsurprisingly they decline. “i have the money. i’ll transfer it into your account later.”

with each response i would lean in. considerable taller and meatier and heavier. i was slowly pushing the intimidation. “i’m not giving you bank details and no one is foolish enough to believe a cracked out hooker is going to stick to his word and transfer money.” i leaned over the desk 

“why don’t you believe me? money is no problem for me. i have the money. you can see i’m in a $400 a night hotel. i’m a very successful escort, thank you! i made thousands on a job last night alone.”

“you’re a very successful hooker and yet you have no cash on you. no cash at all.” i slowly moved around the desk to tower over him. “i don’t want the full fee for the hour. all i want is $20 for the cab fare. you don’t have $20”

“yeah that’s right.”

remember my tips from months ago - say nothing. depending on the situation people will either assume the best or the worst. in this case, looking up between my newly acquired set of meaty hairy disco-tits, he feared the worst. if only gynocomastia had settled in i could have roughed him up with a little man-boob motor-boating as well

“i’ll get dressed and you can come with me to the bank and get you your money.” he sprung up and got dressed, bitching and rambling about trust. he was trying to bait me now. he was trying to start an argument. 

i stood back and folded my arms. “damn, nigger! you’re arms look big in this t-shirt! all the better to intimidate this crackhead, my dear…” i thought as he blabbered on. he baited. baited and baited. he was now completely dressed and grabbed his wallet. then stood there. i raised one eyebrow “well,” it said, “come on. let’s go.”

“you know, i don’t like your attitude! forget it! i’m not giving you any money at all!”

seems to me like we got a good ol’ fashioned whore-off happening. WHORE OFF!!!

that’s when i tore in and stomped towards him “no shit motherfucker! you’re so fucking cracked out of your mind you think your bullshit is convincing. no one is that fucking dumb! your scrawny boney little ass was NEVER were going to cough up any money at all!”

he sat back down at the desk to emphasise he was not going to go anywhere. “how long have you been an escort for?”

“17 years. since i was a teenager” i think he was expecting me to say a month or two. “you?”

“i’ve been doing it for 5 years now. i think you really need to learn how to trust and treat people with respect”

“respect? you’re going to lecture me an courtesy and respect?”

“i’m calling security!” he dashed over and picked up the phone receiver “yeah his i need security to my room. i have trouble with someone who won’t leave my room.” he put the phone down. his boney little fingers twitching a little with the pressure of the situation. when i didn’t move, this time he raised his gay plucked eyebrows expecting my to leave

i charged in to lean overt the table to call his bluff. “you didn’t call anyone! you didn’t press the fucking button to speak to reception! you dump fuck!” he said nothing. i looked at the time. it was now ten minutes past the hour. i backed down. lowered my voice and smiled a little “right. that’s 10 minutes.  it took me 10 minutes to get to this hotel and i’ve now inconvenienced you for 10 minutes. that’s all i wanted.” i smiled and turned to walk out “oh,” i reached into the mini bar and grabbed a hand full of the cute little bottles of belvedere vodka 

“i don’t care take them all! money is no problem for me!” he shouted