Mad Mandarine #5
Part of the Trade
I have loved them all, each in my own way. No one can buy love. But at least you can rent it from me and the others like me. We exist on the fringes of society- not illegal in this day and age, just illicit. After all, with so many people crowding this planet, there will be enough people offering this service to band together and protect each other. It’s advantageous for everyone to just make it legal. It’s a public service, when looked at rationally. Overpopulation and crowding demands operations like mine; it gives people hope that a slightly better future could exist.
We exist in the little black and white photographs in the back pages of certain magazines. Our numbers are written inside the doors of public bathrooms. Screen-names and tantalizing ads pop up unbidden when people stray onto graphic websites.
Men usually. But not always. It just seems as though men are willing to pay for the personal touch. They don’t simply go out and purchase the proper equipment when they can’t find anyone else to take care of them.
I know why they come to me. And I still love them. I have loved every man and woman whose shadow has darkened my door. I know that they want more than their own weak hands. I know the despair. I know that they cannot bring themselves to communicate with those that they truly love. They won’t ask a loved one to fulfill their dark desires.
They will ask me. They will ask me to lay them back, to get comfortable. They want me to listen before I start with the more technical aspects of my job. Most women apologize. They feel bad that they cannot find the release they need on their own. Most men don’t actually apologize, but the shadow of guilt in their eyes says enough. Nearly everyone who lies down enjoys feeling the weight of responsibility drop from their shoulders. It’s in my hands now.
I love them all. Each client is unique, even if the process is fundamentally the same. A few ask to be blindfolded. Some want to drink first, others want a cigarette waiting for them. Every once in a while some of them want to be tied down. They all get what they want. But it leads to the same place eventually.
They lean back and relax under my professional hands. I slowly slide off their shirts, speak in a soothing voice and inject the potassium chloride. I’m happy that I can offer the services and the attention to detail that people need.
One more loved one gone. 16 billion to go. They come to me knowing that our overpopulated world will be slightly better for their children if they leave. They come to me when the stench, noise and sheer press of humanity gets to be too much. They come to me for peace.
RIP
I have loved them all, each in my own way. No one can buy love. But at least you can rent it from me and the others like me. We exist on the fringes of society- not illegal in this day and age, just illicit. After all, with so many people crowding this planet, there will be enough people offering this service to band together and protect each other. It’s advantageous for everyone to just make it legal. It’s a public service, when looked at rationally. Overpopulation and crowding demands operations like mine; it gives people hope that a slightly better future could exist.
We exist in the little black and white photographs in the back pages of certain magazines. Our numbers are written inside the doors of public bathrooms. Screen-names and tantalizing ads pop up unbidden when people stray onto graphic websites.
Men usually. But not always. It just seems as though men are willing to pay for the personal touch. They don’t simply go out and purchase the proper equipment when they can’t find anyone else to take care of them.
I know why they come to me. And I still love them. I have loved every man and woman whose shadow has darkened my door. I know that they want more than their own weak hands. I know the despair. I know that they cannot bring themselves to communicate with those that they truly love. They won’t ask a loved one to fulfill their dark desires.
They will ask me. They will ask me to lay them back, to get comfortable. They want me to listen before I start with the more technical aspects of my job. Most women apologize. They feel bad that they cannot find the release they need on their own. Most men don’t actually apologize, but the shadow of guilt in their eyes says enough. Nearly everyone who lies down enjoys feeling the weight of responsibility drop from their shoulders. It’s in my hands now.
I love them all. Each client is unique, even if the process is fundamentally the same. A few ask to be blindfolded. Some want to drink first, others want a cigarette waiting for them. Every once in a while some of them want to be tied down. They all get what they want. But it leads to the same place eventually.
They lean back and relax under my professional hands. I slowly slide off their shirts, speak in a soothing voice and inject the potassium chloride. I’m happy that I can offer the services and the attention to detail that people need.
One more loved one gone. 16 billion to go. They come to me knowing that our overpopulated world will be slightly better for their children if they leave. They come to me when the stench, noise and sheer press of humanity gets to be too much. They come to me for peace.
RIP
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