For 9 months in 2007 I worked for a suburban Adelaide brothel as an “escort driver”. By the time I quit, I had the phone numbers to every major dope dealer in the city and was a poly-drug user hooked on painkillers: I was also a sex addict pulling in over 2 grand a week through a skilful combination of pimping, drug dealing and private pornographic filmmaking.
I merely did what needed to be done for self-mastery, no matter what it was: manifest destiny. You are what you do – simple credo; sleek, pure. Contending with strange, adverse circumstances brought out the best and worst in me, in equal measure.
Survival on the fringes of legality, however, entails behaviours that polite society would either pretend don’t exist or dismiss as immoral. When you must partake of them, morality is a moot point. The individual is paramount.
Only cost: self-mastery meant self-erasure. Whoever I am now, the “I” in this story, these stories, is a construct, a dim memory of what was lost in metamorphosis.
This is the last of what was before middle age. A last hurrah? A last howl?
I have no regrets. Though now no exit either.
Still, I learned one lesson: it’s all relative.
Publication date: 01/08/2017
He had a job on the fringes of legality, with fringe benefits to envy.
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