I was washing my hands in the bathroom, having just pissed. Some guy drying his hands, this a bar, made some comment to me. I made some comment back. He asked me what I did. I told him I was a hooker. Really, he asked. And because it is all so terribly absurd, this life, this man, older, tells me that that is great news, that he has been looking for a rentboy for his doctor, that his doctor needs one. He asked me if I wanted some coke, the answer was too obvious, and so we headed into adjoining stalls, doing bumps of coke while talking about his doctor, and him taking down my information to give to his doctor.
I went back upstairs and talked to a boy I thought was really cute. He told me that he was a contortionist. How does one get into that, I ask. He used to be a magician, he said, and that was how he got into doing contortion. And how one gets into doing magic, being a magician, I did not ask. He told me he was straight and I lost interest in pursuing the conversation.
He was going to contort himself through a small tennis racket soon. The bar was emptying out and I wanted to be somewhere else, not a slightly filled gay party with a straight contortionist and with everyone hoping for the arrival of more people and a guy in the bathroom downstairs sharing coke and taking the numbers of escorts for his doctor. It was too much and yet not enough. Bob and I left. I assume that that cute boy at some point in the night bent his way through a tennis racket. I wasn't there to see it though.