I had this client the other night. He’s been here once before. He’s youngish, late twenties, early thirties, and he comes late at night. He wants me to list all the men I saw that night and what I did with them. It doesn’t matter if he’s into what I did to them, his focus is on the sheer volume - not the specifics. His fetish is the fact that he’s paying me. He wants me to list the clients I saw, tell him how many, how old they were, how much money they gave me. He asked me how old I was. “Twenty-two,” he repeated. “I get to buy twenty-two.” I was on the verge of telling him that, actually, no, you get to buy a specific service with a twenty-two year old for an allotted amount of time, but he sensed my loathing and semi-corrected himself by tacking on a ‘half an hour.’ He disclosed to me that he was a writer. He’d been working on a semi-autobiographical novel about his ‘wacky adventures’ in college. He went to Journalism grad school at Harvard (I think 40% of my clients are Harvard boys, eck). I had this flash of him as a doughy faced college kid; him on his friend’s yacht, taking weekend flights to South America to sex tour Brazil. Did his wacky adventures include going to see a twenty-two year old sensual masseuse? Something clicked inside my brain and I realized just how much I hated this man I was slowly jerking off. That asshole, using his fucking privilege to write for Newsweek and the AP and to come get a massage from me, while he aspired to write for the neo-liberal hole that is the Economist. In my mind, I made a pact with him. If he was going to write about this I was going to write about it, too. And if he published it, I would get it published and use his real fucking name. I finished up and told him he should keep his cum. He was confused. “You know, you should keep it. Like a souvenir or a memento. You paid a lot of money for that sperm. It’s worth something now. 160 dollars, actually.