only whore in the whorehouse listening to Philip Glass

i settle in to not settling into the whorehouse. it's a great place to hang out, but not much cash rolls into this place for manwhores so a lot of time is spent sitting around and not working. i'm not the most loved, but i'm not hated. in any workplace i tend to just cruise by. i don't want to get involved in office politics. yes. even a whorehouse has office politics, office romances and the usual crap that turns me off having a real job. i just want to turn up. do my job. leave and go back to my life

most guys here are pretty. i turn up unshaven, holes in my wifebeater and a dirty John Deere cap that i use as an oily rag whenever i'm working on my bike. i fear stepping on a savage tranny's toes, not for a swift kick with a stiletto heel in the eye, but should they singe me with a cigarette while i'm wearing that cap my whole head will burst into flame

everytime i come to get buzzed in the front door the reception assumes i'm a potential client here for a tranny. "oh, it's you. i thought you were..." i look like tranny honey. the amount of hot blokey guys who come in for a tranny is heartbreaking. whenever i see a hot bike or a V8 ute in the car park i get excited only to find they're with one of the ladyboys upstairs

Gypsy. my favourite of the trannies (and of all people who work here) is a delightfully twisted girl. we have the same taste in men. big. rough. burly. hairy. she bears a nasty smirk when i shake my fists at hot client coming in only to find he wants a tranny. Gypsy struts into the intro room, knowing we can all see what goes on via CCTV, and shouts, "ooh you got big muscles!" and grabs the hot tradie by his meaty biceps. my heart breaks

i get along with just about everybody. it's nice to be different. i have no idea why people try so hard to desperately fit in and look like everybody else. that's boring and tough to maintain. when you're competing with up to six other guys for work it doesn't hurt to stand out with a beard, a hairy chest, a waist greater than 28", a few tattoos and a lisp-free voice. i may be slightly boring, but while the kids are shaking their booty to Lady Gaga's shit awful and patronizing near cover of Express Yourself, i'm quite happy to be snoozing on the sofa listening to Philip Glass