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I felt drained. There was something about this porn thing that was exhausting that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.  Maybe it was just because I was new to it?  It took a lot out of you, and it was hard to get it all back.  It was strange, though—after the Delmonico, I was overflowing with fidgety energy.  I couldn’t stand still.  Now, after Larry, I felt sapped.  Physically, I just felt a little tired, but emotionally – that was like drawing a blank. 

You can tell a lot about yourself by stepping back and examining what attracts you, to where you gravitate, from where your obsessions come. Maybe I just didn’t get enough attention as a child.  Or maybe I was just one of those people who would never get quite enough attention, period.  I didn’t know.  This particular kind of attention still felt so new to me. I kept being surprised people even found me sexy, much less wanted to pay me to take off my clothes.

I really wished there was someone I could talk to about all of this.  Someone that I could tell about Jeff’s money clip and Sandra’s pregnancies.  When I told my friend John about the Delmonico shoot, I felt like he was getting off on it, and his reaction made me want to change the subject.  I didn’t know if he got off on the nudity, or just the taboo-breaking element of it, but I didn’t care.  He wanted me to give him the URL once the pictures were up.  No way.  I didn’t want anyone I knew to see those pictures. 

Why is it that no matter how jaded we get, taking off your clothes is still so fucking shocking? Guys get this glint in their eye, and girls get tense.  We’ve all seen naked bodies.  Why is it still so inappropriate?  Why does the combination of sex and money horrify people?  And turn on others?  Is it because, even in this morally decadent age, we feel sex and love have to come together?  And that sex and money can’t? Are we afraid of the implications of sex without love?

I’d been thinking about Lionel and his partners.  If I worked two three hour shifts a week, at two dollars a minute, that’s 2×60 = 120, 120×3 = $360, $360×2 = over $600 a week.  That was a lot of fucking money for very little work. One three-hour shift was still $360 more a week than I was making now telling schoolchildren not to touch the art and to keep their voices down.  That was $1200 more a month than I was making.  It was hard not to think about that.  $600 a week was $2400 a month.  I could pay off my student loans.  I could finally buy what I wanted and stop worrying about money.  Maybe I could actually move out of Brooklyn.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about working for Lionel, though.  I couldn’t believe the zillion dollar porn industry seemed to be run by morons.  And, of course, they were all men. These men were starting to make me feel ill.

But I kept going.

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