The Ease of Access

By Jeff Musillo

"The Love Is Gone."

In this tell-all, our bored, apathetic and greedy narrator embarks on a mission to demolish his world by revealing the ins and outs of his former job as: Hollywood's Most Wanted Prostitute.

Does he feel superior? Does he feel remorse? Does he feel anything?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491838563

Jeff Musillo

Jeff Musillo is a published poet as well as a visual artist who works both on canvas and in digital format. He has had exhibits throughout New York and his artwork will be featured in the upcoming feature film The Heart Machine. He lives in Brooklyn.

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© 2013 Jeff Musillo. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/13/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3857-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3855-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3856-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921580

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Some Form of Maturation

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Packing It In

Thanks to J. G.

You helped out big time. For that, I’m truly grateful.

One can hear all that’s going on it the street. Which means that from the street one can hear what’s going on in this house.

—Jean Genet

Some Form of Maturation

The love is gone. I no longer enjoy fucking. I really don’t know if that… that pleasure, that satisfaction with eroticism, will ever return. Whatever. I can honestly say that I’m no longer concerned. That’s why I’m writing this. Sure, at one time, the disappearance of my sincere desire made me a bit anxious. For a very brief moment, I was uneasy about the evaporation of my own sexual need, of what so many irrationally tag as yearning. Not because I cared about performance or anything like that. No. My short-lived worrying had nothing to do with performance or personal fulfillment.

The act of fucking, getting the job done right and in remarkable yet professional fashion, has always been easy. Getting my dick up and primed for penetration has never been problematic, even when I started to feel the enthusiasm slip away from me. The fun certainly died, but my dick did not. It’s on autopilot or something. The trouble—and my fleeting apprehension—involved the fact that sex is my job. Yes, I’m a prostitute.

Putting myself out there for others to procure, selling my dick, my tongue, my fingers, my entire body—all of that symbolizes everything about me. Being a whore has been a part of my life for so long that, no matter how I approach any situation, even if I currently want nothing to do with the world of high-end hooking, it is my life. That’s just the way it all played out for me. During my early years, I used to be pretty good at other things. Looking back now, without a trace of arrogance, I can say that I had a slim chance to do something else with my life. Something much different.

I’ve always been a good observer, someone who could be silent and watch closely, inspect without sticking out or getting overly involved with emotions. Who knows? Maybe I could’ve been a private detective. I used to be a good listener. Perhaps, at some point, I could’ve been a suicide hotline operator. Not now, of course. I can hardly pay attention to myself anymore. What good would I be to someone in emotional despair? Once I entered high school, any interest in my surroundings or in the viewpoints of others completely dissolved and my days of concentration and contemplation were hastily cut out.

I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. I do know that I don’t really care. I don’t have a single wish to dig deep or attempt to locate any answers. I don’t have the energy for that. Here’s the truth: nowadays, I simply don’t care what anyone has to say. Well then, I guess I’m also good at being disinterested. But being good at something can only get you so far. In the long run, none of those other sufficient skills meant shit, especially when I discovered that I was great at sex.

That’s not a boast. Trust me: I take no pride in chatting about my job or admitting that I’m sexually proficient. To do so would be worthless. There are far better ways to waste a day. Moreover, as a result of my work as a prostitute, I’ve been in the presence of some flashy attention seekers, around so much reasonless back patting, that the idea of arrogance makes me quiver and fill up with biliousness.

So taking a second here in this tell-all to write that I’m great at sex is just my way of breaking out the brush and painting a realistic picture, even if that same paint creates unbearable lightheadedness. Indeed, the reality of my carnal capabilities brings this whore no happiness whatsoever. Zilch. Stating that I’m great at sex is said with as much emotion as it takes to declare ice is cold.

No doubt about it. Ice is cold. That’s exactly what ice is. And I’m a prostitute who happens to be great at sex. That simple fact, although it has been the source of some nice income in the past, hasn’t really been the key to my contentment. Nor has it pushed me forward in any societal fashion. Very few whores grow old and become/remain memorialized. It’s true. And now, with all that shit behind me, with me typing away and hammering this nail in my own coffin, I can honestly say that I wish I wasn’t great enough to be a professional slut. Sometimes, I wish I did something else to occupy my time.

I was born and raised in Los Angeles, California, a land of sunshine and silent shadows, sly smiles and secrecy. Some people say you can’t break away from where you come from, as if one’s starting point activates and manipulates the rest of his or her life. I don’t know. I don’t know if my origin means squat in the grand scheme of things. But I do find that, unless it’s their birthplace, LA is a city that no one identifies with or appreciates. I’m sure there’s some philosophical reason behind such a statement. But I wouldn’t care to know a thing like that.

I do know that my upbringing in LA was fund friendly, undoubtedly linked with plenty of cash. My family had an abundance to throw around, which we regularly and casually did. The relatives of the kids I grew up with also had a load of ready money. With not much to do on a day-to-day basis, all the kids my age would play the part we were assigned at birth and routinely make use of our resources to waste the day. Lots of booze and drugs were purchased and put away.

I guess it wouldn’t be difficult for someone to call it a privileged life, but I’m not exactly sure what that term means. Privileged. I seldom consider anything thrilling or astonishing, so I can only label the activities of my early stages as normal. It was all standard procedure. I was simply born into it. I had an older brother who liked to consume. And most of the kids my age had older siblings who also fit that bill. Naturally, the coincidental nature of derivation led to my rapid development. It led to the introduction to adult things at what some would consider an early age.

I was twelve years old when I first got high. It still seems like a fine time to begin such actions. I remember the day clearly. My brother brought me along to his dealer’s sun-drenched apartment and, once whatever sum of cash was handed over by my detached sibling, we all relaxed on the dealer’s long, immaculate, black, leather couch, lit up, and casually passed around a two-foot bong that my mumbling brother referred to as Air Commodore Milkenstein.

Before the two-footer got to me, I remained in a spectator’s position. Still being at that age where one is too concerned about appearance, wanting to seem as if I belonged and was far from incompetent, I initially made a point to absorb all the visuals. I intently watched as the other two in the room packed the bong, took a few moments to foolishly look for the lighter that was on the dealer’s lap, sparked the weed, and then inhaled and inhaled some more while removing what I soon learned to be the stem. I also took note of the ice cubes floating in the darkened, gently swaying water at the bottom of the bong. An addition the dealer said would generate a smoother feel.

I was all eyes on deck. I thought I had the whole process down pat. No. It turned out I hadn’t paid close enough attention, since I slipped up on my very first hit. I took the chipped lighter from my brother, who didn’t seem to change or become any more disconnected following his pull, I packed, and I sparked the bud. I unintentionally took an enormous hit, a hard drag that created an intense series of amplifying chokes, a coughing fit that seemed to propel smoke out of every orifice. Through my fit, I heard the dealer say, Oh shit. That was a huge hit. Being a young newbie to the scene, that statement made me feel unnerved.

I was somewhat derailed by the dealer’s comment. He didn’t try to make my first high any easier on me. His words pierced through the thick clouds of smoke with a feeling of contempt, as if he was exploiting me with bitter cynicism. I didn’t like that. But to the best of my young abilities, I played it cool and pretended to disregard my heavy hit by remaining silent.

This is an act that I’ve been able to fall back on whenever necessary. Silence.

It wasn’t until we got to some restaurant on Melrose, following a high-velocity drive in the dealer’s dust-covered black Jeep, that I actually let my panic escape. Still having some ability to be rational, I made sure I was in isolation for the freak-out. As my brother and the dealer followed the standoffish host to one of the many open tables, I darted off to the bathroom with the intention to get a moment of seclusion to calm myself. It was going well, until I stood at the urinal and looked down.

There was nothing wrong with my dick. Imagine that. I wonder how much different my life would be if I had looked down in that cold bathroom and set eyes on nothing, saw that my cock had vanished. I don’t know what that would mean for me. Whatever. I don’t have to think about it, since that didn’t happen. No, my freak-out wasn’t provoked by a sudden realization that I was a eunuch but by what was below my still-attached dick, down inside the urinal.

Beneath me, right where I intended to piss, sat one of those bright-red urinal screens. A barrier that