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He was a rich kid and I worked the square.
But he never mentioned it.
It's true I often went cruising after being with him.
I'm addicted. Do you understand that?
Can you understand?
You can, but you don't want to.
If you did you couldn't go on doing your job.
You see, I understand too.
It's true that husting and cruising and being in love is all the same thing.
It's just not easy for people to understand.
Using your *** is like using your head.
Some people were born to watch TV
others write
and it's beautiful. They're never laughed at.
***'s the same. It's a gift.
You've got it or you don't.
Me. I like it anyway it comes.
Hustling's a job
and don't want most Johns to even touch me.
Others, I want. Never asked myself why some and not others.
It's not because they're the richest or even the most handsome.
With some I won't get undressed. Others I spend the night with. Same price.
But they're clients. I never forget the bill
no matter how nice they are.
The mountain is different. I'm the one who choses.
I can change my mind and stop.
It's outdoors. Just before dawn the birds start to sing
and it's beautiful. Such tranquility.
It's quiet and almost no one is around
and those who are hurry
for that one last *** before dawn.
The trails are empty.
I don't think about what will happen next.
But we're all looking for the same thing:
a bit of fun with someone,
to have some pleasure without anything in exchange.
Sometimes at the square if I've made enough money
and it's early, around 1
even if I'm ***
I go there and walk, making up stories.
Cowboy movies, sometimes Robin Hood
and sometimes war movies.
I'm behind enemy lines, the last survivor
I walk without making a sound
and nobody sees or hears me.
Sometimes it's a horror film.
I lean against a tree
and let it run, 'till the bad part ends.
Usually the picture...
It didn't bother him that I hustled.
He understood and didn't mind me talking about it.
Sometimes, with him, just before falling asleep
when I'd ask him to kill me, to end it all,
he'd take me in his arms
and hug me as tight as he could, going...
I stopped asking him that
'cause sometimes it made him cry.
I couldn't take that.
A guy who's coming, any guy
even if he's ugly - it's so beautiful.
But him even more so.
It was like our first sunrise.
I hate it when a guy cries. Don't know what to do.
But him, when it was because of me, it was unbearable.
I'd wished I'd never been born.
He'd tell me stories, all kinds...
Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel...
his voice was like I dunno...
just right.
With that voice he could tell me the recipe for a carrot cake.
Once read me a book...'Claudel.'
It was lying by the bed.
He said, 'wait I'll read you something.'
He pulled away his arm, 'can't read like this.'
I was lying on him and
he rolled me over, put the book on me while looking for a page.
When he found it, he leaned to kiss me,
'Goodnight.'
Picked up the book, leaned over to kiss me again, and said
'My love.'
Then he started to read to me again.
I don't remember what he read, but
it was the only time I fell asleep on by back.
As if I were in a mattress floating on a lake.
He lent me the book.
I couldn't get past the part he had read to me.
At one point the phone rang.
Some friends of his were going to watch the fireworks.
He was always excited after seeing them.
He'd light up all hot.
Not drunk, but all in a fever.
Took him a while to focus on me again.
He'd talk about what they'd said,
but it was like someone else was talking.
At first we just ***. Whenever we talked, we fought.
It changed when his roommate left.
He stopped telling me about his meetings with friends.
Let me know when you've had enough.
I'll shut up.
That night when he hung up, he wasn't different
like all the other times.
I think for a few seconds or minutes
the dream I stood for was important than his friends.
Instead of leaving me while he was on the phone, he stayed with me.
I don't mean in the kitchen where the phone is,
I mean with me in his head.
He didn't have to focus on me like a stranger
like the other times before.
He talked to them the same way he talked to me.
Looking at me, he told them he was really busy. I started to sweat.
I felt hot, shivery. Didn't know what to do.
Said he'd call them back.
I think they'd planned to do something together and he'd changed his mind.
The girl on the phone sounded pissed off and I think she hung up on him.
After, he asked me if he could meet my friends.
I said I'd never thought about it. He knew I was lying.
I'd never thought about it because I never thought we would last.
Until I heard him on the phone.
Because of his voice, his hands,
his skin, his eyes.
Even though we'd been together for a month
he understood.
Told me he felt the same way and he didn't want to mix different things.
He knew he had to make a choice
and he thought he'd just made it.
I don't know how to explain. You don't have to believe me
I just want you to understand
he wasn't asking me to do the same.
He wasn't asking me anything.
We kissed each other again...
and made love.
The only time in my life where I really did it.
I know it sounds corny, he's me and I'm him.
But it's true, it exists.
I don't know how to explain it but we were like one person.
I wasn't holding him - there was no difference between us.
Can't talk about it without sounding mushy.
The words are worn out.
You can't crank them out.
I don't even know if he could have.
I don't remember thinking of doing this or that to him. It just happened.
We weren't lying next to the table, we weren't touching the ground.
You see? You see there's no way.
Why don't words work?
That's what they taught us in school.
You know? A word for each thing and each thing has a word.
Learn how to conjugate the verbs and to use the complement.
When you say it everybody understands it.
Forget the guys who spend their time writing. It's all frills.
Easy. They get complimented.
Say what you have to say.
Why am I so bLocked if it is so simple? Why don't you understand?
Why doesn't it fit? When I try to describe it, it sounds like a trip.
But I wasn't ***.
Hadn't even opened the bottle of wine.
I hadn't smoked.