I've been away far too long. The world outside my rooms has been unrelentingly awful for so long that I've forgotten what it's like to want to go out into the world. I'm still here, mind you. I'm the aging figure who's sitting here on a spring morning listening to Rihanna do "Disturbia" and trying to think of reasons to do anything at all.
The one thing that I've found intriguing at all here in the blighted year 2026 is that when the fighting began in the Persian Gulf, some of the best news coming out of Dubai was in Twitter postings from FMTY girls. The high-end escorts in luxury hotels managed to post accounts of what was happening-- missile strikes, exploding drones, panic among the tax exiles --that was more informative and more clear-eyed than anything the newsfeeds were carrying. I had to nod my head at that. Of course the FMTY girls knew more than the talking heads on al-Jazeera or the Western press. Of course they did. I did admire that, and I was glad to see them finally getting some respect for their knowledge of the world.
I've never met an FMTY girl, and there's no way that I could ever afford to see one professionally. I'd be terrified even to try. I'd never be good enough a potential client to make an FMTY girl feel like I was worth her professional time. But I do admire them as a class.
My understanding is that most of the FMTY girls at Twitter are slightly older than the usual sort of escort. They seem mostly to be just over thirty, and they seem to have a disproportionate number of graduate degrees-- M.A. degrees in Finance, Sociology, or Psychology are fairly common, though I've noted a couple in the sciences as well. At least one-- someone whose Twitter and occasional newsletter I do follow --is a serious devotee of History. They also seem to take their role as a companion seriously. Many seem to pride themselves on having a high level of conversational skills and on having spent time learning about a range of conversational topics. Well, those have been the skills high-end geishas in Kyoto have learned for centuries, and I admire them just as much as I admire the FMTY girls at Michelin-star restaurants in Manhattan or London Town.
Companion seems to be rather a niche thing these days. I could never afford a Michelin-star restaurant, and I lack any of the social markers that would make me welcome in one. A lovely, well-dressed, elegant young woman with an M.A. in Comparative Lit. or French lit., someone who enjoys conversation and is skilled at it-- I have no idea where I'd take someone like that these days. And I have no idea what I'd say to someone like that in any case. I used to say that if a girl was going to go to bed with me, it would be because I'd talked her into it. My sole real social (or sexual) skill was conversation-- being able to tell stories. That was my key asset-- telling stories. These days I wouldn't know where to begin or what to say. I'd be very sure that I'd have nothing at all to say to either a high-end escort or a civilian girl who was knowledgeable and good at conversation. I'd feel like a stammering idiot (or worse, a rube) every time I opened my mouth.
I don't have anything to say to lovely girls these days, and I'm no longer clear on what I'm socially allowed to say. I'm terrified (and exhausted) by the thought that any well-educated girl or any skilled professional would see me as a waste of her time. She'd think that she'd spent time and effort learning a whole list of things, and here she was was with someone who was obviously a rube and an idiot, who could never appreciate her skills. Yes, I'd be thinking, I'd love to hear you talk about, e.g., neurobiology or evolutionary psychology or Persian architecture. I'd really love that. But I can't say anything at all that won't mark me as a waste of your time and skills.
I can hold the attention of a classroom or a lecture hall filled with students. I've done that. I know that I can do that. I'm good at that. But I have nothing to say to anyone across a table, let alone across a hotel bed. I'm not someone who can attract a companion in either sense of the word.
Spring is an empty time this year. The world outside my rooms is bleak enough, and there's no one reaching out from there. My phone doesn't ring, and lovely girls aren't sending clever or flirtatious emails. Phone sex is no longer a thing in the post-pandemic world. There's less and less incentive to go anywhere. I have nothing to say to a lovely girl on the next barstool or cafe table. Even if a girl-- a civilian, a non-professional --was enthusiastically willing to take me to bed, I wouldn't risk it. I wouldn't risk her disdain. I wouldn't risk becoming a stammering idiot.
In other news, I don't have any stories right now for those of you out over the aether. I wish I did. Karley Sciortino seems to have revived her Slutever blog (or at least created a new version of it on Substack), so maybe she'll have stories of her own to tell. Since the legendary Debauchette has long since vanished, Karley Sciortino is the only person writing about sex in any sort of digestible way. I suppose I can read her revived blog and see what she has to say, but...here in April of a blighted year, there's no one else out there to read, and I lack any and all ability to experience things that would make stories of my own.
