I hadn’t been working independently very long, and I was still getting into the groove of everything away from brothel life. I’d chopped all my hair off into a Victoria Beckham bob in an act of defiance, and I was in a less-than-elegant fluoro knicker phase. For the first time I was working from a lovely, bright share-apartment that I was actually proud of. I was feelin’ myself.
Michael* sort of hit me by surprise. I’m not usually surprised by much, but even if I’d only seen him the once, I’d still remember him vividly. He wasn’t nervous so much but definitely shy, a little fidgety and seemed to avoid eye contact. He was courteous though, and followed my instructions to shower. He took his sweet time about it, and then eventually he came back to the room - redressed as he’d arrived - with wet hair dripping down his face. I’m not going to lie to you, I was physically attracted to him. He had a definite Ezra Miller/Brian Molko vibe - dark and effeminate - intoxicating as heck.
We didn’t fuck though. We tore at each others clothes, kissed passionately and touched each other hungrily. He was sensually domineering and he flipped me over and kissed all over my back and my neck which drove me to the edge of heavenly despair. Michael was the one who discovered a couple of my sweet spots, and in those first few times we had together there was a raw desperation in the way he kissed and pawed at me that awoke new parts of me. Even just the way he would gaze at me - I’d never felt so desired. I was a wet mess in his presence but I was growing so frustrated about how he wouldn’t have sex with me. The orgasms would flow but I’d stay empty and wanting. It took 5 sessions - I saw him every fortnight - for me to get him to talk about it. It turns out, he was just waiting for me to ask him nicely. Whoops - I clearly hadn’t learned the art of begging.
From then on, the needy fucking just added to the intensity of our sessions together. All my girlfriends from the share house came to know who he was, I moved heaven and earth to make sure I was available to see him when he wanted. He was a young student and I had no idea how he was paying for it, but it wasn’t my business.
Michael sort of ended up everywhere I was. He was in the same city I was touring in once, I can’t remember what he was there for, but it had been nearly a year I’d been seeing him at that point. I blocked out the whole evening for him, even though he always only booked an hour, because I had been so busy and I had wanted to relax with someone familiar and feel myself for a moment. Of course, relaxing was not something we did. The chemistry ruled every aspect of us, and we made a royal mess of that apartment. And then, stupidly, I cried. I was married, monogamously so. And even though compartmentalising is a skill I’ve always been proud of, it was failing, and this level of enjoyment had started to feel like cheating.
The thing with Michael was, he had some issues. Not long before we met, he had tried to take his own life. He suffered from chronic depression, and he really couldn’t deal with what I had just unloaded on him. He wasn’t emotionally equipped to handle it, and it was of course absurdly unprofessional on my part. So when I saw him again, back at home, I started to back off. But then, the more I pushed that tortured soul of his away, the more he would pull me back, in his own ways. He always held my hands so tight, cupped my face, he worshipped every little part of me like no one ever had. He never wanted me to give him any selfish pleasure, he never took, he just wanted to be with me, as close as possible, in a way that never felt creepy at all, but as if it was his only way of communicating.
I never altered the boundaries with him, we respected time, it was always paid upfront and I never saw him out of work. I did my best to respect the boundaries of my marriage at that time and of my job. But it’s funny how things work out. When I moved to Auckland, he happened to move there at the same time for further study. We didn’t realise at the time, but we both ended up studying at the same school. It made sense, our skillsets were in a similar field (but he was insanely talented and an over-achiever) and we began to see each other about. It was exciting actually, passing each other by with a knowing smile, nothing else, just this rapid heartbeat and an overacted casualness. Time passes, and we have continued to fall into bed with each other every fortnight for a few years. All the life changes we had in that time, all the big shifts, there he was - there we were.
He’d been through some medication changes in this time. One time, in the middle of one of our crazy, passionate sessions, he abruptly started crying. Embarrassed, he got up and he left. Then I cried, as I didn’t know what was wrong, if I had done anything… and the guilt of crying over a client when I was monogamously married made me cry even more (in hindsight perhaps monogamy was never really for me). I was sad for Michael, and also scared for us. I could feel that he was in pain but felt totally helpless. The next time I saw him, he came with smiles and an assurance it was just an issue with his medication. I knew it went deeper, but I respected the mood he wanted to bring to our time. It didn’t happen again.
Years of this, and we’re definitely emotionally attached and enjoying a choreographed dance of all the fucking we love on a regular basis. In many ways, we have really been through a lot together. I know all the ins and outs of him, beneath and above his skin. We talk movies, post-earthquake trauma, games, music, tattoos. We talk school, and we talk about dreams and we also talk about each other. He always tells me what he likes about me, and I always tell him what I like about him. He never believes me - he always says it’s my job to flatter him. I really mean it though.
Then, my marriage imploded. I had to leave Auckland and the sex industry for a while, chasing a dead relationship, and I left everything that wasn’t part of that pitiful quest behind me. I raced back to a city I hate, chasing a man I didn’t love as much as I should, and spent the next 6 months spiralling down a black hole that if I’m honest, nearly completely swallowed me. Honestly, my own depression consumed a lot of this time and I hardly remember it. By the time I emerged from the depths of that hell, separated, and now living in Australia, Michael was on my mind. I hadn’t heard from him in all this time, a little weird especially as I was advertising again and easy to find with my new number, but he was always so good at boundaries, so I put it down to him respecting my space.
When I’d left the industry, I had (un)ceremoniously destroyed my work phone, it’s contacts included. I wasn’t really sure how to contact him now. I didn’t know what I was hoping to achieve anyway, after all I was in another country now, and I knew that Michael's capability for romantic relationships was minimal due to the far reaches of his depression. I just wanted, I think, to reach out and see what blossomed, as now that I could breathe again and the depression fog was lifting, I missed him a lot. I figured he'd be easy enough to find with our common circles, so I decided to be a creep and look him up. I knew he wouldn’t mind, we didn’t have any secrets, we knew each other’s real names and I expected he’d be happy to hear from me. So I hit up Google.
___
Michael’s obituary didn’t say much. In fact, it was the fact it didn’t say much that said everything. He had died around the time of my departure from Auckland, ‘tragically’ it said. It hit me so hard that the air escaped my lungs and didn’t come back for what felt like eternity. My heart hit the floor and stayed there. I had spent the last 6 months of my life trying to stitch together the pieces of my broken heart and now, the thread unravels again. I didn’t know who to talk to. How does anyone understand what it means when a client dies? We are not supposed to feel the way that I was feeling. But this was MICHAEL. And now, waves of incredible guilt wash over me, that I had left him, and that I had only now found out, because I had been too wrapped up in myself to even notice his silence. I grieved, and still grieve, and it’s even now hard to explain who and what he was to me.
It seemed irrational but I wanted to talk to someone who knew him. The only people who knew ABOUT him were a few SW friends, who felt my pain when I told them, they knew to some extent what he was to me. But it wasn’t the same. There were family members listed on the obituary, and I figured as we were similar ages, I figured I could pass myself off easily enough as a friend from our school. So I looked up his Mother, Layla* on Facebook, and I sent her a message.
Immediately, she knew who I was. Michael's phone couldn’t be unlocked when he had passed - no-one knew the password, and so she wasn’t able to contact me to let me know he had taken his life. She felt bad about that, but it’s not her fault. It’s technology these days. You see, it turns out, Layla had encouraged him to see me. She had helped with the finances, because she came to see what a difference I made in his life. If nothing else, she saw that I gave him something to look forward to. He had once even seen me (with my ex husband, eep!) at a supermarket and pointed me out to her, and she said I’d seemed lovely. Layla only had positive things to say about me, and about the impact my work had on his life. She’d been aware of the complications between us, and it comforted her to know that someone had really cared for her son. Michael wasn’t exactly sociable, a ‘people suck’ kind of guy, so he, by choice, didn’t have friends. He had his mother, brother, his cat, and me. And that’s how he wanted it.
It has been really hard not to blame myself, and I know it’s arrogant for me to think it could in any way, have had anything to do with me leaving. I do feel though, that I abandoned him, but ongoing conversation with Layla has reassured me that it is noone’s fault. I haven't asked his method of suicide, it feels disrespectful and I don't think I want to know. I figure depression as his ultimate cause of death.
You see, Michael had chronic depression. It wasn’t curable, it was only manageable, and even then, only sometimes. He had tried to commit suicide previously, I knew that, and Layla tells me that every extra day she had with him after that was a blessing. He was never going to make it out of depression alive, and we were lucky to have him as long as we did. Michael was in a lot of pain, and in many ways, it would have been selfish to keep him. And I get it. I’ve been invited to join the family in scattering Michael’s ashes in a place he loves, but for me, to go back to where it all began, and where my marriage ended, it’s still too hard for me. And I do wonder if it’s too much, as theres little solace I can offer for a Mothers grief other than to say again how deeply I cared for her son and that I miss him dreadfully. I hope if anything, there may be some comfort for us in his peace.
There's nothing I wouldn't do to see you
Walk through my door
Put your money on the table and kiss me hello
Book me once more
*Names have been changed.
PETRA FOX
Twitter: @foxandthefeline
Instagram: @foxandthefeline
Web: petrafox.com.au
