Respectable Prostitution  I'm with Ben and Jill Gallon. Later it seems I'm with Jill and Grandma Redding. There is talk and jokes about sexual things. There is a sexual act occurring nearby. I'm tempted to get involved in it. I get an erection, outside a small shed, by myself. My next move would then be to confront the older women about fellatio and their denture-less mouths, or to go wherever this sexual act is occurring. Something happens with my flipping over two empty glasses, upside down. They're like the glasses Rob McDyss has given me to pour my beer into. I'm in a house where people have sex for money. It's more respectable than prostitution, which it is not. One can have sex anywhere on the body, within limits. People are employed to have sex and to allow others to have sex with them. I have sex with a large man. He is big and strong: hefty. He has dark skin and hair, like a traditional Maori. I think he's from the pacific islands. I don't know how it begins. I find him kneeling or bending over in front of me. My erection fumbles around, and then penetrates his anus, which feels tight and pleasurable. While we're having sex I ask what the instructions for orgasm are. They are: one is to stand up when they are about to orgasm and put their hands in the air (like they are being held up!). I do this, but not when I'm about to ejaculate: it's a trial experience for me. I leave before ejaculation. The man says something about the position of my hands above or below something, and how that alters the procedure for orgasm. When I stand up I'm naked, but am wearing my navy green t-shirt. I leave feeling guilty that I used these people because I didn't orgasm: I wasted their time. I walk into a kitchen where my friends Kevin Simpson and Stephen Ramos are. They're both naked, wearing towels around their waists. Both have erections. I walk up to them in my shirt, with an erection. This is a type of camaraderie: male bonding. There is nothing sexual about it, it seems.