I went outside at 0830 this morning and looked out from the upstairs patio. Across the street at Nr. 937 the porch light was still on. So the blonde girl hadn't yet come home. I went off to the coffeeshop by the university feeling obscurely pleased. So it seems she spent the night out. I do wish I could've seen her come home in her black cocktail dress. It's not quite the Walk of Shame if a white Jaguar sedan delivers you to your doorstep, but it's nonetheless deliciously obvious what you've been doing. My question would be--- did she actually have sex with the elderly guy who'd been driving the Jaguar, or did he just watch her have sex, either with others or with herself? What exactly is the story here?

I was pleased that the blonde girl had spent the night out. That's something that Stella at stelladellasera and Kim at kim_chi_lite would understand. And it's something I hope Stella will talk to me about. And perhaps Ms. Chang as well. It's not that I'll ever be the blonde girl's client, let alone her sugar daddy. I'd never be able to afford her services; I'd certainly never be able to have her in keeping. And there's no chance that the girl would ever talk to me on a non-professional basis. Blonde girls with good legs and dark tans don't talk with males who look like me. They really don't even see males who look like me. And I suspect that my money wouldn't be any good with her even if I had money. Stella at stelladellasera and Kim at kim_chi_lite and starlet_harlot would agree: professionals do have self-respect and a sense of their own value. Any call girl sent to my hotel room would turn on her heel in the doorway--- or stalk out of the hotel bar --- and walk off in a cold rage, snarling to her bookers over her mobile. It would demean any professional to have to waste her skills on me. But I am pleased that the girl is there.

Maybe starlet_harlot and stelladellasera would understand. There are bikini girls and co-eds in slutwear here in my apartment complex. But they lack an air of wickedness and the demimonde. Having a lovely blonde call girl across the street provides...well...local colour. Ambience, I suppose. Yes--- she does feed my fantasies. But she adds a hint of decadence and dark delights to my neighbourhood. Having a lovely blonde call girl living there in the little blue stucco house makes me feel like such things can go on in the quotidian world.

I live on a tree-lined narrow street on a hill going down to the lakes and the old Spanish fort. It means a lot to think that girls could be in keeping or be working as courtesans there in the world where I live, and not just in distant cities or the pages of novels.

I'd thought about taking my Tare Panda Laptop to the coffeeshop this morning. In the end, though, I left the laptop on my desk. It is hard for me to actually take the laptop anywhere. It's a new thing for me. I know that girls like Lissy at emigree and Ms. Flox at besideserato are never anywhere without a laptop; Ms. Flox carries hers with her from study to bedroom to poolside and back. I'm just afraid of the laptop--- just like I'm afraid of my keitai and I would be afraid of an iPod.

Ishiguro's "A Pale View of Hills". I sat at the coffeeshop and re-read "A Pale View of Hills". I didn't walk over to the Zeppelin Pilots' Club for brunch at 1100. I just took my briefcase and drove home to sleep.

Brunch is expensive: eggs Pontchartrain, two or three Mimosas. I don't need to be spending the money. And I don't need to be eating. I need cheekbones and collarbones and hipbones. No one can have all my other failings and then risk eating.

It's going to rain outside. I can see the skies going dark. I do like thunderstorms. I like seeing lightning in the distance; I like wind and the rush of cool air.

Brunch is expensive. I never have any idea how much money I actually do have, but I know I can't be having brunch. The other afternoon everyone at my office ordered lunch from a well-regarded Mexican restuarant in town and sent the firm's runner girl to pick it up. I ordered a steak burrito with careful specifications: no cheese, black beans and rice, sour cream, guacamole. Needless to say, the restaurant got it wrong. The burrito was soaked in melted cheese, and they'd left out the black beans. Just great. I couldn't eat it at all. Ten dollars wasted. The K-dot told me I should've told the little runner girl for the firm to take it back and demand that they get it right or refund me ten dollars. The runner girl gets paid by the hour, the K-dot said. Why should she care anout being sent back? She's getting paid to be out of the office. But I couldn't. I threw the burrito away and went across the street and bought a small thing of yogurt. Complaining seemed like whining. And I couldn't tell the runner girl to go do that. It would mean getting her to drive, getting her to leave whatever on-line card game she was playing. I don't have the social standing at the firm to give orders to the secretaries or the runner girl. What if I gave orders and people ignored them? I'm not a Grown Up; no one has any respect for me. If I'd told the runner girl to bring the burrito back and yell at the restaurant staff, she'd just have said no. So I was out the ten dollars, plus the yogurt, plus the humiliation.

There are Rules... If you ask a girl out and she says no, you can never speak to her again. If you ask her out while at a bar or club and she says no, you can never go back to the place. If you ask for a raise and you're turned down, you have to quit the job. And if you give orders to anyone and they say no, you've lost all ability to ever be regarded as having any status.

Add all that to reasons why I'd never speak to someone like the blond girl at Nr. 937.

There's a PostSecret card this week that shows a guy on a psychiatrist's couch. The caption is something like "I wish I had someone to talk to that I didn't have to pay". I saw the card last night late and just sighed. I've never been to a therapist. I can't afford it, and of course I couldn't afford any anti-depressants. I've never paid--- never been able to pay ---anyone to listen to me. There are call girls all over Europe and England and North America who've been paid by clients just to...listen. That's not even very rare. I couldn't afford that, either. I wouldn't have to be undressed around the girl--- the "provider", Debauchette says one should say. She'd never have to see me naked and hide the contempt on her face. She'd never have to control her revulsion if I touched her. Just...listening...would be easier for the girl. Stella at stelladellasera or the Australian girl at starlet_harlot would agree. But I can't afford even a hour of time where a girl would just...listen.

I spend time fantasizing about a broadcast studio in the high desert, about telling stories out onto the aether late, late at night. There wouldn't be an e-mail address; there wouldn't be a phone number. I wouldn't want calls back. I wouldn't want fans. I'd just want to tell Stories out into the high desert night.

Late at night here, though... I do grow depressed and sullen when I don't have voices on the aether. I never have anything that passes as proof of value. The blonde girl--- or whatever group she represents ---would never speak to me. No call girl who valued her own professional reputation would want me as a client, even to just listen. Money doesn't change everything.

[A singles ad link on the page atop my gmail inbox--- "Meet Emo Goth Singles Near You!" Dear God. That's as sad as anything seen in CraigsList.]

I saw the last few minutes of the latest episode of "Secret Diary of a Call Girl". The actress--- Billie Piper ---who plays the main character had just come home at dawn. She kicks off her stiletto heels, rolls off black thigh-high stockings, and pulls off her black sheath dress. No bra, no underwear---- which is exactly correct. I prefer girls to have bare legs; stockings are too 1988. But beautiful wicked girls should always be panty-free. Billie Piper is attractive enough. She's a former teen pop singer, and she's been on the newest "Doctor Who" series. She was in the London tabloids with a well-publicised bout of anorexia. Attractive enough, though not quite my type. She's petite and has a hint of curves. Some men do like that. My first thought on seeing her pull off the dress was that she could be a few inches taller and fifteen pounds lighter. But the I always think that. I like the idea of tall, angular, ethereal girls. I always liked gaunt as a word. I always wanted to be gaunt and ominous myself. Angles and edges, never softness and curves. I dislike the idea of fecundity. I like ideas more than flesh. I like a girl who has a ghostgirl look, not warmth or flesh. Ms. Piper--- Belle, her character is called ---climbs naked into bed with a book. I did like that a lot. Beautiful girls should sleep naked--- that's just a given. And a girl who reads while naked between soft fresh sheets--- that's lovely. Ginny at ginny_mccoo writes about the sensations of doing that. Umi at ivich writes about reading Nietzsche aloud while naked in bed. Lovely images, both...

I don't know what any of that means. Ms. Piper there naked in bed with a book. I like that image. I do know that beautiful girls are unlikely ever to call me while naked in bed, unlikely ever to call and read to me. There are no voices on the aether to show that I have any value. I don't wish for girls-in-the-flesh any longer. Too many risks--- failure, humiliation, mockery. I've read the requirements Ms. Flox at besideserato laid down for a lover. I don't meet a single one of them--- socially or physically or financially. Ms. Flox grew up in a family with servants. She was born to servant-handling, to giving orders and expecting skilled service. I can't meet any of the requirements for a lover. I know what Ms. Chang expects from Older Lovers, too. I couldn't meet any of the criteria on her list, either. So I won't risk having a girl there in the flesh. I won't risk being treated with derision and contempt. All I can hope for are voices. If a girl becomes a voice on the aether, if she takes the time to call me--- I take that as a kind of proof. I can be a voice; I can't be a person. But a voice on the aether is proof that I'm worth...something. It's proof that at least my voice and thoughts are of some value. If someone like Lissy at emigree or Ginny at ginny_mccoo or Tiffany at vanity_overkill were ever to call and tell me Stories--- they won't, mind you, but at least hypothetically ---that would be a proof that someone out there thought I was worth expending minutes on a calling plan, proof that I was worth more than watching late-night cable or listening to ambient music on an iPod. All value is market value--- let's be clear about that.

The girl in the black cocktail dress, the blonde girl across the street at Nr. 937--- whenever she did come home, her porch light was on when I left for the coffeeshop before 0900. Whatever she did, whoever she did--- the elderly man driving the Jaguar, or others while he watched ---it's all a Story I'll never know. It's grey-black outside now. I can hear thunder all across the north and west. What I do know is that no one will ever leave a porch light on for me. I'm not someone who can be a lover or a client. My money's no good--- even if I had money ---with self-respecting call girls. I certainly have no value as a lover; no girl wants to be seen with me in public. I sit up at night and drink vodka-lime and look at my keitai. No one calls--- clear proof that I'm not worthwhile even as a voice, not worth calling plan minutes.

I'll go sit outside and watch the storms. That's at least a way of not just sleeping through the day in silence.