I get back to my place to see Kari sitting on the couch with her favorite pink robe on.

“Hey,” I said walking towards my room.

“I need to talk to you,” Kari said softly.

“What’s going on?”

She was turned over on the couch looking at me. She had on her false lashes.

“Going to the club later on?”

“Um...maybe...I don’t know. But I wanted to talk about Tomas.”

I held back a sigh. I sat down on a bar stool at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. “He’s about to get out, right?”

“He’s already out.” Where was her smile?

“Tell me what’s up,” I said, trying to be all ears. Considering the support group, I thought I could be open to hearing other people’s feelings.

“I don’t know if Tomas can get a visa here.”

No shit, I thought. He was a felon after all. “I mean, he can stay here for a while, you know, like a vacation sort of thing.” Get your asses to a love hotel and leave me the hell alone. I did my fake stripper smile. I don’t know if Kari was paying attention enough to notice it.

“Were you thinking about moving?”

“Well, I don’t know.” She rubbed her manicured hand against her face.

It was a Libra thing.

“I’ll give you some time to think about it.”

⃝

I decided to retreat to my room, sitting at my laptop, where I sporadically updated my Onlyfans. I had a bunch of random shit sent from companies that were into my Instagram, as I’ve become a mini influencer.

I had wanted to install a stripper pole in the apartment for the longest, but now I may not be here for long, it was once again a thought pushed aside.

I did a round of researching, alongside reading the books I got.

Shamanic performers in premodern times negotiated their expressive powers by adding sex and comedy to their performances. Survival necessitated these additions to their craft.

I sat on my head against my balled up fist staring at this academic text I found online. Why did sex seem so rooted in survival?

I kept reading. There was a section about how vagrants, people who couldn’t afford the taxes for their residency, travelled around and offered sex services.

In the Kamakura period, the shrines where the miko practiced went bankrupt, leading them to travel out and be prostitutes.

So, they weren’t actually sacred prostitutes? I started thinking. They just did that because they were pushed out by politicians and society?

I just closed out all the tabs and books I had opened and set them aside. I laid on my bed, once again having an existential crisis. I sat with Warrior Prince of Love and randomly flipped to a page.

The Prince’s length was now exposed to the group of men. It continually bobbed back and forth as clear liquid formed at the tip of his member. One of the men, a taller, older figure, stepped up and grabbed him by his testicles.

“So this is the whore?” the man said.

The Prince moaned as the man worked him like a fiddle.

I pulled my sweatpants and just laid my hand there.

I started pulling and tugging my dick like they were doing to the Prince. I kept reading as they defiled him one by one.

Why did I want to be treated like that?

I jerked off even faster, causing my balls to hop around between my thighs. I bit on my sweatshirt sleeve, trying not to moan too loudly. If I had my prostate massager, I would be even crazier. I laid my head against my pillow, eyes closed. I spread my legs, wishing a big, fat dick was inside of me.

Soon, cum spurted out of my dick, spilling against my stomach. I laid in the fetal position, panting.

Somehow, I was still horny.

Then I saw Keiji’s card on my nightstand.

Hell no.

But I wasn’t going to be able to avoid Keiji either way.