“Hey! How much?”
I look across the road—some barrel-bellied twit in a cheap suit is waving a fifty at me. He doesn’t stand a f*****g chance. Just because I make a living from selling my arse doesn’t mean I don’t have any self-respect. Some fat fucker flapping a fifty at me appeals to me about as much as cancer.
“Hey buddy! Hey! I’m talking to you!”
I walk on.
“Ya fuckin’ faggot!”
I laugh.
You’re the one desperately waving a fifty at me and I’m the fuckin’ faggot?
I keep walking. I lift a hot dog from a vendor while he’s bending down to get more serviettes.
“Come back ya bloody arsehole!”
I’ve heard it all before. There’s nothing I haven’t been called. Faggot, poof, pansy, queer, slut, pillow biter, bum bandit, poo puncher, arse pirate. Oil on water. It doesn’t penetrate. What do a
