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The Artists of Love

The Artists of Love

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The Artists of Love

4.5/5 (3 evaluări)
64 pages
59 minutes
Sep 29, 2020


The Artists of Love follows the love lives of five sex-workers as they navigate first dates, new relationships, and complex power dynamics. These delightfully sarcastic, whip-smart, and overly-honest characters struggle to balance people’s perceptions of them with the reality of their lives in this sweet yet kinky collection of queer erotic romance.

Sep 29, 2020

Despre autor

Guy New York is a bestselling erotica author, designer, and degenerate who spends most of his time either writing about sex or having it. Sometimes he does both at the same time, much to the chagrin of his partners. With more than 75 titles to his name — including four full-length novels, ten novellas, and numerous short stories — his books have been widely read and often burned. Visit his author site at www.guynewyork.com.

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The Artists of Love - Guy New York

Lilly and Tomás

Maybe love isn’t all that important.

It’s hard not to think that sometimes. It’s especially hard late at night, when you’re alone in bed after working a shift where three thousand people saw you naked, and only six of them paid.

But maybe it’s not love that’s unimportant. Maybe it’s a heartbreak that’s not required. Or possibly, it’s touch. Lying awake, missing the taste of lips — good lips — feels childish. But what’s the point of living on your own if you can’t behave like a child on occasion?

The air-conditioner sounds like it’s dying. It wheezes and coughs, but it’s better than the sounds of sirens and traffic in the East Village. It’s better than the frat boys laughing too loudly about date rape. And it’s far better than imagined silence. How the hell could she sleep if it were quiet?

Thinking back to her childhood comes naturally on nights like this. It’s not nostalgia, but it’s certainly not a broken past — the one required for her patrons to feel justified in paying her. She firmly believes that a happy childhood is a misnomer. The truth is that sometimes we’re up, and sometimes we’re down, and that’s the way it goes for everybody.

Unless you’re so depressed that you don’t get out of bed. But even then, there must be moments, right? There must be moments when you slow down and forget to be depressed and maybe take a walk instead. Maybe you pet a stranger’s dog, and for ten seconds, you imagine the world might be okay.

There must be such moments.

Childhood isn’t a place where Lilly likes to linger, but old habits are hard to break. It’s not so much bad memories as it is lost ones. It’s the feeling of the white cotton blanket, the weave loose and soft from too much washing. It’s the smell of honeysuckle through the torn screen window that wafts in during the summer that makes her cry. And on a good night, when the air-conditioner is doing its job, it’s the feel of the cold water of Jacob’s pool, where she used to pretend that she was drowning. These are the memories that comfort her.

Maybe if she drowned on camera, she’d have a bigger audience. Maybe if she waterboarded herself, all the creeps and rich weirdos would leave the new eighteen-year-old virgins alone and come drop tokens in her account.

What a fucking joke that is.

A token means nothing. It’s all designed so you don’t think about the money. You’d have to do the math to realize how shit it is. After all, payment of a thousand tokens sounds real, doesn’t it? Damn, he just tipped me fifteen tokens — that’s like dollars, right? But no, it’s like cents. Yet it still sets off the dopamine rush, even though she knows it’s lying.

Tomorrow, Lilly has a date, and she’s trying not to think about it. He’s cute, at least his pictures are. He’s an artist and knows what she does. Two months ago, she went on six dates before telling a man about her profession. He called her a whore and said he wouldn’t share if they got serious. She tried explaining that her roommate, Julie, was the whore, and she was a cam girl. If he called Julie that to her face, she would cut him, and he’d never see it coming.

Everyone always wants to choose the words they call you. They always think they know better. They’re still foolish enough to think that calling someone a word means they have power. But what it really means is their insecurities are showing. It means they’re poking around in the dark, trying to cover up their bent dick, their cocaine habit, or their secret desire to get fucked up the ass by a black man with a huge cock. It’s always the straightest boys that want it. She’s heard it a hundred times. The conversation starts out slow, but within minutes, they’re asking the same thing. What’s it feel like? Is it hot? Is it good? Do you think I could take it?

None of that means the names don’t hurt. Some more than others. Thankfully, whore doesn’t bother her — except that she hasn’t earned the title yet. Whatever the fuck that means. Kate says you lose your whore card if you haven’t fucked a client in six months, but she’s never fucked anyone who’s paid. Sure, she’s fucked on camera, but that’s different — Severin is a friend, and they split the money.

By the time the date comes around, she’s slept for six hours, drank four cups of coffee, taken two Adderall, and is generally feeling like herself. They’re meeting at a nearby bar for drinks. She’s not going to do this sober, and dinner is too much of a commitment. If it doesn’t work out, she can get another date by nine, and if that one

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