Immersed In Spunk

Photo by Nikola Pejanovic

I started working as a writer after dropping out of high school in the 90s. Back then there was nothing to it, the demand for cute, teenage fags who new at least sort of basic grammar was at an all-time peak and the internet had everyone pouring money into the content side of the new media. Anyway, the years passed and the money disappeared and all those jobs that were around turned in to freelance slots that paid a lot less. I decided it was time to get an education. Six months later I was a massage therapist. During the course I met a guy who was opening the first gay sauna in Sweden since 1988. The government banned saunas during the height of the HIV epidemic, and after a change in the law the clubs are now slowly re-opening. So now I’m a massage therapist and a receptionist at Vega. The job is fairly relaxed. I accept entrance fee, serve soda, hand out towels and change pornos. Most of the time I can just sit there and read. I’ll do crossword puzzles and drink medium strength beer. Sometimes a client will put his moves on me. Some guys seem to think that I walk around with a constant hard-on seven hours into my shift. I can honestly say I don’t. But I did have sex at work once. It was this couple of south beach-looking fags that said they wouldn’t leave until I had sex with them. I refused at first but after a while I agreed to watch if they promised to leave so I could close up the place. It was kind of fun. They were fucking each other like they were in one of those cheesy workout-porn-by-the-hotel-pool flicks, doing all these strange, athletic and complicated poses. I let them suck my dick and after a while we all came. Which inevitably led to my job, which is getting the mop and cleaning up the spunk. That was a bit of a mood killer. The cleaning is the part of my new job that really sucks. The grossest time was when I got to my shift and my boss told me he’d gotten complaints from one of the guests that the backroom smelled like shit. When I enter the backroom all I had to do was follow the brown snail trails to a pasty white faggot. He tried to talk his way out of it by saying it was somebody else, but when he did stuff started pouring down his leg. He was thrown out and my boss cleaned the place up. After finishing my shift and busting out the jizzmop I found that he’d left me a surprise in one of the stalls. I’m not easily grossed out but cleaning up a grown mans turds? Come on, that’s just atrocious. Apart from that there are no biggies. TOMAS HEMSTAD