Employing Symbols to Better Approach the Source I was asked by Stanley Siegel, psychotherapist and founder of Psychology Tomorrow Magazine, to author an article on “the currency of money” for the forward-focused masterwork’s 17th issue. Here, on “Man Alive!,” I’ve separated my upcoming coming-out-of-sorts to the general public into two parts. I hope you enjoy read more..
I was asked by Stanley Siegel, psychotherapist and founder of Psychology Tomorrow Magazine, to author an article on “the currency of money” for the forward-focused masterwork’s 17th issue. Here, on “Man Alive!,” I’ve separated my upcoming coming-out-of-sorts to the general public into two parts. I hope you enjoy it and find further insight “at the intersection of art and psychology”!
I recently relocated to New York after years as a gadabout abroad. While somewhere specific globally, I would find myself in some elusive elsewhere experientially, as my world became one photo op after another by some famed monument, supported by a hoard of whoring.
Somehow, in the wake of prescribed want and perpetual movement, I landed in Hell’s Kitchen, hell-bent on making meaning, less money-minded and more mindful of the man with me in a given instant. Here in my homeland, I have come to appreciate again and again the benefits of having been an outlander, a border-walker, one intimate with the margins, and the forbidden beyond – a man broadened by the perception of how he came to typify money as it relates to sex and, ultimately, how sex and money now signify his interpretation of well-being.
In the West, we tend to manufacture experience, treating currency like it’s concrete, mindlessly multitasking while we discount that, under the surface, funds solely serve to current wealth around. Money abounds, though we frequently fail to accept that wealth – yes, well-being – is the multi-faceted outpouring we can all open-handedly access as it bubbles up from abundance to a momentary – monetary – exchange of meaning.
As with most sex workers – queer, male, white, American, or otherwise – I was reared in the lower classes. Like most people, I initially approached my profession as a pecuniary measure, then constructed my character around it. Now, superficially, I’m simply a stiffened product, another purveyor of stifling consumerism. But, of course, there’s more to the story than that.
Unlike the majority of sensual service providers, I approached this vocation as an idealist, motivated by the prospect of endless titillation. I enjoyed European forays of tender-but-soul-sucking bouts of illegal hole-fucking to finance vacations in Africa and Asia. But I gradually chose to channel the effort into working through my own previously disregarded shame.
Over these past five years, I’ve come to regard myself as more fitted for the task at hand the more I permit my craft to shape itself – and reshape the man I am. I have gone from having inherited a synthesis of advantages that facilitated cross-cultural, intercontinental vagabondage, just to wash back up on America’s shores and find such exchanges immensely effortless and intensely connected.
An exile on the island of Manhattan, coming to know myself, my tribe, and my culture anew, I feel more a well-to-be man than well-to-do, in a historically proletariat profession. I principally go down on the upper classes, encouraging surrender during services rendered, all the while tucked away from the comings and goings of a gridlocked city. Opened up in a trade mired by exploitation, an inevitable mutuality of healing transpires as I cast myself, exposed, as each man’s equal. Here, he and I deferentially, desirously venerate our vulnerable selves in welcomed togetherness, embodying a cultural undercurrent of the transition from attachment to symbols toward oneness with the Source. Money, on balance, is not wealth. And sex, by itself, certainly isn’t love. Neither guarantees well-being.
And it seems to me that as we wage war against sexual actualization, we are actually raging in opposition to ourselves. And the more we position ourselves in a striving for money, the more we discredit our inherent wealth and drive ourselves away from the Source.
Paralleling the impression driving the bulk of financial dealings, the mass of my lovers truly believe they are coming to purchase what they lack, and are shocked to find themselves in an expansiveness of man-handling and soul-healing – shining a light on what they already have access to: their fractured, perfect selves.
Thousands of men have witnessed the presentation of “Simply Adam,” as I’ve branded myself for rat-race stopping points such as RentBoy.com, where gentlemen are further tipped over onto a frantic treadmill of hedonistic window-shopping, an erratic eroticism with promises of frenetic flings. A horde of men, framed as extraordinarily handsome common hookers, hustling in unnecessary competition, conforming to fit in uniformed boxes, boxed in an uncropped, photo-shopped premise of deposited fulfillment, all promising to cater to a craving for action, servants to the zealous siren-song of our zeitgeist, propelled and deposed by technological distraction. Yet, one by one, these seekers come undone as I guide their transcendence from consumerist options to inhabit an unprecedented aliveness with a safe man, in a contained space.
In surrendering any fear of financial scarcity, any personal identification with influence or power, I am empowered to welcome these men into an expanse that surpasses segmented longing, fiscal lust, and the repressiveness of pride as it all crumbles into a sweaty clump of humbled humanity. Here, under the covers, presence takes precedence over productivity, and purpose triumphs over a proclivity for Ponzi profits. We open ourselves up to take lip-locked charge as we flip and flop into chanced contact with all that lay within us, and beyond the bedroom. In a cancellation culture, where plans can change on a dime, time with each other highlights the going-nowhereness of hedonism, and points a man to the chosen somewhereness of a provoked happenstance that evokes the someoneness of our uncommodified, undeferred selves.
From the massage table to the mattress pad, I supply men the Almighty Dick as a model of mannish passion as they relinquish any demand for that which they initially wished to receive with the Almighty Dollar.
We renounce all that old shame in our shared “otherness,” and all the socially established blame placed on sex and money, as one recounts the other; he enters me, and we intertwine, freely exploring our common queerness, wielding well-being in yielding to our sensual selves.
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