A man in a bar last night asked if I was lonely. I wasn't. He then asked if I wanted company. I did. It was a transaction. An hour of his time and his cock in my mouth for the price of two drinks and a cab ride. He seemed to want something more—conversation, a connection, an emotion. I had none to give. The friction was adequate, the cum was a concluded agreement. I've already forgotten his face. The utility was sufficient. The Phantom Troupe moves tomorrow. My body is just a tool; sometimes its purpose is distraction, sometimes information, sometimes simply to pass the time until the next job. It's all equally meaningless.