Note For Rent

Satisfaction, Part 3

Close to Home

Are you based in the UK?

My location is a secret.

Approximately how many miles you travel a year in your profession, and what was the furthest that you have ever been flown by a client?

As this is the first year that I’ve been working in the Business, I haven’t an average yet to speak of, but it has been common for me to travel up to 100km one way for a job, around once a week. This has become less frequent now that I’ve started charging half my rate for travel time, which is just fine for me. Most of my work to date has been restricted to the city limits of my situation, and most men who arrange to see me are impatient for me to arrive; ordering a hooker is a lot like any other id-driven impulse, if the fixation takes too long to materialize, reason usually kills the desire. There are not many people out there who are inclined to arrange too far in advance, or commit a sum of money and time to someone that they may not get along with. That said, as I develop my working relationships, travel becomes more and more of a possibility.

Although the number of men say they're going to take me places is high, and averred in breathless sencertiy, I put these opines into the category of pre-orgasm gibberish, as you don’t hear much about it after the stutter, and the buck, and the subsequent slackening. I’ve only been asked to go on an extended trip in earnest twice, and both times fell though: once because of a WHO advisory, and another because my companion’s work situation suddenly changed.

Conversely, I have a number of clients who have flown into a city just because I was going to be there, once quite a long distance, and that's something quite flattering. I also have a few invitations extended to spend indefinite amounts of time at various places about the globe, remuneration (not travel cost) included, but it’s an option I’m not interested in pursuing at the moment.

Mind you, out of blue, this morning, I got a phone call asking if I’d like to be flown out to Berlin for a number of days; that is something I am interested in, should it turn out to be genuine -- but it’s going to take some negotiation.

What other professions do you think you'd be good at?

My father always thought I would end up in PR, and I think my mother still sees me as a university professor. I imagine I’ll be quite good at writing books.

What's your academic background?

Successful and disastrous, in turns.*

What color are your eyes?

The short answer is hazel. They’re actually grey, gold and green. I’m not kidding.

What color is your hair?

I am not a successful blonde; as a redhead, a little shocking; currently, I’m brunette.

In your opinion, what's your best physical feature?

My smile.

Do you ever do drugs with your clients? Have you?

I don’t, but I have. Alcohol form time to time; presently, when a drink is offered, I’ll usually take one, but only have a few sips. I have been known to go through a mini-bar or a bottle of spirits with a client, pre my curb-the-drinking resolve.  Little bottles of Amyl are often about, but my relationship with the boot cleaner is a very wary one. Besides that, as someone who has tried just about everything once (twice, three times – you do have to be sure), there’s little that I have not encountered outside of work, so know where my boundaries and safe-zones reside. I had a client, a few months ago, take out a kit after I arrived, and offer me a small range of options. “I don’t suppose you do this when you’re working,” he said. I was in a particular mood, and had absolutely nothing to do the next day, so indulged with him, and we had a really great time. He gave me three good pornos as a tip. That was the only time I can really recall. Cocaine used to make a regular appearance, but I haven’t seen much of it lately, and it does very little to help my sexual performance.

What is, in your opinion, the best feeling in the world? And the worst one?

Musical ecstasy under the stars, hands flung out, eyes open, when you can feel the planet move concentrically in heaven’s spheres without one word to prove it; and, the moment you feel your heart collapse into a sucking memory of the love that used to fortify it against all the terrors of the world.

* Despite being a very good student, winning awards, pursuing a lengthy degree at an institution of higher learning, and being generally “most promising” to my academic mentors, I have never graduated from a single thing in my life. The psychoanalyst of my future will undoubtedly have a field day.

Romance and Modifiers

A few things (mostly) unrelated to work:

* I have continued to date Spark, which has probably been wise, as well delightful. We get on well, and if you're going to see someone romantically when you're a hooker, words can't really express the simplicity achieved by dating another one. He's actually had a greater amount of experience in the field than I have, and being able to trade war stories after a couple of days apart really helps to clear out any residual emotional backlog that can sometimes accumulate as you jump from bed to bed, in and out of position. As we're both traveling, the romance has taken on a dewy, rose-coloured summer-fling type quality -- which is about all the romance that I'm really built to handle at this point in my life. Vive l'amour temporaire!

* I am packing up and organizing myself to make it to this. I fear I may be traveling to gay Mecca.

* As I continue to not drink, I move closer and closer to becoming a morning person. This disturbs me.

* I have a new favourite band. Justin, they'd climb up onto your sexyback and ride you like bad, bad pony.

* Unbidden, life plans have begun to formulate out of the nether-regions of my psyche. Apparently certain ideas and prospects have been circulating amongst themselves back in the vaults, because I woke up a week or two ago and realized that I had a plan, and that the plan was good. Sex-work being what it is, that mysterious way station between so many things, it has never bidden a greater calling for me -- its fascination has primarily been to uncover the secret faces, and get a sense for the characters that people it -- but what my experience has revealed is a wonderful support mechanism that I can use to facilitate other ambitions. Money has never had enough of an allure to rule (re: motivate) me, and consequently my potential earning power has never looked terribly promising -- my family points out that I have made some astonishingly un-prudent choices -- but with my ability to work this angle now fully mapped out, apparently I've become empowered to make some decisions that I otherwise would have been unable to. Onwards and upwards, as they say.

I could explain what the plan is, but that would be telling.

* I keep coming back to the desire to get my nipples pierced, primarily because I think it'd be sexy as hell, and as my nipples have been more or less duking it out with my cock for primacy as an erogenous zone for as long as I can remember, getting them outfitted with little metal barbells might just settle the argument once and for all. I had almost given up on the idea until I had a client (a very dirty old man, bless him) really into tattoos and piercings, who kept mentioning how he wanted to do mine for free, and when he showed me his I was so turned on that I mounted him. The only catch is that I would need to give the poor things six weeks to heal, so if I'm going to do it, I'm also going to have to go on hiatus.

Glass Houses

Part of a curious subset that has developed in my clientele, namely little Asian men interested in topping me, we had been getting along fine; actually, better than fine, as he had all sorts of fun little scenarios he wanted to play out. My favourite was the young boy, prone, quietly sleeping and unsuspecting of the prowling older man. In he creeps to find me, outstretched on my belly, asleep. Ah, the old molestation trick.

“No, no. Don’t move yet. Just lie there.”

Happily. It’d had been a long day.

But as I was lying on my back later, relaxed, and we talked as he wandered up and down my body, he suddenly put the flats of his hands on my sides, looked me straight in the eyes, and jiggled. “Puppy fat!” he exclaimed.

I almost smacked him. Puppy fat? Puppy fat!?!

Digging himself further, he continued, “Or, I suppose we’d call those your love handles.”

My eyes narrowed, and I debated how things were going to go from there; I looked at his pot-belly, took a breath… and let it go, out into thin air, without a sound. There’s an interesting sub-set you run into here and there, about the sex-trade, clients who want to council, berate or criticize you. I’ve been mercifully free of them for eons. In fact, I was much more likely to run into them while I was dancing for men in my underpants -- in those cases, it seemed almost a pastime for some of them, the guys who were there to criticize a new platform of self-worth for their failing, flabby egos.

“You know what you need to work on?”

“I feel sure you’re going to tell me.”

What fun; but I think this instance, and the joggling of handles (loved or not), came from something different than the need to redistribute the power of aesthetics -- it was probably more tied to his fantasy, and something said to establish me as younger than I actually was, something un-moulded and unfinished. He was descriptive and verbose the whole session through. He talked his scenarios out loud. The knee-jerk reaction that it elicited in me, however, had more to do with the rejects I’d had to deal with, smiling, while I was naked in a dark room filled with mirrors, lit with black light.

(It was also a little ridiculous. I’m not sure what my body fat percentage is, at the moment, but from the look of my abdomen, it’s got to be under ten. Vanity gets the best of you though: later I stood at the mirror for ages.)

I feel the cross-hairs tracking me more than I’m comfortable with, these past few weeks. At work I accept that I’m in the line of fire, and I wear my protection appropriate: I strap on whatever trenchant attitudes are available in the armoury. At work I’m ready; but lately I’ve been getting clipped out in the open. I forget, sometimes, the things that elicit the drawing of weapons. In the midst of insecure queens, looking good and self-satisfied can do it. Looking good, self-satisfied and then implying that you have self-control and motivation, you might as well paint a red bull’s-eye on your chest.

It’s dropping the drink that’s done it. I’ve stopped telling people, because as innocent as something like that seems, when you're asked, “Have you been out recently?”, and you answer, “Actually, not much, I’ve given up booze for a while,” then… there’s this subtle change in attitude. A cock of the head and a vaguely raised eyebrow: “Oh?”.

There are those that take a difference of behaviour in someone else as a criticism of their own. I had the same issues when I was vegetarian: people would ask me why I’d decided to stop eating meat, and after I told them, would launch into an argument about how I was doing myself a disservice; or, how the human system needs meat to survive (it doesn’t, by the way), that I was going to get sick just like their old friend did; or, telling me proudly that they would never turn their back on tradition – rabidly defending something that I hadn’t attacked in the first place. Such explanations fall under the category of You Asked, but they so easily get mixed up with an assumption that the person sporting the differential is judging them, just as they’re inclined to be judging you. Frankly, I a) don’t have the time, b) don’t care enough about what other people do, and c) am definitely not qualified to pass judgement on anyone; but it’s a situation that makes you third party to your own involvement in a conversation, and then asks you to stand there and take some well-meaning advice, however thinly it veils self-loathing. You just want to step away from the whole mess. Either that, or stick something sharp through the orator’s retina.

Presently, everyone has something to say about how I should be training, what I should be eating, and they all have some dire pronouncements about what’s going to happen to me as I’m doing something-or-other wrong; and by everyone I mostly mean my flatmate, few boys of the Confederacy, and a some casual acquaintances; but they’re loud, and they get into these little sing-song pillories: “you’ve got to be careful… you don’t want to turn into one of those absurd Muscle Marys.”

Oh, piss off. When I want you’re opinion I’ll give it to you; until then, I’d thank everyone to tend their own garden, and keep out of mine.

“That’s the biggest parasol I’ve ever SEEN….”

I fall into the lower end of the large-scale, or the upper end of the mid-range, depending on how you look at it; relying on what angle and perspective you start from. It’s an issue that looms in the mind’s eye of your average peruser of male flesh procurable – and no matter if the eye is too big for any orifice the browser considers available, how wide they can open, or deep their appetite; it is the terminus of many requests:

“Just how big is it? I want the biggest one.”

You sometimes feel like telling them that size can be limiting, or to think about it realistically. I sometimes want to put up my hand and volunteer experience. I’m not saying that there isn’t a time and place, but there are days when it’s just not going to fit, no matter what you think the virtues of a beer bottle’s dimensions.

I sport a measurement that doesn’t look impressive on paper, or sound particularly daunting when related over the telephone; I mean, it’s in the single digits, and it’s one that supposedly everyone has, if you go by the average profile on the Net.

Apparently, most people exaggerate (re: lie), because eyes still pop when I hook the underwear down, or I sit up to show the phallus at attention: real time, actual size. “I thought you said…”

I did. Get a ruler.

One of the Booking Agents said to me, “it must be frustrating for you, when you know so much business is taken just because of that.”. I shrugged. I figure that it filters out a lot of the crazies I could be encountering or forced to interact with: the greedy bottoms, the vertiginous size-queens. In this, like life, I enjoy being underestimated and defying expectations.

I had an unexpected treat when a blonde, heavy-set young man booked me for a session. When I opened the door my heart skipped a little, and he smiled at me a little warily. We fit well, he and me; most angles, most surfaces. We hammered the floor, the bed, up against the wall…. actually, he hammered me, avidly, and I was just about ready to ask for breather when he disengaged and looked at me, pointing to heaven.

“I want you to try and fuck me.”

“Try?”

“I haven’t done it many times.”

I didn’t need to be asked twice, so, as recommended for the cases of first times, I suggested he sit on it – always the best way to control the pace. He did, and we were doing pretty well until, with a sharp intake of breath, he stuck on the way down, and his eyes sorta… crossed.

I laughed a little. “Take it easy,” I told him.

His look suggested he was suspicious I was laughing at him.

“I know that look –- I've made that look -- it means caution.”

We made it past the amber light, with a little patience and a lot of distraction: nipple play, a few slaps of the ass, a bite or two; and he lasted really well for a beginner.

“Sorry.” They always apologise, which is sweet, but unnessessary.

“You did really well,” I assured him.

He pulled a face. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s just practice. Besides, you took the whole thing; that’s something to write home about.”

“I did?”

“That was my pelvic bone against your ass.”

He reached out, grabbed my dick, smiled. He looked a little chuffed.

Then we beat off.

Razor Free

The last few weeks, with all the distractions, professional and personal, I've let a couple of things slide. One, is cleaning the flat. Two, is cleaning up the hair the that sprouts from my nether regions.

Now, I know that there're lots of dudes out there that like a little bush to butch up the boy (I've had a few regular clients express deight these past few days), but the fact remains that it's much easier to keep things clean, oiled, lubed, or whatever when there's not a lot of interfearance; and it drastically reduces friction burn, which (when you're chafing against other bodies regularly, some of whom think of mechanical pistoning as skillful sensuality) is something you have to keep in mind when you have easily irritated skin. Regrowth happens at a surprising rate, let me tell you; and it fakes you out. There's a grace period from where you can sort of ignore your regular appointment time, and get away with it, but then, all of a sudden, it's like your folicles make a break for it.

I'm a little furry.

Bah! I just don't wanna book an esthetician appointment right now. It's gonna make me all tender, and I'm not going to be able to work for a couple of days, so I'll have to stay at home and read, and work on the blog, and....

On second thought, I should get on it.