Note For Rent

Satisfaction, Part 5

Odds & Ends

What was your first john like?

He was persistent. He was also tall, a little heavy, Italian and quite tipsy.

What might you write on fetish sex, as you think about the future when you will be a man of significant age?

Significant age is daunting as a term, and I’m not entirely sure what it means (especially in the dysmorphic, skewed appraisal of the gay male eye) but if the implication is that I will become more and more interested in fetish sex as I get older, that may be valid – I do seem to be developing a more respectable kink to what used to be a fairly straightforward sexual rod the further along I get -- but I doubt that I’ll ever be much into the serious accoutrements of, say, S&M. When or if I’ll write about it, I don’t know.

Assuming that the first minutes are key to a successful liaison, how do you break the ice with a newcomer?

A massage is nice. Things usually progress nicely from there.


How do you keep the game going (or not) with someone who wants something that you don't offer from your bag of tricks?

I am a master of distraction.


On the other end, how do you say goodbye so that you (a) are not staying over your limit and (b) leave the client feeling good about calling you again?

A gentle reminder around the ten minutes left is always a good way to go, asking if there is anything special they’d like you to do before it’s time for you to go is generally received quite well; by that time most clients are a little worn out, so it’s a safe question and comes off as attentive.


Have you ever walked in to find someone you already have met in civilian life?

Not as of yet.


What do you think you would you do?

Laugh.


If you did not hear from a client for a while would you ever call them?

I have, but only with clients I have seen at least half a dozen times, and have established a more substantial rapport with.

How do you handle things when a client isn't physically attractive for whatever reason or is otherwise a sexual turn-off?

Try and make the best of it and get them off as quickly as possible, because after they come, they most often lose interest, start feeling guilty, or want to go to sleep. You see so many different shapes and sizes over the course of a month, that the criteria on which they are judged becomes relative, but smelling terrible really is the worst offence, and getting them to shower doesn’t always help. I find visualization is the key, projecting yourself into an utterly different situation, or finding a head space that is somehow sexy despite your partners shortcomings; but sometimes promising yourself to immediately go out afterwards and buy yourself a present with the resultant money does the trick.

Has this ever happened to you?

Has it ever.

What’s your favorite way to pleasure yourself when you're alone - or do you keep "the tanks topped off" for the benefit of your clients?

If I called one favourite I think I would make all the other ways I get my rocks off feel slightly inferior, which would be entirely unfair and sad, so I’m just going to say that I like them all equally; and no, I don’t keep anything topped off besides a sunny disposition for the benefit of my clients.

Did you bring a suitcase full of beads for Mardi Gras?

Mardi Gras not being a festival I was intimately familiar with, I overlooked the need to pack a heavy garland’s worth of shiny, multicolored, metallic beads in order to bribe the jubilant natives to show me their wares. Live and learn. As it turned out, I was out of the fray most of the time anyway: at the last minute we secured an invitation to watch the madness of the parade from a balcony near the edge of Hyde Park.

Or are you planning on bringing a suitcase-full BACK?

Sadly that didn’t happen either; but I did get a lot of catcalls on my way to the big dance party, post parade. Mostly from women: “Hey, legs!” they called out, along with some sharp whistles as I ran for a cab, in a pair diminutive rugby shorts and white high-tops. I think that’s all I was wearing, actually. 

I've heard female escorts say that a lot of their customers really aren't interested in the sex so much as just talking. They feel they can't talk to their wives or whoever about certain things, so they go to the prostitute. Do you come across this? Is the escort really a counselor tarted up?

It does happen that you get an occasional outpouring, or someone that wants to talk more than anything else. My demographic generally wants to converse with me on issues and insights pertaining to gay-identity, how you can live your life openly and such, and as one of the available outlets for men questioning or exploring their sexuality, this makes sense. Sometimes careers make an appearance, but family trails and tribulations almost never -- something I have chalked up to the supposition that most of them are probably segregating their experience with homosexual hookers from day to day life. More common than people who want a counselor, though, are those who want to present an alternate self. I have slept with more monosyllabic doctors, lawyers and architects than is reasonably possible.

“Maybe you could explain to me what you look for in an angiogram.”

“Huh?”

“What kind of a doctor did you say you were again?”

“Surgeon.”

“Ah.”

Was there ever any author who simply by their way of stringing words to sentences to thoughts, created what could be called some kind of epiphany? The realization that's what words are for?

Any number of them; but the first one that really blew the top off my head was Angela Carter, may she rest in peace.

Is this life you live today a long term project?

All my choices are heavily dependant on instinct, but I don’t get the feeling that I will be relying on this kind of work as my primary source of income for much longer; and knowing myself the way that I do, my patience for it will undoubtedly exhaust long before my looks. Having now explored, and found a pleasant rhythm in, prostitution, what I can see is keeping a few clients in the wings even after I’m basically retired. There is something extremely satisfying about escorting when you have the right client, and the client has the right companion, and everyone is getting an excellent deal. Also, the extra influx of cash is nothing to sneeze at.

If you found it desirable to be in a relationship with just one person, would you? Would the security of one man in your life ever eclipse the life with many to choose from?

I feel that it is unlikely in the near future, but I never say never. Having many to choose from has never been a primary concern to me, but neither is the so-called security of one man, as I’m perfectly happy being alone, especially now that I’ve tried it both ways. 

I do not have a problem with monogamy, any more than I do with prostitution or outright, free-for-all, sluttishness; I like to think that I can pull off any of them with aplomb, while keeping catastrophe to a minimum; but the emotional reserves that I am forced to tap in order to make a committed relationship work are fathomless and expansive, and the prospect of taking one on anytime soon still makes me feel tired. Bone-weary, soul-sad, tired. It would take something special. It would take being in love, and not just love convenient, or simply comfortable; or a warm-fuzzy “isn’t he sweet” kind of love, but rather one of those willingly-feed-yourself-into-a-meat-grinder-toes-first kind of love; one that equates to clinical insanity.

I know how much it costs my partner and I to live each month, but what is that cost for you?

I don’t suppose I’ll really know until my heart is weighed against that of a feather at the end of the game.

We hear, from time to time, of a go-go boy who makes loads of cash doing his thing, then connecting with someone and trying to assimilate back into normal life. They have a hard time settling down because of the life they had lived prior to that. Hypothetically, let's say you and Spark settle down, would you be happy and able to adapt to that kind of life, working a normal job? Will you ever get tired of doing this, and at that point would you have someone to fall into?

Hooking ain’t that special, really, and for boys, the money that you make isn’t much more than any number of other things you could be doing for a paycheck. As I’ve said before, it’s rich in free time, but not so much in security or routine, both of which are somethings sometimes nice to have; so when my needs change, so will my choices.

As far as the connection between seeing someone romantically and being involved in sex-work, the two have yet to intersect adversely for me, so it’s hard to say. Quitting the business and having a boyfriend are two very separate things, and I’m interested in neither at the moment. Co-dependant co-habitation is a special kind of hell I’d prefer not to revisit any time soon, and I’ve had it with making significant changes to myself or my lifestyle in order to satisfy someone else’s fragile sense of self.

Exeunt omnes.

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.

Satisfaction, Part 2

Heads and Tails

How many bookings you are willing or able to take on in a single day?

Two is a good number, especially if one is for a few hours. I find it hard to remain as charming and amiable after a certain point, so when it’s up to me I generally won’t do a fourth. Also, now that I have to travel to meet all my clients, anything beyond three is a nightmare to schedule, and everything ends up feeling rushed with an eye on the clock. Such situations seldom make anyone feel comfortable.

It’s hard to know when to stop, sometimes; it’s one of those unspoken rules that you’ll have a few days with no interest at all, and then everyone wants to see you at the same time. Dollar signs float in front of your eyes, but you have to be realistic. Plus, I can only suppress my gag reflex for so long.

Do you always know in advance what role you will be called up to perform?

I don’t. I find that a lot of clients, even though they have a clear idea of what they want before you take off your clothes, like to promote an attitude of “we’ll just see what happens”. Despite the fact that anal sex is almost always on the menu, whether or not it’s discussed, I only get into it about one third of the time; and although I have been getting back in touch with that inner little dirty bitch that likes to take it (just ask Spark), I’m still a far cry from a veracious bottom, so I try to keep that to a minimum. Many guys I’m with also have grand designs to bone me, but then can’t get hard enough, or co-ordinate their attack, so to speak. In such cases, I feign disappointment.

There’s also certain breed of older gay john that just wants to be fucked, no questions, foreplay or funny business otherwise, but I do mean older. They happen to be quite up-front, which is great, because I have learned that I prefer to avoid them, grizzly old bastards that they are.

My talents seem to lie more in the realm of the sensuous and the passionate. I’m the lover-for-rent more than the fuck-buddy. I gasp, and I arch; and I yank on the mattress, grab at the wall. I’m a five star, AAA kisser, and I give amazing head. Yes, amazing. I’ve made people forget how to talk, walk and see. I have the testimonials to prove it.

What sort of split are your sessions in terms of topping or bottoming?

I get more requests for bottoming before hand, I think primarily because I sport a more boyish look, but often get someone wagging their ass in my face during the session when nothing at all was mentioned about it before hand. Sometimes I get the "well, I've never tried, but maybe I'd like it" right before he almost inhales my hand with his sphincter. "You could try and fuck me...."

It’s a task I’m not always up for.

Do you ever get a little tender in places?

I do, but generally only when someone is determined to do the same thing in the same position, over and over and over. Small, stroking movements at the same spot on the arm or inner thigh seems to be popular. Also, hand jobs with no variety in pressure or tempo invariably chafe. Occasionally, someone insists on keeping at a blowjob even after you’ve asked them to stop because their teeth keep scraping, but they eventually get the hint.

I suffer more from muscles that have been forced to hold, balanced in the same position for extended periods of time. Spasms in the middle of the night kind of suffering. I pity acrobats.

If you weren't prepared to bottom and a client asked it of you, how do you explain why you can't or shouldn't?

A simple “no” is always best. Explanations invite rebuttals or empty assurances, so a polite but blunt refusal usually does the trick. If someone presses the issue, I usually say that I haven’t had a chance to clean the pipes.

Room Keys

I like being able to say "no". This may be a character flaw, but it feels good; it feels like I've been waiting to say it for months... years, maybe.

Can you do it for less? How about water-sports? You're having a good time, how about another fifteen minutes, free of charge?

No. No, no, no. But considerately, of course: sweetly; patiently; sympathetically... concierge style. I've always been one to kill with kindness, smother resistance under the down pillow of an accommodating smile.

See what a few years of customer service will teach you?

I really like being in control of my own docket. If these first couple of weeks handling myself are any indication, moving my clientèle exclusively towards a more executive class is not going to be nearly as hard as I thought. Thanks to my price point, my ability to write decent advertising copy, and the aplomb with which I wield a negative response, I'm already got a start on my very own Little Black Book, something which is making me feel very authentic and professional as a prostitute. I think I make things out in my head to be more complicated than they often are in real life. Had I known it was going to be so easy to differentiate myself in the market, I would have done this months ago.

Live and learn.

I also much prefer working in hotels. There is something certain and polished about preforming sex-for-pay were everything is buffed, sanitized and wrapped individually before you even get there, and the knowledge that any residuals left behind will be swept away and binned the next day. I like the solid beds, and the big, over-sized white towels.

As I was pulling my socks the right way out to pull them back onto my feet, I was chatting with a client. Somehow the conversation turned to favourite hotels (interesting because, although I've seen the insides of a great many of them, very seldom have I paid to stay in one, whereas he lives out of them for almost half the year) when out of the blue, he launched into a strange little almost-tirade.

"But Montreal, this is why you can't trust them! They insist on calling it Quatre Saisons!"

"The Four Seasons?" I asked.

"No, no! Quatre Saisons, there. They have to change the name of everything."

"But it's just a direct translation..."

"The French are always doing stuff like that!"

"And, I don't think there is a Four Seasons in Montreal. Not from the hotel group*, anyway."

"You wouldn't know because they re-name everything!"

Okay. At that point I thought it best to wrap the conversation up with a different topic.

"But you're off to Bangkok next, aren't you? That'll be a nice change."

"The bloody French," he muttered.

"Goodnight," I said slipping out the door.

You sometimes wonder what little thought-projects accumulate in the minds of people, the stuff that brews far away from the conversations of the everyday. I assure you, have sex with a few for money, and you'll get some idea; whether you want to, or not.

* They don't. I looked it up.

Modus Operandi

I have to say that I was prepared for it. After looking at all the ads put up by other guys promoting their services around the Web, with their warnings of "No Time Wasters" and such, I figured that I'd get a number of calls from guys thinking that they wanted an escort, right up until they had to commit, or realise that they were actually going to have to pay, and then back out at the last moment. I guessed, even before I put up the ad, that I would get a ratio of something like three or four soft enquiries for every hard booking. The ratio's solid, and has turned out about right, but it's always interesting to see what form the time-wasting takes, and how they'd like to engage you without actually devoting any capital to the experience. Attempts to foray into dirty talk on the phone (a late night occurrence, I've worked out -- no more taking calls after 10pm), and clever lines of reasoning to try and haggle are at the top of the list. Sometimes they make me furrow my brow:

"So, how much would it be for one hour of erotic massage, and a half hour of escort?"

Um. It kinda makes you want charge a consulting fee.

I'm still getting procedure mapped out, and diplomatic, pat answers to common questions so I don't come off as an ass-hole, but this morning I had two separate hopefuls try to book me, and then try to get around the travel fee by saying that they would come and collect me, and return me home after, in their own car. When I didn't agree, both dropped me like a hot cookie tray. At the time, I hadn't really brought my faculties to bear on the issue to have a sufficient explanation for them -- it was fairly early in the morning, and I hadn't had any coffee -- but the more I think about it, the longer the list becomes as to why such an arrangement is a bad idea. Observe:

1) Safety. Mum always told me not to get into a strangers car, and I'm sticking to that piece of wisdom, thank you. I require a phone number and an address before I go anywhere for a job. I call the number to confirm before I head out, and if you're not there when I arrive, I'm coming straight home. Climbing into your mystery vehicle and being spirited off to my supposed destination does not peace of mind invoke.

2) Time management. Time really is money. The idea behind managing my own portfolio is that I won't be seeing as many clients in a week, however, as some derivative of Murphy's Law, it can be guaranteed that everyone who wants to see you will probably want to around the same time on the same day/s. I can't be waiting around for you to come an collect me on your own schedule, be it early or late, and hope that you're an efficient driver.

3) Privacy. I don't want you to know my neighbourhood, let alone my address. Let me tell you, stalking often begins very innocently -- those nice ones that seem so kind and attentive? They are, but they're also inclined to obsessive, creepy behaviour under the right circumstances. Better they don't have any idea which streets to troll up and down. Especially if they own a car.

4) Hassle. As there's no way that I'd be letting you pick me up at my front door, so I'd still have to get myself organised, out of the house and to a rendezvous point to meet you, which half-defeats the purpose of you coming to collect me in the first place.

5) Value. Probably most key. It's the value of my time, and the quality energy that it takes to spend with a client. As I've said before, I enjoy my sessions with my guys for the most part, but it is work, and it taps reserves of attention and energy that run deep, right to the source. Putting on the glamour, focusing your mojo for another person requires something that you can't just rely on indefinitely. Bridging the gap during a car ride is not only going to be awkward, but also draining. I can use the ride in a cab to put it on, pull the persona over to fit, feel sexy with it, and get into the right frame of mind. Forced small-talk in a closed space is just that, forced, and it's not doing anyone any favours. So, if I'm going to be in your presence, sorry, but it's going to have to be on the clock.

If ever asked again, I think I'm just going to site the safety thing.

Errant Deliveries

Communication being what it is: such a tired, worn old thing, so prone to misuse and mis-meaning, my tendency is to spice it up whenever possible. Irony is my weapon of choice, as there always seems to be a new and scintillating way you can use it to excise boredom form a conversation, but there are others -- and most have their merits rooted in a captivating imagination.

I do try to be imaginative; and that, it seems, can also lead to trouble. Not doomsday, not quite, but a bit of a fret, and a fraught, awkward tension as past creativities come home to call.

The things I have been telling clients in the quieter moments, in the down-time outstretched on a sweaty sheet, have modified over the past few months. My stories were a little less refined, maybe a little closer to the truth, than what comes out of my mouth now. They're nothing lavish, let me assure you, nothing improbable, nothing too improbable, but they are tales that can at least entertain me as well as draw out the time. Conversations run a very short distance to seventy percent of all questions,one party has to respond: I don't think I can tell you that.

What I hadn't counted on were the regulars; the frequent fliers; the ones racking up the points. They come back and sometimes want to pick up where we left off, or start making references to things that have gone before, words that were stitched with syllables form my tongue, pretty much on the fly; words that I really wasn't paying that much attention to as I said them. Some of the men that have become recurrent guests of chez Note are a bit of a surprise -- some I didn't expect to see ever again -- and here's the thing: even though I do my best to give a bit of special attention to all the fellows I see, barring the fuck-wits and the unconscionably rude, they all happen to be one of many, for me; while I remain one of few, for them. For one of us, the time remains a little more special. While we're lying there talking, and my yarn expands, these guys are actually listening.

"Is your father flying again?" I was asked a few days ago.

Father. Father flying. Why would father fly? Does he have a plane? Is he a hobbyist or a professional? Is he in transit a lot? Business? Pleasure?

Oh, dear.

Luckily, I'm well positioned, most of the time, to affect a change of topic. The tongue can get to work on a different divulgence or two.

One of my favourite clients returned to town a few weeks ago. He was also one of the first I saw upon moving here. We get along very well, and I always enjoy the time together. He's also like a bit of a time capsule, because he asks me pertinent questions which demonstrate that he knows details I have since stopped sharing with clients, as I have ruled them too telling, and one can never be too careful when covering ones tracks in a trade dependent on such large measures of anonymity and odd people; but it's also nice, having this one man in the middle of whatever number of others, approaching a better status, maybe friend, and equipped with better details, and a more canny ability to communicate. A certain amount of trust develops there, and certainly respect. If nothing else, it brings about conversations that are interesting without being forced.

"I'm really happy that I'm getting to know you," he said to me, in a very pleasant, genuine sort of way. It's nice. He actually is. "And thanks for fucking me hard, earlier," he added.

I was like a jack-rabbit.

“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.

Show Me On The Doll

I've been thinking about including a new toy in my work-kit. Though it might sound a little conventional by some standards (and would probably be the only one I could bring out in polite company) it would make my life a lot easier on a day to day basis.

"This is Jimmy. Jimmy loves to be touched, just like you."

I'm picturing something stitched and pliable, like a Raggedy-Andy... maybe slightly modified.

I run into trouble when I get clients who have a hard time vocalising, who, even when you ask them directly, shy away from indicating that they want anything specific from their session. I'm still working on getting sexual details out of guys who don't want to talk about them, and might as well be shaking their heads in a juvenile, tight-lipped silence. Experience suggests that absolutely everyone has some idea of what they want before they make a purchase, but sometimes, you get them there, all naked and showered, having already surrendered the cash -- climb on top of them, and they still can't tell you.

How do you want the dirty boy to touch you?

A recent john decided on me after a laboured deliberation. When I came into the room he was lying on the bed with a towel across his waist, as if he were waiting for the masseuse, and I thought, Hmmm. This could be interesting.

I reached out and drew it back to find a adequately impressive erection, all ready to go. Just modest, then, I decided; but that modesty became a real issue. First, he was afraid to take off his glasses, and then every time I moved in to do something, he'd stutter a feeble "no". No kisses. No licking. No fondling of his balls (this was apparently danger territory because he was very close to coming). Fair enough. Still, he was obviously game. He wasn't unhappy to be there, he was just somehow hoping that he'd psychically transmit, directly to my motor control, what to do and when. So, I had to play the guessing game, as he lay, rigid, on the left hand side of the bed; presumably because it was closest to the door.

"Do you like this?"

"N-no."

"How about this?"

"N-nno.... Could you?"

"Could I?"

Turns out he wanted me to fuck his armpit... actually, he wanted me to put my erection all over the place, mostly in unconventional spots, just so he could feel it, and play with it, and then he wanted me to come on him. You don't want to know exactly how long it took us to get this out, and you have no idea how hard it was to determine the armpit thing. More difficult again was the actual performance of the necessary contortions: even after figuring out the specifics he remained patently immobile.

It was while he was taking a shower, and I lay on my back, exhausted, staring at the ceiling, that I started to reverse engineer the tools of sexual abuse councillors.

"Jimmy won't tell anyone. Jimmy just wants you to have a good time."

Now, if I could just make him erotic in some way.

Rod and the Rule

I recently turned down a client that wanted to cane me. It was the day after Christmas. He was the first I've have had to flatly refuse in a while, but in cases like that it's seldom anything personal; it's generally more a matter of taste, whichever side of the fence you're on. For me, most activities in the sadomasochistic family are too problematic to determine safety criterion for me to trust a first-time encounter -- maybe with someone I shared a history with, but not a cold-call enquiry. (It'll also be a cold day in Tophet before I sub in an S&M scenario for money.) But like I said, it wasn't personal; and definitely not ethical...

But ethical dilemmas do arise: they twist their way in like a screw. Generally estranged from specific activities, they're more to do with personal integrity, and how much harm you are willing to contribute to a bad situation. I turned down the opportunity for another client, just a couple of days ago, because when I heard that he was renting again, my heart sank.

He's an affluent man, who drinks a lot; at least, he used to. He'd apparently went off it on doctor's orders -- something about his liver liquefying. He's highly educated, a good conversationalist (when sober enough), generous to a fault, and we've always got fairly well, even if he is a bit of a handful; but he only rents boys when he's intoxicated. I haven't heard hide nor hair of him in months, but apparently he's back.

This is where I depart from brazen opportunism. I could have really used the pay-out that a booking with him brings, especially after the past few weeks, with my outlay of disposable funds leaving very little to show, but I know that if he's hiring companionship again, then he's back into that tail-spin that's hard to watch, harder still to be a part of. Commodity though I may be, product as well as person, you have to draw the line somewhere, and I feel that agreeing to the transaction is somehow also giving the behaviour licence. I don't know how much I want to be involved with someone's work at destroying themselves. It's a miserable thing to see, and every time I poured him a drink I would have felt conflicted.

(Don't get me wrong, I'm as in favour of a good old fashioned bender as the next red-light affictionado --to my mind there's a time and a place for all manner of human activities -- but it's the difference between the occasional bouts of bon vivant-ness and the head-hanging defeatedness of the Lost.)

I'm just not that mercenary.

Afternoon Commitment

I was feeling a little flippant because I had seen him before, several times. The magic of newness wares off after visit two or three, I've found. If he wants me back, it's usually for something besides the strip tease. So, very business-like, I was probably still making out my day's to-do lists in my head as I started to take my clothes off. Shirt over the head, pants shucked like corn-husk, I turned around and found him motionless, staring at me.

"You're looking incredibly good," he said to me.

"Shucks," I said, a little mockingly.

"You weren't kidding when you said you've been hitting the gym."

Even if he was just out to stroke my ego, it's things like that being said you need to re-invigorate motivation.

When he came, his cum hit his chin.