Note For Rent

Break Silence, part 1

I’m getting spanked later today. I’m charging for it, of course, but for all those faithful readers who have expressed their concern and impatience over the past month or so, please consider my backside’s appointment with a hand suitable chastisement for being such a poor blogger of late; and I have been very, very poor.

I promise that it’s not that I haven’t been trying to write (I have), but I’ve been suffering a paucity of words when I do – and the longer I’ve sat, the harder it’s gotten. Open spaces look emptier and emptier the longer they stay a faithful, void-blue promise. It’s not exactly that I’ve run out of things to say, but the rhythms of the past few months have been interrupted with, well, you know, life, and sometimes you find that the effort of staying upright is almost as important as where you’re trying to do it; and does this ship ever toss and turn.

I’ve been transitioning. As you do.

And I started to suffer hooker-burnout, which I have known to be an inevitable caution looming on the horizon, but it still sneaks up on you: one day it’s arrived, and you still don’t have enough money in the bank - not that there’s ever enough money in the bank – and when you’re unmoved to answer the money phone, or return query emails, because the thought of simulating passion you no longer feel for something that isn’t even novel anymore seems insolubly heavy, and you would rather lie in bed until 2 in the afternoon, not getting things done almost becomes an activity in itself: not rising, not eating, not going out; but drinking again, yes; watching apocalyptic volumes of TV, yes; ruminating on birthdays yet to devastate your time sensitive goals, oh yes. April’s been a peach, right up until the end.

Although, I have had fun. Sometimes, avoidance is its own reward. I’ve done my best to intoxicate (re: annihilate) those parts of my brain giving me trouble, and demanded nothing less that utter submission. I’ve demanded submission on dance floors, in bars, on stages; at home, at friend’s; once, I even demanded it in the back seat of a taxi. That ended better than it could have.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I’m prone to taking things a little too far when I get on a roll. I like to think that it’s just because I’m an enthusiastic person; but more probably, it’s because old habits die hard, and patterns, no matter how badly proven, are necessarily easy to repeat.

But I shake-out easier these days. Not exactly wrinkle free, but you can still wear me.

I hit the wall somewhere around the first week of April. I sat down, and wrote:

If bad, harmful, and frustrating things all come in threes, I count these past couple of weeks as 6-6-6. I've got doubles of trebles in everything -- and none of them involve me being occupied at both ends in a way I find pleasurable.

First, I'm broke, which is the germ from which all the problems emanate. No matter how well turned out, turned on, or well advertised, it seems the Trade has (city wide) hit a slump. Socks yanked up around my calves, and marching out into the world with grand designs, I'm still laid low by industry lag. Most frustrating about this is the fact that what you can do to increase business, as a purveyor of sexual favours, is only as much as you are doing in the first place: promote, promote, promote; and make sure that you're available.  I do, and I make sure that I am, but in the end if no one calls the sleek, black money phone, I can't very well answer it.

And as I turn inward, curl around the question of how I can have made so many psychologically exhausting choices, lied to my friends and family, and proudly maintained my successes and failures in silence, even though I've been dying to tell people, I feel helpless. How? is what I have to ask. I mean, really; how?

Second, I'm leaving. It's time again to cast one nation off for another. This I've known for a while, but the time line that I gave myself hadn't been to strict -- I had a last date of possible departure kind of thing worked out. Shit if it hasn't crept up on me, and fuck me now if it's not inconveniently close, with my bank balance lower than it has been since November of last year.

But don't be too worried. I hit bottom. I bounced.

29th Nail In The Coffin

Three things.

First, it's this odd little blog's Birthday today. I've been at this whole "For Rent" thing an entire year; funny, I don't feel any different, and certainly not a day over nine months old.

Second, Best Gay Blogs posted the interview I did with them, along with quite a flattering review. I love it when voyeurs make you blush.

Third, Jane over at Falling Girl Falling is calling it quits, for the same reasons and concerns that sometimes make it hard for me to maintain this blog, so I grudgingly understand, but I'm going to miss her prose and its implacably mischievous gleam. Bonne chance and adieu, my dear; I'm sure that you'll continue to startle the world, even without baring yourself on the Interweb.

Happy Birthday to me.

Confectionary

Say you see something in a catalogue, something you like. Let's suppose it's edible, like some kind of fancy chocolate; and you keep coming back to look at the pictures of that chocolate, and read the well groomed description of it; and you fantasize about eating it one night when everybody's out of the house and you have the time to treat yourself. Perhaps you even call the manufacturer to go over the description in detail, see if that particular kind is still in stock, and if their delivery service would make it out your far-flung corner of the metropolitan area. Say you called a lot.

Then, one evening, you're ready to make the leap. You're ordering in. That coco sugary goodness is going to be melting in your mouth soon, oh, yes. You phone the nice people at the factory (again), and you check the price (again), and you tell them when you'll be home, and that you'd like them to bring it round at the appointed hour.

And it arrives! On time, and costing just as much for delivery as was arranged. It's packaged just the way it was in the pictures. It's fresh, it smells good, and has a sort of unearthly glow when you take the lid off (that's right, an unearthly glow), only... once you see it, you realize that you've actually had this kind a few months ago, and you were kind of hoping for something different.

Would you send it back? It's still chocolate, after all, right there in front of you, and it's unlikely that anyone's going to bring you a replacement at this time of night. Do you just put the lid back on, and ask the delivery man to take it away?

 

Cause the fuck-nut sent me home, in a thirty minute cab ride, when he realized that he'd met me before.

(And I know what you're thinking, but when I saw him the first time, the man extended with me for an extra hour, offered to buy me drugs, and tipped me with two really hot porn DVDs; I can't have been that bad.)

Catch Up Reading

Sometimes you should leave well enough alone.

For some reason, best known to those little unknowns that drive human impulse like a spastic robot while you’re laid low by bacteria, I’ve been reading up on the state of the Middle East and American foreign policy -- to occupy my downtime. Perhaps it was a subconscious attempt to commensurate my intellectual landscape with the others, emotional and physical, but wherever and whyever it started, I can now say that I’m more thoroughly depressed than simply stressed or grumpy (although, the body’s now feeling tip-top, thank you).

Sunni, Shiite and Shit-kicking American Machine, all factions are embroiled in one big, huge, sun-burnt mess over there; and as someone who takes comfort in history on a day-to-day basis, our repetitive nature as human beings, and our inclination to respond to the same stimulus in much the same way no matter what the technology at hand (oh, those clever little opposable thumbs), I have to say the shape of the situation does not look encouraging. You thought things were already bad? Well, there’s another tipping point tipped, I think. Tippled maybe, for all the sense it makes. And everyone’s looking; but looking does little to help when no one has any idea about what they’re actually seeing, constituent parts being a little illusive when the policy makers are barely even educated with a basic definition of their own faith, to say nothing of Islam, but if you stare at it long enough there resolves at least something you can see: a daunting, insurmountable escalation. Oh, wait. “Plan”, is it? “Manageable”, you say?

Well, that and “violence”. That’s a word you hear over and over. Title and tag-word, almost a mantra as well as the thing itself, it is violence in this case that occurs on a macro-scale, the kind that your imagination has a hard time containing -- much like global philosophies or the dimensions of the universe; it extends beyond a cognitive circumscription. All holocausts are like this. They occur and they fry the circuits right out of your head.

(I wasn’t going to post this. It’s a little outside the scope and the purview of the blog, and unless I wanted to bridge the gap, talk about sexual oppressions and liberties as they develop in a state at war, the provisions made for prostitutes to keep an army happy, or the tendency for sadomasochistic sexual practices to crop up in societies and minorities militarily oppressed, I doubt I could find a common thread to make it an actual essay, referenced and sited; but the world is interdependent, so maybe it’s good to be reminded that even hookers are horrified as world events lose all perspective, and it’s hard to know what’s coming next.

Tell someone that you love them today, would you?)

Daily Updates

Today, much better.

And no sex either, so my body is a sacrosanct complex. A fucking fortress.

Red wine is healing, right?

The Good Fight

I made steady improvement towards recovery over the last week, popping the prescribed pills dutifully, but it occurs to me now why doctors don't generally tell you to asses your own level of health on a regular basis: I had no idea whether I needed a repeat of the antibiotics or not. "You shouldn't need it," she had told me, "because you don't smoke, but I'll give you the same once again if you feel it hasn't left your system." The day bottle was empty, I felt quite well, but not perfect. I stood in the mirror; poked, prodded and bent. No, not perfect. Does this mean that the infection's in retreat? Bolstered by medical science, are my forces now able to consolidate a victory? Or, are my antibodies a poor, straggeling rabble, lacking in proper leadership and morale, doomed to a humiliating defeat without the vibrant banners of a greater force behind them?

I decided that I should let my native force take over the operation. Then, last night I suffered a sneak attack, and woke up having lost significant ground, too late to change my agenda for the day.

Cue: giving head while impacted with nasal congestion.

I'm sure I've tried to do it before, but I shan't be trying to do it again any time soon.

I'm so atrociously grumpy.

Medicated

Stuck in bed with an infection. (No, not an STD, thank you. Just your run of the mill, take yourself off the healthy living, party in a foreign city and somehow expect your body to shake it off, just like that, even though you're probably going to have to pay the piper, kind of infection.)

Every time I get sick, I think I've never felt like this before, and that the world is somehow mocking me by setting up the sun to beam in through the windows. Mocking me, I tell you.

It's a good way to reinforce the teetotalism, though. From now on, I'm also going to force all my house guests to smoke outside. Toxic fucking chimneys.

Many thanks (in random order) to Bob, Dave, Will, Max, Robert, El Diablo, Pete, Bob (the Second), Ms V, Bourgeois Nerd, Jerry, tescosuicide and esrose for your questions and your participation in the Q&A. If I missed anyone, I apologise, and if I didn’t answer something to your satisfaction, tough.

You’re a great bunch of digitally surmised comrades.

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 4

Friends, Family, Strangers and the Fuzz

During small talk, like say, to the person next to you on the plane, what do you say your job is?

That answer usually depends on how creative I’m feeling at the time. Lately, I’m a trust-fund brat traveling to avoid commitment to the family or grad school. In the past I’ve relied on previous jobs to make me seem like an upstanding member of society, but I’ve most often played it safe and said I’m part of the service industry.

Do you pay your taxes?

I haven’t done my taxes in years, mostly because I’m lazy. However, I am set up to do them, should I ever be asked -- or threatened with an audit. I have a registered business number (that’s right, I’m incorporated), and an accountant who has experience getting money down on paper, in the smallest denominations conceivably plausible, mostly for ladies of the trade. He was slightly amused to meet me.

Are there any naked pictures of you floating around the Internet?

As of about a month ago, yes. All are decapitated or faceless, though.

Do your parents know what you do?  If not, what have you told them?

No. Although, I think they sometimes suspect that I’m up to something shady -- but they’re probably more inclined to suppose that it’s drug related. I usually tell them that I’m bartending or some-such menial, beneath my potential kind of thing.

Has anyone from your past (eg friends from high school, distant relatives) accidentally found out?

I have no friends from high school, so I don’t much worry about anyone from that era knowing anything about me at all. As for distant relatives, I couldn’t say, but I would be surprised if any of them had. I haven’t told my friends back home what I’m up to, either. They knew about the stripping, but haven’t been informed of anything beyond that. I’ll probably break it to them when I get back, but until then would prefer them not to worry.

Don't you have to worry about getting busted, or have I been watching too many police shows on TV?

I worry about running into unmanageable clients more than getting busted, but a healthy amount of caution makes either unlikely.