Note For Rent

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.

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.

Just so you know, my posting's been a little lax of late because I've been reading to leprosy stricken orphans. Those poor children.

Or Jumper. Whatever.

A girlfriend of mine hit me the other day when I said I had never heard this song. She's Canadian. Aren't they supposed to be nonviolent?

This person is responsible.

More You Try

I made my exit so as to give the illusion of propriety. The evening, up to that point, had been relatively measured; the kind of outing that spoke First Date, not lead-up to a shag. We had our first kiss – kiss-es – and we made a point of saying that we had things to accomplish the next day, so instead we would call, and text, and see when we could make it happen again; maybe for the next time we’d get a movie and stay in. The sort of Second Date that leads to making out on the sofa while you ignore the second half of the film. The kind that sometimes ends in a blow-job… but definitely no fucking, because you’re still out to lend some mystery. You don’t want to pull back all the veils until the Third Date, right?

I said goodbye, and made my way to the coat check.

See, although I’m not out for a boyfriend, I do still like romance; and sometimes it’s healthy to put on the illusion of being, how shall we say… you know, good.

And I was good, right up to – that is to say until -- I got to the coat check line. While I was standing there, harmlessly, casually, minding my own business, I became aware of stare. One of those covetous stares that stand the little hairs on the back of your neck up, and call you to look over your shoulder: he was dark, and shirtless, and he licked his lips. Licked his lips… and ran a hand up some very well-etched abs to touch a pec, in what would have to be a patented move if it wasn’t so clichéd; but it tugged me.

Without even thinking about it, I stepped over to ask his name, but before I got that far he took my hand and laid it at the waist of his jeans, where the velvety head of his erection was just pressing out into the open. I was hard, just like that.

I’ve come to the conclusion that they smell it on you: the animal pheromone smudging the crook in your neck, and maybe also in that divot at the base of your back, where your spine begins its segmented march to meet your skull; that same device that leads to you bend it back, and expose your throat, so they can get in there. There’s something about a body that’s been rutting so religiously: you can’t necessarily turn it off, the extrovert promulgation that flares sex available; sex on tap. I’m coming to respect those certain forces of nature, and the fact that they reside in my body with or without my consent.

And there was my body, with this stranger’s, locked in a bright white cubicle, in extortionately deigned toilet, eagerly pulling apart zippers, and one sucking at another without any concern for how much noise we were making, or how conspicuous we might be; still without names.  Ricochet, ricochet in the small space; frantic, wet blowjobs. I finally had him with his back against the divider, hips cocked forward, and pumped him until he blew streamers all across the opposite surface. Then, he grabbed a hold of me by the waist, dropped to his knees, and sucked down like a piston greased, hovered it, with enough suction that I came in a matter of seconds. He swallowed.

We stood up, dusted off, straightened buttons, fixed our hair; opened the door, and walked out, calm as that. He slapped my ass as I veered off to retrieve my coat. As there wasn’t a line anymore, I had it, and was out the door, in under 45 seconds.

I never used to be like this, you know.

Filed

It's thanks to him that I can show you this:

You can also make you own, here.

I Have Very Few Heros

In this world, or any other; but this entity qualifies.

We can thank this man.

Male Gaze

As most of the men I see professionally are outside the generational pool I swim in day-to-day, I’m generally proof from encountering anyone with whom I may be awkwardly familiar. That said, I had my first real run-in with a client the other day at the gym. I had just finished a couple of sets, and had been busily stripping the weights, when I noticed him, sitting on a bench, chin tilted down towards his chest, staring at me lugubriously. It was very overt. I turned away and finished putting the plates down but when I looked back, he was still at it.

Now, despite the fact that I am, in fact, a whore, whatever connotation that the man might be cheapening me with, by way of my participation in the profession, or the fact that he had me for money, I consider it unlikely that anyone else in the room knew any of the things he did, and he was making himself look like a letcherous, greasy-haired gym-troller. Although this amused me, it was also starting to feel a little creepy, so as I passed him on my way to another apparatus I paused, leaned over, and said in a low voice, “Do you need a moment alone?”

He stopped.

“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.

Water Sports

Another working boy and I attended a pool party. Our first concern was that we wouldn't be the most attractive in attendance; our second was that, since we only had a passing aquantince with the host, we might run into someone that had hired one of us. (This is one of the main problems with the gay community: it is small, and not quite as tight-lipped about The Sex.)

After arriving at the complex, elevating to the appropriate floor, storing our beverages and changing into our cheeky swimwear, we made our entrance and assessed the crowd. A quick scan assured us that our primary worry was unfounded, and I was feeling pretty good about the second when my companion stiffened beside me.

"That little Greek man," he said.

Not one of mine, one of his.

"Wanna jump in the pool and make out?" I asked.