Note For Rent

Contradictions In Coitus

On the fact that I did have a really decent, kinda sweet, sexual romp with with said bespectacled academic boy a few days ago--it's strange how quickly you can revert to old habits and comfort zones. If I did have a type (and I don't), skinny boys with dark hair, five o'clock shadow, glasses and big dicks would definitely be in the running; but what do you do with them? My sexual range is a little more, ah, porn-star than it was a couple of years ago, and although one would assume that most gay boys out there do watch a fair amount of graphic sex, fantasize about it, dream about getting shoved about and ravaged, might not the average university student be a little taken aback if you were to say, passionately eat him out for an extended period of time? My instincts says "yes." If it is that you would like to see said boy again, that is.

I haven't felt shy, sexually, in quite a long time. It's kind of like walking into a temporal paradox: something being not-quite-right, but it all still seems to be congruent with what you know. Certainly, it's not as if I'm erasing my experience or ability in coitus, but insecurity is not necessarily something that I want to reintroduce into my repertoire of bedroom responses.

If I do see him again, how long, do you think, until I get to pull out the sack-o-toys? Or maybe fuck him with his feet tethered to the end of the bed... that's a little more entry level, right?

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.

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.

"No More Champagne"

It was Spark and Flight that ended up coming in contact with each other New Year's Eve, and thankfully the world did not implode; or explode; or even spin that much quicker on it's axis, so far as I could tell; but it was Flight's feelings that were hurt.

In the interests of decorum and anonymity, I don't think I'll go into the details of the evening here. Suffice to say that Flight was predictably difficult to get along with, Spark even more well-mannered than I could have expected him to be, and while I did my best to tread a thin line between them both, rapidly arrived at the conclusion that I really don't want to see much of Flight any more at all; the gift that he brought me notwithstanding. (He changed tack a few times over the course of the night, but the high and the low being, first, the sorrowful admission that he wanted me to be happy, no matter what, because he thought I was that great; to the lascivious later suggestion of a threesome, before making a direct pass at Spark when I wasn't around.)

So that's one crossed off the list of suitors.

The night itself was a bit of a ball. We trouped off and saw the local fireworks display, sipping Scotch from a bottle in the crowd, then swallowed something before doing a bit of the requisite dancing in a sweaty venue that had required an overpriced admission, before retreating to a house to listen to music and drink up the New Year's sunrise. I pretty much had someone's hand on my ass the entire time, so can't complain, and friends both old and new got along merrily.

I don't make New Year's Resolutions. I never have, and doubt that I'll ever start. I've always been of the mind that when you encounter something untenable in yourself that you should set about attempting to fix it as soon as humanly possible. There are enough things in this world that beset our day-to-day without having to fight your own ability to render yourself miserable. That said, I happen to be giving up the drink for the next few weeks, not because the calender has changed, but because party season is over, and now is the easiest time to do it. Depending on how successful it is, I might even extend the moratorium.

The only problem with this is that presently everyone else and their grandmother is attempting some sort of the sweeping gesture of change, so if I mention my prohibition I'm going to have to contend with the people asking if it's my Resolution, and I'll have to refrain from striking them out of pique -- not because I mind people thinking that I've made one, but because the gym will be stacked to the rafters for the next six weeks with other people who have, no matter when I go there: flabby malcontents will be blocking my equipment through sheer ignorance, and I'm going to be so clear headed and hangover free that I'll might as well be prescient, and ergo, may end up a little tetchy.

So I think I'm going to have to sign up for yoga twice a week, just to even myself out.

Catalog of Note

As you may have surmised, I haven't just been having sex professionally, but gaily fornicating for my own pleasure, here and there about town. When I first arrived, I may have been a little indiscriminately shallow in my conquests, and aiming for a quantity of cuteness rather than a slew of sentiment, but I have actually calmed down some in the recent weeks; in fact, if I'm honest about it, I may actually be dating. I know, I know: perish the thought.

Let's be clear, I'm not looking for a boyfriend; but cuddles are nice; as are kisses; and the re-affirmation that not all human contact is currency is an invaluable exercise in my line of work -- it keeps me charming. As I'm trying to avoid any unnecessary awkwardness that might relate to issues of commitment and monogamy, or too many conversations that involve the question "where is this heading?", I been keeping the boys in rotation, so as to avoid the illusion that I'm seeing any of them exclusively. Unfortunately, I seem to have acquired a lot of them -- I didn't mean to -- and now that it's New Year's I'm getting a number of different requests for my attention. I'm beginning to realise that it's only a matter of time before I'm out somewhere and run into more than one of them simultaneously. Que histrionics.

Is this a life or a sitcom?

Good question.

But never mind the fact that I may have bitten off more than I can chew, conducting my social affairs with a lack of wisdom, or that the chances of me hurting someone's feeling over the next 48 hours are high; here, in no evident order, is my list of suitors.

* Candle. Candle and I found one another on a dance floor, where we managed to flirt through several decibels, before returning to his place to spend the next day and a half migrating between the bed and the couch, generally without clothes, and sometimes quite impressively contorted. He's very straight forward, a well-maintained gym bunny, and has got the most beautiful open blue eyes. He sends me text messages about missing my kisses. If I saw him all the time he'd drive me absolutely bonkers, but as an intermittent dinner date and shag he's very sweet. Also, when he orgasms, he's body goes as hard as stone. Love that.

* Rule. The lawyer. My gentleman caller. He's substantially older than me, salt, peppered and tall. We do brunch, civilised dinners and cocktails, talk about a multitude of subjects, and rant about politics. He's also quite enthusiastic about recreational drugs, something which I find so common in lawyers that it doesn't even strike me as ironic anymore, and he often entices me to spend longer periods of time with him than I mean to, by doing sneaky things like smoking me up. He's also quite dirty in bed - another bonus. Recent developments suggest that I should stop playing with him, and his unmentionables, as there is some history between him and my current flatmate. I hadn't thought it would be an issue, but a couple of drunken comments from the flatmate suggest that it actually is; so now I have to keep it a secret, which I hate.

* Flight. I need to get rid of Flight, as he bugs me. I don't see him very often, as he's in and out of the city with work all the time, and I'd never even thought of him as anything more than a fuck-buddy, but the last time we got together he asked me about "taking the relationship to the next level" and I almost laughed. He's figured out his sexuality more recently than many of the gay men I know, so he's still exploring his repertoire, and keeps asking me to do things that he's never tried, but then wimps out before we even really get into it. I've attempted to convey to him that sex can be messy and uncomfortable at the same time as pillow-biting and fun, but he doesn't seem to believe me. He's in town right now, and called twice as I've been writing this. I haven't answered.

* Spark. Spark is lovely, if a little young for me. Another working boy, he's a first-rate conversationalist, and a warm, delicious cuddler. We've been drinking and fooling around together quite happily for the past couple of weeks, and it's nice to have the company of someone else in the business: he doesn't need to be compartmentalised the way the others do. He makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

* Pocket. Pocket and I haven't consummated our relations yet, but I certainly plan on it. I like Pocket a lot. As his name suggests, he's rather little, but all dark and swarthy handsome, with big brown eyes. Whenever we've seen one another we've ended up locked together, more or less attempting to have sex through our clothes, and generally somewhere public. I do like being a good spectacle. He finally gave me his number a few weeks ago, but it happened to be in the phone that was robbed, which made me very sad -- but my minions have informed me that he's been out of town for the holidays anyway. "Haven't you fucked him yet?" my friend asked me incredulously a couple of days ago. I pulled a face at him. Tracking Pocket down is my project for the new year.

It's a hard life.

Better Up To Date

It didn't take being beaten up and robbed for me to get back to the keyboard, just so you know. It was a happy coincidence: I finally resolved my ISP issues a mere two days before the incident took place. I've been languishing broadband-free for months, which, I have to point out, reduces my beautiful computer (who has been having his own hardware issues of late) to a glorified paper-weight. A paper-weight that you can type on.

(If I can't publish the words, I've always preferred writing long hand. Take a look at my several volumes of journals if you have any doubt. On second thought, don't. No one gets to read those.)

However, in the interest of continuity, dissemination, and the freedom of information (so far as a non-localised, pseudonym authored blog can be concerned) here, in no particular order, are oddities I have experienced, along with realizations and observations that have come to pass over the past month or so:

* I've made friends with a few other Working Boys. They continue to interest and amuse me; and many of them will probably continue to be friends long after I've left this city and this line of work. None of them are what you would expect, besides being slightly crazy.

* Of all the Working Boys I have met so far, only a couple have not made a play for me; which I find flattering.

* I let a man take a whole slew of photos of my cock. I did this because when I analysed my emotional response to the idea, I didn't find it offencive, and I had a hard time imagining how anyone besides myself would actually recognise the equipment, no matter where the images ended up. It didn't excite me at first, but he was really into it. Halfway through, the sheer force of his arousal kind of leaked-in, and I have to say, we got some damn fine shots out of the session, if you like that lone-erection kind of thing to begin with; and here I thought it was going to be boring.

* Was completely ticked by the public opinion nuke that was the last U.S. Election.... Ticked. To. Death.

* Although I am very happy with the progress I have made at the gym in the past year or so, I began to wonder if the body I want is naturally attainable... or, if I'm going to have to quit drinking to get what I want. Shudder to think.

* Kudos to all those married men out there who can suck a cock better than I can, with not a flinch or a flutter of gag-reflex. Anyone who can take me right down to the base, nose pushed into my lower abdomen, has to be commended: you boys have put some serious time into that physical study.

But I ask you, why is it always the married ones?

* I saw the movie Shortbus, and recognised at least 2 people I have pashed. I laughed. Good film.

* I've realised that I miss love. Not being in love -- that shit can keep itself in the coffin where I buried it -- but I miss the hard won commitment, the coalition and camaraderie of my dear ones, and platonic affection. The lust I've been exploring in surplus is a poor substitute. As a result, I'm actively interviewing for Extraordinary People. It's a big city, I've got to be able to shake out two or three.

* My back wisdom tooth shattered. You'd think it would hurt, but it didn't, and that made me think: maybe it's true... maybe we hookers are dead inside after all. Or maybe I'm just abnormally lucky. Twistedley, bizarrely lucky.

The Fool

I have been crush free for a considerable amount of time. Free and easy from any of the stomach churning, heart skipping, fluttery nonsense that is reserved for the dreamy interlopers that occasionally trip past you. I can't say I've missed the experience, as I'm notoriously bad at managing them.

I am excellent at managing suitors, boldface attraction, and pleasant company; but anyone that brings me to reverie of romantic evenings at home, or day trips to the zoo, before torrid nights of wild abandon sex, they cause me to become irrevocably socially inept. I don't know where my charm and decorum goes, but my track record seems to suggest that it gets sublimated by some twitchy, high-school girl alter-ego.

I developed a crush last week, and I think at the moment of impact, thunder may have crashed overhead.

From a modest and genuinely enjoyable beginning (drinks at a local, a good old fashioned make-out session, and a fairly chaste parting on the street), I successfully mismanaged my internal feelings of cute bubbly-ness into a combination of too many text messages, a drunken confession of "liking" him, and some other awkwardness that I'd prefer to slam in a safe and throw into a landfill. What started as a mutual attraction, in less than a week, degraded into moments of painful, stilted silence, which calumniated with the boy attempting to extricate himself from my company. I think I managed to figure out that it had gone horribly awry before I made an utter fool of myself, but it was still a moderate disaster.

To console myself, and re-assert my powers of control over the gay-male animal, I went out to a club and promptly found the most attractive man in the room, whom I systematically charmed, wooed and kissed, passionately. He really was an extraordinary kisser.

That, I think, cured my crush.

So, free of the madness, and thunder and lightning nowhere to be seen, I sent an apology text to the former crush, along with a suggestion that we give friendship a go, rather than whatever it was we were at before. I got a relieved and fairly enthusiastic response. I think this sort of thing does show that I have accomplished some maturity recently, and that my chosen profession is getting me better at emotional interaction, because I wouldn't have addressed this kind of awkwardness head on even just a couple of years ago, and certainly wouldn't have managed to salvage a friendship of it. The only lingering bad taste from the whole affair is the fact that he described me as "smart and funny" in his last text.

If he had added "and have a great personality" I may have had to kill him.